Chapter 13
I'd been awake for several minutes, but I hadn't moved, reluctant to disturb the man sleeping beside me.
Cam lay on his stomach, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the other stretched across the space between us.
The sheet had slipped down to his waist during the night, revealing the broad expanse of his back – all sculpted muscle and smooth skin, interrupted only by a small scar near his left shoulder blade.
Funny, he was wearing a t-shirt when we went to sleep, I remembered.
I glanced around the bed, taking great care not to move or shift my weight, until I saw it, scrunched into a gray ball at the foot of the bed.
He must have gotten too warm overnight again.
His face was turned toward me, relaxed in sleep in a way it rarely was in waking hours.
Long eyelashes fanned against his cheeks, his usual cocky grin softened into something sweeter, more vulnerable.
I allowed myself the luxury of looking at him, really looking, while he couldn't catch me staring.
The strong line of his jaw was covered in golden-brown stubble.
The slight furrow between his brows remained even in sleep, as if he was puzzling through some hockey strategy in his dreams. The curve of his bicep, the definition in his shoulders that revealed countless hours of training.
God, he was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made my breath catch and my fingers itch to trace the contours of his sleeping form.
I wondered what it would be like to wake up to this sight every morning, to reach across and run my palm along the warm skin of his back, to feel those muscles flex beneath my touch.
My smutty Cam thoughts were going to be the ruin of me.
I carefully slipped from the bed. This was dangerous territory. In less than two hours, we'd be back in St. Pete, back to our professional roles and carefully maintained boundaries. Whatever this strange, liminal space had been between us this weekend, it wasn't real life.
I padded to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me.
As I got dressed, I tried to mentally shift gears, preparing myself for the transition back to work mode.
Monday meant a full slate of meetings, media requests to sort through, and preparations for Tuesday's season opener.
I needed to be Lana Decker, capable PR director, not this softer version of myself who'd spent the weekend pretending to be in love with Cam Murphy and finding the “faking it” part a whole lot harder than the “madly in love” part.
When I emerged from the bathroom forty minutes later, I'd armored myself as best I could.
My hair fell in soft waves around my shoulders, my makeup was subtle but flawless, and I'd chosen a structured teal sundress that happened to match the sapphire on my finger.
The espadrille slides added three inches to my height, making my legs look longer, giving me the confidence boost I desperately needed.
Cam was awake now, sitting on the edge of the bed in just his shorts, hair adorably mussed from sleep. He looked up as I entered, and the appreciation that flashed in his eyes sent a flutter through my stomach.
"Wow," he said simply, his gaze traveling from my face down to my legs and back again with unhurried admiration. "You look… incredible."
I smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from my dress, secretly pleased by his reaction. "Thanks. Early start, remember? We've got practice and meetings."
He nodded, smoothing his disheveled hair with his fingers. "Right. Reality calls."
The word hung between us – reality. As if this weekend had been something else entirely, a shared fantasy we'd both temporarily inhabited.
"Bathroom's all yours," I said, turning away from the intensity in his eyes. "I'll finish packing."
We moved around each other with surprising ease as we prepared to leave, a domesticity that felt both alien and familiar.
I folded my clothes with perhaps more precision than necessary, trying not to think about how Cam's toiletries had mingled with mine on the bathroom counter, how his hoodie was draped over the chair next to my cardigan.
"Ready?" he asked, surveying the room one last time.
I nodded, knowing as soon as we walked out this door, the spell would begin to break. The knowledge sat like a stone at the bottom of my stomach.
Downstairs, my parents had gathered for a farewell breakfast. My mother fussed over us, pressing a bag of extra muffins into my hands for the road. My father actually hugged Cam – not the brief, manly clasp he usually offered, but a real, actual embrace.
What in the world?
"You'll come back for Thanksgiving?" my mother asked us, her eyes hopeful as she squeezed my hands. "Both of you, of course."
"We'll have to see, Mom," I said, glancing at Cam. "You know the schedule gets pretty crazy during the season."
"That I do. At least for Christmas, then," she insisted. "We can do some wedding planning."
I felt Cam stiffen slightly beside me, but his smile never faltered. "We'd love to, Diana," he said warmly. "But we'll have to check the schedule."
