Page 27 of Slots & Sticks
Cam raises an eyebrow. “Dot, you’ve driven once since the crash.”
“It’s Reno, not Everest.”
“Then humor me. You ride, I drive. We’ll make it a field trip. You can navigate and boss me around.”
Dot hesitates for a beat, then reaches over and kills the ignition.
“Fine,” she agrees. “But only if you let me DJ.”
“Deal.” I reach for the door handle. “Come on, let’s go in the Escalade.”
We step out into the heat, the air thick with sun and asphalt. I circle around to the trunk and grab her overnight bag before she can argue. It’s light—mostly clothes and toiletries, probably the bare minimum she could pack and feel prepared.
She glances sideways as I toss it into the back of my Escalade next to my hockey bag. I’ve got stuff in there. A change of clothes. Deodorant. Toothbrush. Being prepared is part of the lifestyle. “I could’ve carried that.”
“You could’ve,” I agree. “But you didn’t.”
Her eyes roll, but her lips twitch, and that’s a win.
Thank God my car smells like lemon cleaner and nerves instead of hockey bag funk. I start the engine, and Mira’s voice hums, “Seat belts, please.”
I grip the wheel tighter, watching the pulse of light reflect off her skin, thinking about how many nights she must’ve needed that voice to fall asleep.
The road hums beneath us. Her face is soft in the beam of the sun.
I want to promise her I’ll always listen. To her grief, her wiring, her shadows.
But I don’t know how.
Still, I’ll try.
And for the first time, I realize I’m jealous of a machine.
Chapter Six
Dot
I’m in the process of double-checking the address for the Reno branch of the Humane Society when the console on Camden’s SUV lights up. The caller ID says George and shows a picture of a very attractive Greek-looking guy wearing what appears to be a cow onesie.
The photo shouldn’t make my stomach tighten, but it does.
The guy’s in a full black-and-white cow hood, ears flopped over his forehead, grin wide enough to light a stadium. It’s not a selfie you send to a casual friend; it’s the kind of picture that says you and I already have jokes. His teeth are perfect. His laugh looks easy. His arm is half-extended, like whoever took the photo was standing close—closer than I’ve ever stood to Cam when he smiled like that.
My pulse ticks up. I tell myself it’s curiosity, not jealousy. I’ve known Cam forever; if he were dating someone, he’d tell me. Wouldn’t he?
Except… he never talks about dating. Not once. No crushes in high school. No girls in college. No Tinder horror stories. He’s never on the blogs with puck bunnies. He never has a plus one at The Puck Drop. I always chalked it up to him being picky—or immune to the nonsense. But looking at that picture, I start re-filing the evidence.
What if he’s not straight?
The thought drops into my chest. It makes a kind of perfect sense, which only annoys me more. Of course, the nicest, safest man on the planet wouldn’t look at me that way. He’d wantsomeone funny and open and Greek, someone who can wear a cow costume and still look like a snack.
My brain scrambles to balance the equation.Good for him, I think fiercely.Representation matters. Love is love.
And yet a tiny ache blooms under my ribs anyway, the bruised kind of ache that comes from realizing you might’ve built an entire friendship on wishful thinking.
I clear my throat and focus on the windshield. The road blurs ahead. Supportive. I can do supportive.
But I already hate George’s perfect cow hood.
