Page 32 of Playing it Safe

Cameron Miller is inside my house.

My heart picks up. He's in there. With his cat, his bag, his battered body, and whatever book he grabbed. He's sitting on my couch, standing in my kitchen, or maybe he found the spare sheets in the hall closet because he's the kind of man who would just figure it out without being told.

I think about his voice on the phone three nights ago. Start the timer. The low, steady calm of it. And then I think about what happened after I hung up — what I thought about as my hand moved between my legs, the clock ticking, and I tried to pretend it was research.

The pleasure came from Cameron's imagined voice, thick with that Southie accent, saying things I'm not sure he'd ever say out loud. Telling me how good I look. How strong. How perfect my body is. Praising me the way he’d praise my game — with specifics, attention, and the focus of a man who does nothing halfway.

I came thinking about his hands.

And now he's on the other side of my door.

I climb the steps, turn the knob, and step inside. I can hear meowing softly from the living room. There's a bag by the door, neatly placed against the wall so it's not in the way.

I hang up my jacket, walk toward the light, and try to figure out how I'm supposed to prepare for the most important games of my career while Cameron Miller sleeps in my guest room, breathing on the other side of a wall, existing in my space with his soap scent, rolled sleeves, and quiet, devastating competence.

When I round the corner, I find him reaching for my ceiling, the smoke detector cap between his teeth, his thick fingers shoving a fresh battery into the slot. “Oh, hey,” he says, snapping the white plastic back into place. “It was beeping, so I changed it for you.”

I actually swoon, collapsing back against my wall with my hands pressed over my heart. How am I supposed to survive this?

Chapter 14

Cameron

I wake early, despite having nowhere to be today. An old habit my body doesn’t know how to break. And it’s not entirely true that I have an open day ahead. There’s the pesky issue of my moldy brick heap of a house.

I lie in Briar’s guest room for a bit, taking in the room by daylight. There’s a small window overlooking the back alley. I’m sure this is the quieter bedroom, and I wonder why she chose the street-facing room for herself.

Then I remember it’s none of my business where she sleeps, and I get up to make coffee.

Her kitchen is small but clean. The coffee maker is a basic drip model, which means it takes no effort to get it cranking. I find the filters in the second cabinet and the coffee in the freezer. I start a pot and stand at her counter in shorts and a T-shirt, wishing I had something to read.

Puck is nowhere. I checked the guest room, the bathroom, and under the couch. I stashed his litter box in Briar’s basement by the laundry. There’s evidence that he visited it, but I didn’t see him down there. He's vanished into the apartment like a small orange ghost. I'm not worried — he does this. He'll emerge when he's mapped every corner and confirmed that nothing here meets his standards.

The coffee maker gurgles. The townhouse is quiet. Through the kitchen window, I can see the small back patio, still wet from last night's rain but calmer now. The sky is that flat gray Pittsburgh wears in April, where you can't tell whether it's going to clear up or keep going.

I drink my coffee and look at Briar's kitchen. The appliances work, but they're not new. The counters are clean laminate, not stone. The cabinets are original to the building — solid wood, painted white, a little chipped at the edges. It's a good place. But it’s obvious Briar is paid less for the same work I do, or she’d most likely not have a dripping faucet, to say the least.

Briar is an Olympic gold medalist. She's one of the best defensive forwards in the country. She's about to play in the franchise's first playoff series. She earns less than I do, and I'm having the worst season of my career.

I won’t say any of this. But I notice it. I notice the way her fridge has the basics and nothing extra. I notice the towels are starting to fray, yet they're folded neatly in the drawer. She's careful with money, the way people are when they have the tiniest cushion… like my family did before I got my first pro contract.

I stop snooping and get down to my second cup of coffee, but I pause mid-pour when I hear a shriek from upstairs. I sprint up the steps, but slow when I realize it’s not a distress sound. More like surprise. Briar’s door is open, and I hear, “How did you get in here?”

Puck.

I tap on her door frame, wondering whether he shredded her curtains.

"Cameron?" Briar calls. "Your cat is on my pillow. He was tapping my face.”

I poke my head in and smile, seeing him staring at her as his tail sways like a metronome. "He does that."

"He's staring at me."

"He does that too." I lean against the wall outside her door. "It means he likes you. Or he's planning something. It's hard to tell with him."

A pause. "He's purring."

My brows shoot up. “He must like you.” I consider it. My cat doesn’t approve of people. He barely tolerates me. And there he sits, letting Briar cuddle him like he’s a friendly animal rather than a total jerk. I clear my throat. “There's coffee when you're ready."