Unadulterated Something, page 18
Which was a problem.
Not because Campbell was, well, Campbell, but because she was still overthinking. She had come to terms with the fact that she had somehow, unexpectedly, developed a rather significant crush on her most prolific rival. The problem with that lay in the fact that they were colleagues who, essentially, lived on a very small, very nosy island, and if she did something about her feelings and that something went badly, there would be no escaping it.
She liked Campbell. She liked the friendship they’d developed. And, as improbable as it might have seemed at the beginning of the school year, she wasn’t at all sure if she could handle losing that.
So instead of just reaching out and pulling Campbell close enough that she could taste her smile like she’d caught herself daydreaming about when they’d sat together at lunch, she scoffed and said, “Nice try, Jordan, but I distinctly recall it being your idea to skip the dining hall tonight and order Chinese. Or was that just an excuse for you to get access to my Prime account so you can see the last episode of Good Omens?”
Campbell shrugged, her smile was unapologetic as she said, “I plead the fifth.”
“Of course you do.” Emma looked at the clock behind the near goal. There was still close to half an hour left on their final practice of the week, but with a five-day hiatus on the horizon for Thanksgiving break, there was no reason to make the kids log a full session. “But sure. Why not,” she said, finally answering Campbell’s initial question. She blew her whistle to get the team’s attention, and held up a hand when the girls stopped what they were doing to look at her. “That’s it for today. Those of you who aren’t leaving tonight for the weekend, I’ll be in the weight room at seven tomorrow morning if you’d like to get another lifting session in. It’s completely voluntary—and I really do mean that in the ‘you don’t actually have to come if you don’t want to’ kind of way and not the ‘it’s really not a choice’ kind of way.”
“Enjoy your break,” Campbell took over as the girls laughed. “Sleep. Rest. Recover. And we will see you Monday afternoon to get back at it. Go ahead and just leave the pucks in the nets, and we’ll collect them all.” This made the third-formers grin and high-five each other. There were definite drawbacks to being the youngest on a team, and being the ones responsible for wrangling equipment was, without a doubt, the biggest. “Have a good Thanksgiving break!” A flurry of pucks slid toward the goals on either end of the rink as the girls broke for the locker room, and Campbell nudged Emma with her elbow as she asked, “So, you up for a game of one-on-one?”
Emma grinned. “Only if you’re ready to lose.”
“Funny, Beauchamp. Who won yesterday? Oh yeah, that was me.”
“My legs were shot from lifting,” Emma argued. Which was true, but mostly because she’d been showing off just a little when she slapped a couple extra twenty-five pound plates on the bar to grind out an extra five squats after Campbell had tapped out. Honestly, that bit of bravado was still making her life miserable going up and down stairs, but it had been totally worth it just to see the look on Campbell’s face when she finished the last squat and locked the bar back on the rack.
“And now? I was always the sorest twenty-four hours after…”
“I plead the fifth.”
“Least convincing retort ever,” Campbell teased as if she hadn’t used it herself only moments before. She arched a brow in playful challenge. “Are we on, or no?”
“Sure. Loser buys dinner?”
“We don’t have to have a bet on the stupid thing, you know. Besides, you bought dinner the other night, so I’m picking up the bill tonight.” Campbell shook her head when Emma looked poised to argue held up a hand. “Look, if you really want to bet on it, how about the loser has to make the side-dish we’re supposed to take to Beca’s for dinner on Thursday.”
Emma laughed. “You want everyone pissed at us? You’ve tasted my cooking—remember? Sorry, Jordan, but we’re sticking with the original plan. You do the cooking, and I just stay the hell out of your way and fetch whatever ingredients you need.”
“Your dinner wasn’t that bad,” Campbell tried to argue, but her smile and the hint of laughter in her voice effectively contradicted her words.
“The chicken was okay, but we both know that the rice could only really be described as al dente,” Emma reminded her. “Rice should never be al dente.”
