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“Ruxton Meyers, you areso dead.”Blue eyes the color of the summer sky narrow to slivers of pure wrath as my bestie glares up at me. I’m thinking it’s kind of adorable, but then she balls her fist, planting it on her hip, and I realize this is serious.
“Whoa, you’repissed.” She is. I’ve seen it before, just rarely directed at me.
“Um,yeah?” She looks around the deserted back hall, blonde curls bouncing around her face. “What were you expecting with that kind of stunt?You kissed me!”
At the risk of making things worse, I shrug and own it. “Seriously, I was expecting more of athank-you.”
Definitely not Cammy Wesley grabbing me by the ear and towing me into the back hall of the Five Hole so she could jab her pointy finger into my chest until I’m pretty sure I’ll have a bigger bruise from her than from getting racked into the boards in tonight’s game.
For a second, she just blinks up at me—then her face scrunches up and she jabs me again. And even beneath the bar’s dim lighting, I can see her cheeks turning pink. Wait, red.
Oh shit.
She’s never going to let me into her fridge again. Matty’s going to grow up playing football instead of hockey. What have I done?
“You said you wanted Jeremy to think you were seeing someone,” I start, scrambling for my defense. “And then that little waffle stomper was headed over and I figured—two birds, one stone. Set The Blip straight on who needs to keep his fucking chin up and start some rumors circulating about who you’re seeing.”
With Greg Baxter out, the last few games have been rough. People are watching, waiting to see what happens. And pulling out that last-minute save tonight is going to have eyes on me.
This place is crawling with snap-happy fans and probably some press too. Someone caught that kiss and, guaranteed, by tomorrow everyone’s going to know about it.
Problem solved.
She throws up her hands. “And how am I not going to look desperate—no, scratch that—how am I not going to look totally pathetic when a week from now The Blip sees you with your tongue down some bunny’s throat?”
I hold my finger up and she cocks her head like I better make this good.
“First, when was the last time you caught me with my tongue down anyone’s throat?”
I’ve been on a bunny break for a while actually.
Her arms cross. Slowly. “Um, it was in this very bar, actually. Against that wall.”
Okay, and I know what she’s talking about, because when I’d come up for air and saw her across the bar—it didn’t feel good. So it was the last time. “That was months ago.”
She rolls her eyes. But I’m right.
“And secondly, who gives a shit what that guy thinks?”
“I don’t. Not really.” She loses some of her steam and her shoulders droop. “But... don’t you have any exes who have said stuff about you that you’d like to prove wrong instead of right?”
The question catches me off guard and, shoving my hands in the pockets of my suit pants, I clear my throat. “Look, you know I’m not really cut out for the kids-and-white-picket-fence life. Relationships aren’t my thing. But of theveryfew women I’ve dated seriously… they pretty much hit the nail on the head.”
“What did they say?”
“I’m impulsive. Irresponsible. Unreliable and all over the place.” To start. The rest… I don’t want to go there.
Cammy looks like she wants to argue. She’s sweet like that, always seeing the good.
But we’ve got this honesty thing going, so I don’t sugarcoat it. “They’re right.”
After a breath, she shakes her head. “Well, I don’t know about that, but—”
“But you don’t want The Blip to be right about you,” I supply. For as much of a trooper as Cammy is, handling anything life throws her way and never backing down, my girl is vulnerable too.
“It doesn’t matter,” she mutters.
The hell it doesn’t.
