Chapter 7 Locker Rules
Locker Rules
Cam
The first thing I notice when consciousness kicks in is that I'm alone.
Not just alone in bed—alone in a way that feels deliberate. Like someone made a tactical retreat while I was unconscious and defenseless.
The second thing I notice is that I'm sore in all the best places. My back aches from holding Tara against that kitchen wall. My shoulders burn from lifting her like she weighed nothing. And my cock? Still half-hard and entirely smug about the fact that I just gave a virgin the ride of her life.
The third thing I notice is the sound of running water from the bathroom, which means Tara's in the shower. Without me.
Mistake number one, sweetheart.
I stretch, every muscle protesting in the most satisfying way, and replay the morning in my head like game footage.
The way she looked spread out on that kitchen counter—all soft curves and desperate need.
The sounds she made when I was buried inside her.
The shocked, beautiful way she fell apart around me.
My concussed brain might drop conversations and forget faces, but it's holding onto every detail of her coming undone.
The way her back arched when I hit that spot inside her.
How her nails raked down my shoulders when she couldn't hold back anymore.
The taste of her skin when I kissed her neck while she was still shaking.
Yeah. I'm keeping all of that forever.
The shower shuts off, and I hear her moving around in there. Getting dressed. Probably giving herself a pep talk about how this was a "moment of weakness" and we need to "keep things professional."
I grin into the pillow. Good luck with that, Taralyn Delacroix.
Because now I know her real name. Her real story. And more importantly, I know exactly how she sounds when she's begging for more.
The bathroom door opens, and she emerges in a cloud of vanilla-scented steam, fully dressed in jeans and light long-sleeved blouse that hides every inch of skin I just had my mouth on.
Her hair is dark and damp, and pulled back in a neat, thick ponytail.
She looks like she's ready to serve coffee and deflect personal questions.
"Good morning again, sunshine," I say, not bothering to cover up with the sheet. Let her get a good look at what she's trying to retreat from.
Her gaze drops to my chest, then lower, and I watch her cheeks flush pink before she snaps her eyes back to my face.
"Hello," she says, her voice carefully polite. Professional. "I made a second pot of coffee. And I was thinking..."
Here we go.
"...that was probably a mistake."
I sit up, letting the sheet pool around my waist. "Which part? The part where you trusted me with your secrets, or the part where I made you scream my name so loud your lovely neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Hotchkiss probably heard it?
She sputters, color flooding her face. "Cam!"
"What? Too direct?" I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up, completely naked, completely comfortable. "Because I seem to remember you being pretty direct when you were riding me against that wall."
"That's—" She spins around, presenting me with her back. "That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?" I ask, padding across the room to where she's standing rigid by the window.
I don't touch her, but I get close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off my skin. Close enough that if she turned around, she'd be pressed against my chest.
"The point is that we have a situation to deal with," she says, her voice slightly breathless. "Dangerous people looking for me. You recovering from a brain injury. This thing between us—it's just going to complicate everything."
"This thing?" I repeat, letting amusement color my voice. "Is that what we're calling the best sex of your life?"
She makes a strangled sound. "It’s my only... argh, you're infuriating!"
"I'm honest." I lean closer, my mouth near her ear. "You want to hear what’s more honest? It’s that I plan to have you in every space of this house before this is over. Starting with that shower you just vacated."
She shudders, a full-body tremor that tells me everything I need to know about her resolve.
“You… we—” She drags in a breath, straightens her spine. “We’re teammates. Partners. Focused on staying safe."
"Babe," I murmur, my breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, "teammates don't know how the other one tastes."
She spins around so fast she almost collides with my chest, her eyes blazing. "This isn't a game, Cam. You could get hurt. Your brain—"
"My brain is fine." I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my gaze. Maybe I can't remember what I had for breakfast three days ago, but I remember every second of this morning. Every sound you made. Every place you like to be touched."
To prove my point, I brush my thumb over the spot on her neck where I left the faintest mark. She gasps, her pupils dilating.
"I remember that you're brave enough to run from a billion-dollar empire but scared enough to check your locks three times last night," I continue.
"I remember that you make everyone around you feel seen and cared for, but you don't let anyone do the same for you."
Her breathing quickens, her resistance thinning.