“Rice can be hard to get right, though.” Campbell crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head in a way that signaled she wasn’t going to keep arguing that particular point and was gearing up to attack from an entirely different angle.
Four months ago, Emma would have been annoyed by the tell, but now she just found it amusing. It really was fun getting Campbell worked up, and she couldn’t resist poking the bear a little more as she mirrored Campbell’s posture. It took all the self-control she possessed not to laugh when Campbell just arched a brow at her, but she couldn’t quite rein-in the hint of a smirk that slipped past her defenses.
“I know what you’re doing, and it isn’t working.” Campbell arched a brow at her. “But, back to my point—this is your Thanksgiving. Mine was last month. Ergo, you should be the one to make the food.”
Emma sighed. That was a fair point, though she still thought that her student-chef status should carry more weight than the supposed ownership of the holiday. “Okay, fine.” She shrugged. “But I’m not going to risk poisoning everybody, so how about this: if you, by some miracle, manage to win, I will go into town and buy pre-made packages of mashed sweet potatoes or something side-dishy. But if I win, you have to make the side dish, and you have to wear something American-y.”
“What, exactly, is something American-y?”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that one,” Emma brushed her off with a little wave. “I’ll figure something out.”
Campbell huffed a laugh. “Okay, fine. We can do that. But when I win, you have to wear something Canadian-y to Beca and Lars’ tomorrow.” She held out a gloved fist. “Deal?”
Emma nodded and tapped her glove to Campbell’s, feeling suddenly more determined than ever to win. She hated losing, especially when it was to Campbell, and she would be damned if she wore anything that had a fucking maple leaf on it. “Deal.” She tipped her head toward center ice. “I’ll go fetch a puck and meet you at the circle.”
Even though she’d been on the ice for a good ninety minutes already, Emma couldn’t resist pushing off with a couple quick crossovers before leaning into her stride as she made her way to the far net at speed to gather a puck. She threw a rooster tail of ice over the top of the goal as she slid to a stop at the top of the crease, and she laughed as Campbell yelled after her, “Show off!”
“Who? Me?” Emma shot back as she fished a puck out of the net and took a quick loop around the goal before making her way at a more restrained pace to where Campbell was watching her. “So, you ready?”
Campbell’s smile shifted from amused to determined as she turned to face Emma. “On three?” she asked as she set the blade of her stick on the edge of the spot at center ice.
“Sure.” Emma moved the puck to sit in the middle of the spot and then lined her stick up opposite Campbell’s. She arched a brow and lifted her stick to hover over the puck. “One.” Campbell tapped her stick, and then they tapped the ice in unison. “Two.” Same routine. “Three.”
Game. On.
Emma whooped as she dug the puck away from Campbell, and sportingly turned toward her own goal in a long, slow loop to give her a chance to set up to defend before they started in earnest.
“Bring it, Beauchamp!” Campbell chirped.
Emma laughed. “You’re really gonna wish you didn’t say that, Jordan,” she teased as she set her edge and turned toward the goal.
God, she loved this fucking game.
“Okay, okay,” Emma grumbled at her phone that was dutifully signaling the end of the timer she’d set before climbing into the shower. She could have easily stayed under the near-scalding spray for another half an hour, letting the hot water chase away the aches that were beginning to blossom from her race, but she was already late as it was, so she turned off the water and reached for her towel.
Thankfully, Thanksgiving at the Olssons’ was a casual affair, so instead of having to break out her teaching clothes like she would have been forced to do had her parents not gone to California to spend the holiday with her brother and his family, she could get by with jeans and a sweatshirt. She sighed happily as she pulled on her comfiest jeans that were so well-worn they were almost threadbare, an equally worn tee shirt, and the softest hoodie she owned. The fact that said hoodie bore the US Hockey crest wasn’t a factor in her decision, even though she knew it would make Campbell roll her eyes, but Campbell’s reaction would definitely be an added bonus.
She combed her fingers through her hair as she eyed the collection of old jerseys jammed into the far corner of her closet before selecting one for Campbell to wear, and grinned when she decided on the winner.
