Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Jamie

As I stood in the kitchen, cleaning up after a whirlwind breakfast that managed to sprawl across every conceivable surface, I stared down at the bottom of the sink, watching running water slowly swirl and spiral around the plughole. All I could think about was Craig—how being in love with him felt as if every single part of me had been changed somehow.

"Earth to Jamie, come in Jamie." Oli's voice suddenly broke through my thoughts, and I blinked, looking up to find him leaning against the kitchen counter, a bemused smile playing on his lips.

"Sorry," I chuckled, shaking my head slightly as I realized how far I had drifted. "Just thinking."

"About math?" He stared into the sink, used to me drifting away on a sea of numbers and probably wondering why the sink and the running water were my focus.

"Nope."

"About Craig?" Oli guessed, his eyebrow arching knowingly.

I nodded, feeling a warm flush spread across my cheeks. "Yeah. It's like… everything reminds me of him, even the water spiraling down the sink and the way he can do this thing with his?—"

"No sex talk."

"—smile," I finished, and pressed a hand to my chest. "He smiles at me and his eyes are so… yeah… and fuck me, I'm being ridiculous."

Oli nudged my arm. "Sounds like you've got it bad. But I'm glad. He's a good guy, and you deserve someone who makes you happy."

"Thanks, Oli," I said, genuinely grateful for his support. "It feels… right, you know? Like after Sean, and the lies, it's as if everything's finally falling into place."

"Good," Oli replied, clapping me on the shoulder. "Just remember, love's supposed to lift you up, not pull you down the drain," he deadpanned.

I groaned. "That's a shit joke, mate."

"I was trying for profound," he teased and then picked up his keys. "I'm out of here."

"Say hi to Craig," I blurted and felt my skin heat. Say hi to Craig? What the hell was that? I could message him that. Jesus, I didn't need my best friend telling my boyfriend hi.

He nodded in all seriousness. "Do you have a note you want me to give him? Maybe with heart doodles?"

I stared at my best friend, unsure what he was asking, and then it hit me. The fucker was messing with me.

He chuckled and sidestepped the towel I flicked at him. "You're an arsehole."

He waved goodbye. "Don't forget Jackson will try to pick up the girls."

What he meant by that was I needed to be on standby in case Jackson's job got in the way. I didn't know how the three of us in the house worked, but we did. Jackson was a good guy—an annoying bastard, but a good guy. He loved Oli, and both Oli and the girls came before everything—but he didn't have control over his work life the same as Oli and I did.

"I'm around if he needs me," I said with a grin, turning off the tap and drying my hands. As I wiped down the last of the counters, I couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment with the life I was building here. Oli was looking for a new place, something to buy instead of renting, something bigger, and it didn't escape my notice that he was checking out places with more than one building on the property. He wanted me to stay, as his best friend, for the girls, and I was totally good with all of that. Happy. Add in this new thing with Craig—this love—and I was just about as happy as I'd ever been. Despite the chaos of a messy breakfast and the mundane cleaning task, my heart felt surprisingly light. Being here with my best friend, my girls, in love with Craig and thinking about him in even the smallest, most ordinary moments—it all made sense.

As if being happy was the most natural thing in the world.

With the kitchen tidied, I headed into the office. The space was half filled with boxes Oli had never unpacked, but I knew what was in them—pucks, photos, jerseys, all ready to decorate the walls of his study in his forever home. I squeezed past them and sat behind the desk, wondering if Craig had a similar collection. First goal, first hat trick, and jerseys from when he was a kid. Maybe he would have memorabilia from when he was a figure skater? I'd watched every single clip of him online, most of them shaky home videos from his parents and trainer, but it was the more recent videos that made me warm, and I pulled out a notebook, ready to take notes. I needed to do the same thing for Ian's football games and Annabelle's floor exercises, but yeah, I was obsessed with Craig.

Biased even.

Something I'd need to get a handle on. Otherwise, my data would be skewed.

But I'd do all that after I rewatched an old hockey clip on YouTube —highlights from a classic match where the Storm faced off against the New York Nighthawks. This particular game held a special significance for me, not just because it featured both Craig and Oli, back when Oli was still with the Nighthawks, but because this was Craig's first career hat trick, and watching him move was mesmerizing.

The game had been fierce, but Craig brought his unique flair to the game that often left traditional players like Oli grappling to keep up. His agility and finesse had been on full display that night, making him a formidable opponent even for someone as seasoned as Oli.

One moment, in particular, always stood out vividly, and it was hotter now I knew what he was like in bed. God, his confidence and competence had me so hard I could cut steel. Craig had the puck, and he was barreling toward the goal with a Nighthawk defender on his tail. Oli was in position, his stance wide, ready to intercept him. But Craig was a whirlwind on skates—his figure skating prowess shining through as he executed a perfect pirouette that bypassed Oli and left my best friend momentarily disoriented.