"Don't forget what we talked about on the breakaway," my father said to Cam, clapping him on the shoulder. "You’re drifting a bit low in the defensive zone — trust your D and center and support the puck by getting to the boards and staying in your lane to take the breakout pass. If you stay high between the circles and the blue line, you’ve a better chance of slipping behind the D on the breakout. Work with Rocco on that."
"Already texted him," Cam replied. "Said he'd run me through some drills this afternoon."
My father nodded approvingly. "Good man."
"Shame Zayne had to rush back last night," my mother said, walking us to the door. "But I suppose he wanted to avoid the Monday morning traffic."
"Smart move," Cam agreed. "The Skyway can be a mess around rush hour."
"Text me so I know you’ve arrived safely," my mother instructed, hugging me tightly. "And Cam,” she turned to him with a warm smile, “ take care of our girl.”
"Always," he promised, and something in his tone made my insides all warm and gooey.
We made our final goodbyes, and as we pulled away from the house, I watched it recede in the side mirror until it disappeared around a bend in the road. The bubble was bursting, one molecule at a time.
"Your mom thinks I'm good for you," Cam observed after we'd driven in silence for a few minutes.
"My mom thinks everyone should be happily married with 2.5 children and a golden retriever."
"Not a golden retriever person?" he asked, changing lanes smoothly as we approached the causeway to the mainland.
"I'm more of a rescue mutt person," I replied. "Something with a big personality that doesn't shed too much."
"Noted," he said with a small smile, as if filing away this information for future reference.
"When did you text Coach Rocco?" I asked, genuinely curious. "I didn't see you on your phone much this weekend."
"This morning when you were in the shower," he replied. "Your dad gave me some great pointers. Said he's noticed the same issue since college."
"That sounds like Dad. He probably has a file on every player's technical weaknesses going back to peewee."
Cam laughed. "Probably. But he's not wrong. If I can work through that before Tuesday's opener, we'll have a better shot against Montreal."
I studied his profile as he drove, the tiny dimple in his chin, the focused set of his eyes on the road ahead. For all his playboy reputation, Cam was deadly serious about hockey. It was one of the things I'd always respected about him, even when I was determined to keep my distance.
"Your family's amazing," he said as we crossed the bridge to the mainland. "I mean, Zayne's said that a million times over the years... but seriously, Lana. I can see why you're so close to them."
"They liked you," I replied, glancing over at him and then burying my head in my hands. "Ohmygod, my mom and all the wedding stuff.” I laughed. “She's out of control."
He laughed, but there was a strange note in it… almost wistful. "Your dad actually offered to take me fishing again next time we have a few days off."
"Really?" I raised my eyebrows. This was profound. "Frank Decker extending a fishing invitation is practically a formal adoption ceremony."
"Yeah?" Cam looked genuinely pleased. "I haven't been fishing since I was a kid. One of my stepfathers used to take me, but then he stopped after he and my mom..."
"You hardly ever talk about your family, thanks for sharing this weekend," I said.
He shrugged. "Not much more to tell. Mom is still in Minnesota, my dad is somewhere in Arizona with fiancée number six or maybe seven, I think? I stopped counting once I left home. We're not exactly the Deckers."
The casual way he dismissed his own family squeezed something in my chest. Before I could respond, he changed the subject.
"So, what's on your agenda this week? How many disasters do I need to create to keep you busy?"
I rolled my eyes, grateful for the lighter tone. "Please, no disasters. I'm still dealing with Nick Fosse's accidental livestream from that club in Ybor City."
"Hey, at least you've trained us well. He kept his clothes on the whole time."
"Small miracles," I laughed. "I've got the usual Monday chaos.
Planning for the community skating event on Thursday, finalizing media credentials for the opener, media training with the new trade, Axel Blackwood about his post-game interviews.
" I gave Cam a sideways glance. "You know he only gives one-word answers, right? "
"That's because he hates the spotlight," Cam replied. "Always has. Give him a box of caps to sign for kids, he'll stay for hours. Put a microphone in his face, he transforms into a monosyllabic hockey robot."
"Well, this hockey robot needs to be more articulate if we want national coverage on how happy he was to be traded to the Slashers."