“Oh, this’ll be fun,” she murmured as she pulled a navy blue jersey from its hanger.
A glance at the clock on her bedside table was enough to kick her tired ass into high gear, and she quickly pulled on a pair of her thickest socks before jamming the jersey into her old team backpack and heading for the door. She stuffed her car keys and keycard into one of the side pockets of her backpack before slipping on an old pair of running shoes that were knit on the top and had plenty of stretch to give her feet room to recover from the beating they suffered earlier, and then hurried out the door to Campbell’s.
After she knocked on Campbell’s door, Emma stretched her arms out to the side and arched her back as she waited for her to answer. “Hey,” she said when the door opened a moment later. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s really not a big deal,” Campbell said as she waved Emma inside. Like Emma, she was wearing jeans and a hoodie, and she had the most adorably hideous orange socks on her feet. “How was the Turkey Trot?”
“Painful,” Emma admitted as she slipped past her. Her stomach growled at the smell of something delicious baking in the oven, and she rolled her eyes at herself because it hadn’t even been two hours since she’d eaten lunch. She toed off her shoes onto the mat beside Campbell’s just inside the door as she explained, “Lars decided to up the ante this year and signed us up for the half-marathon instead of the 10K. It didn’t seem like too big of a deal when I was logging major miles all summer, but I’ve had to cut my distance back because of school and hockey, so…”
Campbell nodded. “How’d you do, though?”
“I did okay, considering.” Emma dropped her backpack onto an empty chair at Campbell’s kitchen. “I mean, I averaged under a seven-and-a-half minute mile, so that could have been better, but I still finished fourth in my division.”
Campbell beamed at her. “Wow! That’s awesome!”
“Thanks.” Emma shrugged. If she’d been training properly leading into the race, she could have totally taken her division, so that was more than a little annoying, but it was hard to stay upset about it when Campbell looked so genuinely proud of her. She motioned toward a foil-covered bowl on the kitchen counter. “I really am sorry I’m later than I said I’d be. I actually was looking forward to helping you cook, but some local news crew down in Hartford asked Lars for an interview after the race because he qualified for the Boston Marathon earlier this summer and, even though he hates the whole ‘inspirational’ thing, he always agrees to anything that raises awareness of para-sports, so we had to hang around a bit longer than we’d intended.”
“It’s really not a big deal,” Campbell insisted as she bent to check whatever she had cooking in the oven. “My grandmother’s pasta salad recipe is pretty easy to make, and you can still help me finish the Beavertails.”
“What the hell is a beaver tail? Please tell me it’s not, like, actual beaver.” Emma huffed a laugh. “God, there are so many lesbian jokes to make with that one, aren’t there? Val would have a field day.”
Campbell laughed and tucked her hair behind her ears as she straightened and turned to face Emma. “You should hear some of the ones Sophie’s come up with over the years. You would think she’d eventually run out of them, but she still manages to keep coming up with new ones.”
“See, now that doesn’t really surprise me at all.”
“Right? But, to get back to your question, it’s a pastry shaped like a beaver tail, so you can rest assured that no small animals were harmed in the making of this dessert.” She leaned back against the counter beside the stove. “You’ve seriously never had one? They’re, like, one of our most famous desserts.”
Emma shrugged. “You gotta remember, the times I was in Canada was for a game or tournament or whatever, so pastry yumminess wasn’t exactly on the itinerary.”
“Wow. So it really sucked to be you, huh?”
“There were definitely many, many times where that was the case, yes,” Emma replied honestly. “But on the whole, it was still pretty awesome.”
“Yeah, I don’t envy the whole ‘face of the program’ role you had to shoulder,” Campbell said as her phone that was on the counter beside the stove began to vibrate. She shook her head at the notification on the screen and looked up at Emma. “Next time you talk to Val, can you please ask her to stop sending me YouTube links for ax-throwing fails?”
“Wait. What?” Emma laughed. “How long has she been doing that?”