After spinning past Oli, Craig skated along the barrier right before the Nighthawks' bench. It was a bold, almost taunting action, his control complete as he glided effortlessly, the puck still at the tip of his stick. The crowd in the recording roared with delight, a sound that brought a smile to my face. Watching him so in control, so full of life and power on the ice, was so fucking hot.

Oli's reaction was a typical mix of frustration and reluctant respect, the latter I knew because he'd mentioned it to me once, laughing over beers about how Craig had run rings around him that night. It was funny to think of them now, teammates and friends, when they had once been adversaries on the ice.

The video was only a recording, a moment in time, yet it felt alive to me, infused with the energy and passion of the game, and that damn sexy spiral he'd used to get away from the defense.

Turning off the video, I leaned back, lost in thought about my research and what was next.

I lasted about ten minutes of academic thinking and then watched the video again.

Just once.

Well, twice, but no one was here to accuse me of shirking my responsibilities to my study.

And who the hell would comment if I happened to have it on repeat as I worked?

No one, that's who.

The first call, a harried request for help from Jackson, came in at two. He was heading into an interview room and wasn't sure when he'd be out. I set an alarm to pick up the girls and was nearly done with figuring out why my phone wasn't using a twenty-four-hour clock, when the damn thing rung again. Jackson again, telling me he was going to be half an hour later than the first time he gave me and not to forget.

"I won't forget!" I muttered. I'd never shirked my responsibility to the girls, and I'd been doing it way longer than him.

When the phone rang a third time I flicked the call up and put it on loudspeaker.

"I said I'm on it, arsehole. Stop checking up on me."

Silence, then the sound of someone who was decidedly not Jackson, clearing their throat. I glanced at the screen and my heart fell. Barbara Millstone from the University Grants Commission, and I'd just called her, or Jackson anyway, an arsehole.

"Umm, Dr. Hennessy?" she said with caution.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Sorry, I thought you were someone else. Sorry." I apologized twice—I mean, a man can never apologize enough, right?

"Okay," she said, but she didn't sound warm, and my chest got all squirrelly then tight. "I've had some feedback on the initial reports you submitted, and a couple of the board have some concerns."

Concerns? Already? All they'd had so far was my initial groundwork, hypothesis, and background. I'd covered every base, analyzed the potential income that could be generated by my study should they choose to sell it on to teams. Only last season, a football team in Montana had paid out seventeen million to a company for how they could optimize grass for god's sake. My research was bigger than that.

More than that.

"Okay…" I prompted.

"A letter was received from a company out of New York, umm… OberonTech… who suggested your study is based on existing research, and I want your side of this, so I know what to say to them."

OberonTech.

OberonTech, who'd paid Sean a metric ton of money for what was my research.

I could hardly believe what I was hearing; the audacity was staggering. I was embarrassed, furious, and, above all, determined to set the record straight.

Keep calm.

"This is nonsense," I began.

"Still, I need to take this seriously, Dr. Hennessy."

"As do I," I said. "I will get you a letter of retraction immediately, Barbara," I promised, my voice steady despite the turmoil swirling inside me. I knew what I had to do next—I had to confront Sean face-to-face, even if only through a digital screen.

Setting up the call, I tried to steel myself against the emotions churning through me. When his face appeared on my screen, smug and irritatingly calm, a part of me wanted to reach through the monitor and shake the truth out of him.

"Well hello there, sweetness," he said, all smiles as if this were a social call.

"Don't call me that."

He pouted. Fake-pouted. How did I ever find this man attractive? Now I had Craig in my life and my heart, it highlighted how unattractive Sean was. Not just how he faked his way through life, but in the darkness of his dead heart. What kind of mathematician fudges results, tells lies, and steals research?

A Moriarty level of an evil fucking arsehole, that's who.

"What did you do?" I asked, and he knew exactly what I meant.

"Just set the record straight," he said, all oily and pouty.

I wanted to reach through the screen and punch his oily, pouty face.

"How about you come back to New York, Jamie? We can work this out together," Sean offered smoothly, as if it were the most reasonable suggestion in the world. "I'll even put your name back on your… on the research."

"No, Sean," I replied, my voice cold and hard. "I'm not returning to New York, and I'm certainly not working with you. Not now, not ever ." The finality of my words seemed to take him by surprise, his smug expression faltering just a bit.

"There's no need for rudeness, sweetheart."

"I am not your sweetheart."

"You know I wouldn't intentionally hurt you with this, but?—"

"Fuck. You," I snapped and promptly snorted a laugh when he clutched some imaginary pearls. I don't think I'd ever pulled out that curse with him—maybe I should have done so way before this.

His indignation turned sly. "You just have to come back…"

"Not happening."

He shrugged then as if he wasn't messing with my life. "That's your choice."

I glanced away from him and found the file I'd kept safe. I dragged it into the chat window and heard the noise of it arriving at his end.

