Does the guilt ever go away? Do you ever stop feeling like you’re failing them somehow—either by not giving enough or by giving too much? By being so bone-deep exhausted at the end of the day that there’s nothing left to offer, while still trying to navigate your own pain at the same time?
After showering I throw on dark-wash jeans and a button-up jersey with the Manhattan Mayhem logo stretched across the chest. I don't bother with much else. Just raw dogging the night and hoping for the best.
The drive to the restaurant is short, but my mood somehow manages to get worse with every mile. Didn't think that was possible, but the permanent scowl that's been living on my face lately has started to feel like a comfort. Like at least something is consistent.
"Tremblay!" Lochlan calls the second I step inside, weaving toward me through the crowded room like a man on a mission. The team booked out the whole bar and restaurant which means there’s players, staff, families, girlfriends, wives, whoever showed up. From what I've heard it always turns into more of an event than it needs to be and tonight sounds like no exception. When I reach his side, he claps a hand on my shoulder. "How you feeling, buddy?"
"Not the best."
He nods solemnly. "Let's get you a drink."
Normally I don't drink much during the season. But with Sawyer at Boone and Rosie's and nothing waiting for me at home except an unpacked box of Sawyer's old stuffed animals I haven't had the heart to deal with, tonight I make an exception. One round of shots with my teammates turns into two, and for the first time in a long time, I feel loose. Lighter. Loose enough that I almost let Lochlan drag me onto the dance floor that's formed in the middle of the room, full of massive hockey players acting like absolute fools.
But that's when something catches my eye at the table behind him.
White.
Pillowy.
Smooth.
Angel food cake.
Now, I'm not saying I have a cake addiction, but if you put me in a room with a freshly cleared rink—pristine ice, no skate marks, just begging to be played on and take itsskate virginity—and a slice of angel food cake? I'd pick the cake. Every single time. Without hesitation or remorse.
There's something about angel food cake that gets me right in the molars. The soft, fluffy texture. The way it practically melts on your tongue with each bite. The taste of summer and childhood all wrapped up in one dessert.
My mom used to make it back where I grew up in Alberta, topping it with fresh strawberries from her garden—the kind so sweet they didn't need any extra sugar. She'd set it on thewindowsill to cool, and I'd steal a corner piece before she could catch me, warm and pulling apart in my fingers.
Not much makes me happy these days. My ex-wife walked out. My daughter's mother died too young. I've traded sunny California for a city that never sleeps and doesn't particularly care if you do either. Plus, I've got a twelve-year-old at home carrying more emotional baggage than most adults I know.
But cake will always do it for me. Cake will turn this night around. Cake has never let me down.
I set my empty glass on the nearest surface and make my way across the bar; eyes locked on the plate stretched out on one of the folding tables the venue set up for our private event. My jaw loosens. My shoulders drop for the first time all evening. I take a full, deep breath.
Angel food cake. Get in my belly.
But just as I reach for it, a smaller hand with green painted nails darts out and swipes the last plate before I can react.
"Um—"
I blink, turning to see who just stole the one thing standing between me and a bearable night and there she is.
Light brown hair curled and loose around her shoulders. A fitted black dress that clings in all the right places before flaring out at her wide hips. Heels so high they almost bring her up to my shoulder. She looks small but not fragile. Not with the way she carries herself. And that smile is bright, unrepentant, completely unbothered as she lifts a forkful ofmycake to a mouth painted pink with something shiny.
Her eyes are what stop me though. Green, deep and rich like jade, framed by dark lashes that curl just enough to be distracting. And she's wearing glasses. They have dark framesthat highlight her cheek bones and bring my attention to her slim nose and full lips. Total sexy librarian energy.
Why does she look familiar?
"Hi," she says before grinning and popping a full bite into her mouth.
I stare, my brain short-circuiting in a way that has nothing to do with the whiskey shots. Has it really been that long since I talked to a woman who wasn't my ex? Maybe. Probably. The last time I can remember having a conversation with a stranger I found wildly attractive was almost a year ago—a Halloween weekend in this very city, a woman dressed like Harley Quinn with bright red hair and green eyes that I haven't been able to get out of my head since.
"I was going for that cake," I say. Which makes me sound like an asshole, but I want this cake. Ineedthis cake. More than I've needed anything in a long time.
Is it even about the cake anymore or is it just the principle? I don't know. My eyes drop to her mouth where she's still chewing, and I decide that I'd settle for just a taste of whatever she’s already got inside her mouth.
I need help.