“Since, like, right after we went out that one time.” Campbell waved vaguely. “I mean, it was funny at first, but it’s really starting to get old.”
Emma nodded and dug her phone out of her back pocket. “I got ya.” She fired off a quick, Knock it off with the YouTube videos to Campbell thing, and set the phone on the counter in front of her. “Any bets on how long it’ll be until she replies?”
“Maybe a minute or—” Campbell was interrupted by Emma’s lock screen lighting up with an incoming call from the woman in question. “Less”
“She must be bored,” Emma remarked as she tapped at the screen to answer the call on speaker. “You’re on speaker.”
“You say that like it’ll make me behave or something,” Val laughed. “What’s up, Canada? You ready to get your turkey day on American-style?”
Campbell shook her head. “Hello, Valerie. I am quite looking forward to the evening, thank you for asking.”
“How’s my girl looking after her half? I texted her earlier, but she never replied.”
Campbell smiled at Emma. “She looks amazing, as always.”
There was a tenderness in Campbell’s expression that sent Emma’s heart fluttering into her throat, and she had to clear it twice before she was able to speak. “Sorry, I saw your text, but then I got roped into helping Lars with some media stuff and forgot to respond before driving home. Why the hell have you been sending Campbell ax-throwing video links?”
“Because it’s fun to imagine her getting all annoyed,” Val drawled. “She was always so cute when she was pissed.”
Campbell arched a brow at Emma. “I’m cute when I’m pissed? Really?”
Emma smiled. “Well, I mean, yeah.” Campbell’s eyebrow twitched, and Emma shrugged as she said, “Um, sorry?”
“Beauchamp, you don’t have to apologize when you compliment someone.”
“Oh, that was a compliment?” Campbell deadpanned, her eyes crinkled with amusement. “I thought that was you telling me that you enjoy annoying me for sport.”
“Tow-may-tow, tow-mah-tow,” Val laughed. “What time are you crazy kids heading over to Beca and Lars’ place?”
“Just as soon as we get these beaver things done, I’d imagine,” Emma said. Val made a soft, strangled sound, like holding back whatever quip she wanted to make was actually painful, and Emma sighed. “Go ahead, Dunn. Do your worst.”
“Oh my god, thank you. That one is just too easy.” Emma opened her mouth to interject that they had, in fact, just been talking about that, but Val steamrolled right over her. “So, beaver things, huh? Is that what the lesbians are calling it these days? It seems kinda crude—especially for you, Em, because you’re not the kiss-and-tell type of person—but I can dig it.” Emma shook her head as Val just kept going, “Although, I gotta say, you probably shouldn’t be answering your phone while you’re doing beaver things. That kind of shit will significantly decrease the likelihood of you getting to do beaver things with whoever you’re doing beaver things with ever again. Women like to be worshipped, Beauchamp. Am I right, Jordan, or am I right?”
“You’re definitely right,” Campbell agreed.
“You done?” Emma huffed, trying her best to sound as exasperated as possible.
Val took a long, deep breath and let it go in a whoosh. “Yeah. I think so. Thanks.”
“No problem,” Emma said.
“While that was quite impressive,” Campbell chimed in, “the ‘beaver things’ are actually Beavertails. You know, the dessert.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever you say, Canada. I’ve read the books you’re into, remember?”
“God, you really are as bad as Sophie,” Campbell laughed. “How is it that you two aren’t best friends?”
“We actually talked about that when we were on the Whale together. And, as far as we could tell, it was because we had our hands full taking care of you two,” Val replied, sounding surprisingly serious. “Making sure your Cap is at the top of her game is kind of a demanding job. But she’s definitely my favorite Canadian. Sorry, Jordan.”
Campbell looked more than a little shell-shocked by the abrupt shift in Val’s demeanor as she said, “She’s my favorite Canadian, too.”
“You’re still my favorite American, though, Cap. Just…don’t tell Jon. I don’t want him to get a complex or anything.” Emma laughed when Jon’s tinny voice hollered in the background, “I heard that!”