"And I remember," I drop my voice to a growl, "that when I was inside you, you stopped running. You stopped hiding. You were just... you, mine."
For a moment, I think I’ve won. Her lips part, her gaze drops to my mouth, and I can practically feel her melting.
But then, she rallies, forcing a wall back up with a breathless blurt: “Teammates, Cam. Nothing more.” Like if she says it enough, it’ll build a wall between us. Her chin lifts. “So, go wash or put on some clothes, please.”
I grin and take a deliberate step closer, still naked, still unbothered. “You want to be on my team, Rookie? Then learn the rules. In the locker room, nobody’s shy. Nobody hides. You earn trust by showing up exactly as you are.”
Her eyes go wide. They flick down—fast—before jerking back up, her cheeks flaming. “Cam…”
“Unwritten rules,” I add, laying it on thick. “Guys strut around bare-assed, smack each other with towels, borrow razors, deodorant—hell, even underwear. Don’t ask. Totally normal.”
She makes a choking sound, half laugh, half horror. “That’s disgusting.”
I lean in, savoring her fluster. “And now imagine all of that… with you in the mix.”
Her mouth drops open. She looks like she might faint or swing at me. Maybe both.
And then her phone buzzes sharply against the heated moment like a starting horn.
She jerks away, fumbling for the device on her in her pocket. Her face goes white as she reads the screen.
"What is it?" I ask, immediately shifting into protective mode.
She hands me the phone with a shaking hand. The message is from an unknown number:
Saw you got a new pet. Pretty thing. Would hate if something happened to him.
Attached is a photo of me walking into the cottage last night, clear as day.
Every playful instinct in my body evaporated, replaced by a cold dread that quickly sharpened into calculating fury.
Someone was watching her. Threatening her. Threatening my ability to keep her safe.
They just made the biggest mistake of their short, soon-to-be-miserable life.
I snap a photo of the screen, forward it to Chief Alvarez with our location and time stamp.
"Get dressed," I tell her, already moving toward my discarded clothes. "We’re going to start a board with these communications and threats. Then, we're going to work. Together."
"Cam, you don't have to—"
"The hell I don't." I pull on my jeans with sharp, efficient movements. Someone wants to play games with my woman? Fine. But surveillance? That’s escalation.”
“We are going to start tracking. Every text, every photo—they’re leaving a trail. That’s our play. And they're going to learn real quickly that I don't lose." My voice comes out gravel-thick.
She blinks at my possessive language—my woman—and a flash of something unreadable crosses her face. Surprise? Interest? A tiny, undeniable thrill? Whatever it is, she doesn't argue.
I read the message again, my jaw locking. Pet.
My laugh comes out sharp, humorless. “That’s what they think I am? Some mutt they can leash to scare you?” I yank on my Henley. “Fine. Let’s show them what kind of pet I am.”
Her eyes widen. “Cam—”
“Ferocious,” I snap, a predatory glint in my gaze. “The kind that chews through leashes and bites back. Hard. The kind that leaves a bloody mess.”
Twenty minutes later, we walk into Mane Street Bistro side by side. Not sneaking. Not hiding.
If the bastard with the camera wants a picture, let them. I want them to see I’ve got my teeth bared.
* * *
The bistro is buzzing with the usual morning crowd, but conversation stutters to a halt when we walk in.
Not because they recognize me—though a few faces light up with that familiar oh-shit-it's-a-hockey-player excitement—but because of the way I'm moving.
Like a storm front coming through, ready to clear the air.
I'm not the charming, easy-going guy who joked around with Levi yesterday. I’m the defenseman who’s ended careers with a single check The guy who brawled three deep and left the ice smiling.
The guy whose job is to protect what's his.
I watch Tara clock in, trying to look like it’s any other shift. The town might buy it, but I see the tight line of her shoulders, the way her smile doesn’t quite reach.
Mrs. Whitmore offered her a day off after we showed her the latest text, but Tara and I agreed—hiding isn’t the play. This is us planting our skates, taking the hit head-on.
Tara belongs here, in this quirky little place, more than she ever let on. This isn't just a job for her; it is her life.
I snag a corner table with clean sightlines to both doors and no glass at my back. Perfect defensive position.
“Tara, you work like you normally do. I’m here—I’ll run interference. We do this together.” I squeeze her shoulders as she ties on her apron.