"What's this?" he asked, still smiling, until he read the file I'd cleverly named SeanIsAWanker.docx . "What the hell?—"

"Open it."

He muttered something, and I saw his gaze slip to wherever the file had opened on the screen. I gave him five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

"What the fuck did you do, Jamie?" he yelled.

"I think the data is clear."

"Jamie—"

"Behold the vast amount of fuckery you enacted on the data to mold it to suit the results you wanted."

He stared right at me, and horror turned to smugness. "You release this, then it's your name against what we did."

" We didn't do anything," I replied, dragging another file into the chat called JamieIsNotAWanker.docx . I'd never seen Sean move so fast as he opened it. "See, that is the original data that we were submitting before you changed it. Now, my name is no longer on this study, and we both know what you did exposed flaws, and it has to be started all over again."

"You arsehole?—"

"Nope, that would be you," I muttered. Then I leaned closer to the camera, my resolve hardening. "And unless you retract your accusations, I won't just allow this to fade in the background while you start again; I will expose the manipulation of data you conducted during this project. I might have taken the hit with my research because you removed me from the project, but you have shown me the kind of man you were, and I'm relieved you fucked me over."

He was stuck somewhere between arrogant and horrified. "You won't reveal shit," he snarled. "You're way too polite to embarrass yourself by admitting you knew what I'd done."

There it was, that smug shit again. "I'm way past being embarrassed, and I've sent out enough emails to ensure what you have means nothing. With great regret, I've hinted in every message that I feel the data collection was flawed."

"You fuck?—"

"—And I will release the raw data that shows it was all you." I leaned to one side, tapping at my keyboard. He didn't have to know I was faking typing an email.

Sean's face went pale, the smugness evaporating. "You wouldn't dare," he snarled, his veneer of control slipping.

"I would, and you know I will. If you take away the work I'm doing here, if you undermine me in any way, then I have nothing to lose anymore, Sean," I said firmly. The threat hung between us, heavy and dangerous.

After a moment of tense silence, he nodded slowly, beaten. "Fine."

"Send a retraction to the commission. Do it now. I'll wait."

"Now, be reasonable. I'll send it as soon as this call is ended."

"Copy me in. You have ten minutes, or I send this evidence email to OberonTech, NYU, and the University Grants Commission." I ended the call abruptly, feeling neither triumph nor relief, only a weary resignation. The victory, if it could be called that, was hollow, tainted by the fact I'd had to pull out the big guns.

The email from him, copying me in, arrived within five minutes, full of excuses and accusations of misunderstandings, and I forwarded it on to Barbara.

I sat back in my chair, startled when my alarm sounded. The girls.

I was at the school within twenty minutes, not entirely recalling the journey. The burn of righteous indignation was strong in my chest, and I had to watch the Craig video three times before I calmed down.

Scarlett and Daisy were a breath of fresh air, talking, demanding, laughing, and taking my mind off everything. Barbara's email arrived a short time after we got home, acknowledging that the situation was resolved.

Damn right it was resolved.

Then Jackson was there, armed with a supply of Cadbury chocolate—his usual apology for me having to step in. I didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't the same as the chocolate back home, because I wasn't mean like that.

Then Oli arrived, Craig trailing after him. I snagged Craig as soon as I was able, tugging him into the study and shutting the door.

Our reunion was all kisses and sighs, and him telling me he loved me, and me saying it back. Between breaths, I announced my small victory, "I won my battle of the exes today," letting the relief and triumph spill over into our kissing.

Someone knocked loudly on the door. "Break it up guys! Pizza is here!"

We broke it up, but not before several more kisses, and by the time we made it to the kitchen, nearly all the best slices were gone. I didn't care because I had Craig, kisses, and love.

However, the peace was short-lived. Midway through a joke Jackson was cracking about his work partner, Craig's phone vibrated harshly against the kitchen countertop. He excused himself with a tight smile and stepped into the yard to take the call. I tried to focus on the joke, but part of me was tuned to the muffled cadence of Craig's voice drifting through the slightly open door, the tone tight and worried.

Craig's expression was stiff, his face drawn, the earlier ease gone, replaced by a tension in him that knotted his shoulders. I caught the weight of Oli's stare, and we exchanged shrugs before I excused myself, following Craig outside.

"Craig?" I kept my voice low, but it was laced with concern, as I reached out to touch his arm. He turned to me, his expression taut, a forced smile not quite reaching his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing I can't handle," he finally said, though his voice betrayed the strain of whatever news the call had brought. I knew better than to push. I really did, but I loved him, and I didn't want to see him so sad.

"A problem shared…" I prompted and took his hands in mine. "Is it the team?" My heart sank. "Are you being traded?" What if he was traded somewhere miles from here, away from Oli and the girls? What would I choose? Where would I go?

Why was I being asked to decide this when being in love with Craig was so new?

"No, it's not the team."

"Then what?"

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on mine. "I have no idea where to start."