Page 61 of Cold Feet
"Your secret's safe with me," I promised, moving beside him to add some sugar to my coffee. "Though I'll reserve judgment until I taste these pancakes."
"Ye of little faith... Play your cards right, Decker, and I might even make you my famous espresso chocolate cupcakes." He bumped my hip lightly with his. "I don’t like to brag, but they've been known to trigger spontaneous marriage proposals."
He moved to the sink, rinsing the strawberries under cool water. The sleeves of his well-worn Violent Femmes t-shirt stretched across his biceps as he worked, outlining every curve of muscle beneath the thin cotton. I tried not to stare at the way his shoulders flexed with each movement, or how the fabric clung to the planes of his back. Not that I noticed. Not at all.
For the next fifteen minutes, we worked in companionable silence, Cam mixing batter while I washed and cut the rest of the fruit. It was oddly domestic, this morning routine, and I found myself sneaking glances at him – the furrow of concentration between his brows as he flipped the pancakes, the way he hummed something under his breath, the easy confidence of his movements despite being in unfamiliar territory.
"You're staring," he said without looking up.
"I'm supervising," I corrected, turning back to my fruit salad. "Making sure America's favorite hockey player doesn't set the grill on fire."
"America's favorite hockey player, huh? I'm keeping that quote for my next contract negotiation. Hey Zayne!” he yelled.
“Shh,” I playfully covered his mouth with my palm. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He grinned, sliding the cutting board of fruit toward me. "What's next, boss?"
I was about to answer when the patter of small feet announced the arrival of Nora's kids, followed closely by my aunt Margaret, uncle Pete, and Nora herself, all in various states of post-morning-walk dishevelment.
"Pancakes!" Six-year-old Emma squealed, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the chocolate chips waiting to be added to the batter.
"Are those dinosaurs on your socks?" Her eight-year-old brother Tyler dropped to his knees to get a better look at Cam's feet.
I glanced down, noticing for the first time Cam's incredibly mismatched socks – one bright green with cartoon dinosaurs on skateboards, the other purple with what appeared to be tacos wearing sombreros.
"Sure are," Cam said, lifting one foot to give Tyler a better view. "These are my special breakfast-making socks. I think the saddest part about dinosaurs going extinct is that they weren’t around when we invented pancakes."
"That's so cool!" Emma was instantly at his side, examining the socks with total fascination. "Can I have dinosaur socks?"
"Every person should have at least one pair of dinosaur socks," Cam said solemnly. "It's practically a rule."
"Mom, did you hear that? I need dinosaur socks!" Emma tugged at Nora's sleeve.
"I heard," Nora said, giving Cam an amused look. "Thanks for that."
"Sorry," he whispered, not looking sorry at all.
"Do you have other funny socks?" Tyler asked, still crouched near Cam's feet.
"At home? About 60 pairs. It's kind of my thing."
"Only 60?" I interrupted, genuinely surprised. "You probably get at least that many in a week from all your fans."
"I keep a few, but most of those I donate to The Spring."
"The domestic violence shelter?"
"Yeah, socks and underwear are some of the items survivors need most when they escape."
"What about all theunderwearyour fans send you?" I whispered, as a tiny tinge of jealously bubbled to the surface, "Do you donate those too?"
He grinned and winked me conspiratorially, "No, but we definitely should. I'm not the only player on the team who gets a steady supply."
I rolled my eyes in response. "I can't decide if that's completely gross or fulfilling a critical need in our community."
"Can't it be both?" he laughed.
"How long have you been collecting socks?" Tyler asked.
