Chapter 12
Cameron
The puck is a six-ounce disk of vulcanized rubber. It has no feelings. It has no agenda. It obeys only the laws of physics. Force, mass, acceleration. If you are in position, if you cut the angle, if you are faster than the object, you stop it.
Simple.
My life used to be simple.
I stood in the center of the crease, my breath misting in the frigid air of the arena. It was 5:00 AM. The stands were empty, ghosts of the cheering crowds from the weekend. The only sound was the mechanical whir-thwack of the puck machine I had dragged onto the ice.
Thwack. Glove save.
Thwack. Blocker save.
Thwack.
I missed. The puck sailed past my ear and hit the crossbar with a ringing sound that echoed like a mockery.
"Focus," I hissed, slamming my stick against the ice.
I was tired. Not the good kind of tired that comes from a hard workout. This was a deep, corrosive exhaustion that felt like sand in my gears. I had been up until 2:00 AM tutoring Camila on the economic impact of the Renaissance. Then I had spent an hour... distracting her. Distracting myself.
Then I had received the text at 4:00 AM.
Agent: Baxter called. He’s coming to the Friday practice. He wants a private meeting. He sounds skeptical, Cam. Clean up your act.
Clean up my act.
I dropped into the butterfly.
Thwack. Pad save.
Thwack.
I wasn't just fighting the pucks. I was fighting the ghosts. My mother’s voice in my head, demanding money I didn't have yet. Coach Miller’s threat to bench me. And the terrifying, seductive pull of the girl sleeping in my bed.
Camila was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. A mutually beneficial contract.
She had become an obsession.
Every time I looked at her, I lost time. I would stare at the curve of her neck while she studied, and suddenly twenty minutes would be gone. I would think about her laugh during video review and miss a critical breakdown of the opponent’s power play.
I was slipping. And in my world, slipping meant falling. And falling meant staying in the trailer park forever.
Thwack.
The puck hit me square in the chest protector. It winded me. I stumbled back, catching my skate in a rut. I went down.
I lay on the ice, staring up at the banners hanging from the rafters. State Champions. Conference Champions.
Legacies.
I wasn't a legacy. I was a fraud. I was a kid who learned to skate on a frozen retention pond using magazines for shin guards. I was only here because I was ruthless. Because I had cut out every weakness.
And now, I had let a weakness move into my house.
I closed my eyes.
“You’re safe with me,” she had said.
Safe. Safety was an illusion. There was only defense.
I rolled over and pushed myself up. My knee throbbed—a dull, persistent ache that the ice packs weren't fixing.
"Again," I told the empty arena.
I hit the button on the remote in my glove.
Whir-thwack.
The Training Room
By 8:00 AM, the rest of the team was filtering in. The locker room noise level rose—shouts, laughter, the snap of towels.
I sat in the corner, taping my stick. I did it with surgical precision. Heel to toe. Perfectly overlapped. No wrinkles.
"Yo, Cap!" Jag dropped onto the bench next to me. "You look like hell. Did you sleep?"
"Enough," I muttered, ripping the tape with my teeth.
"Right. Enough," Jag snorted. "Look, man. I know you're in deep with the Princess, but you gotta dial it in. Friday is huge. Baxter is coming."
"I know," I snapped. "I got the text."
"Okay, easy," Jag held up his hands. "Just checking. The guys are... talking."
I stopped taping. "Talking about what?"
"About you," Jag lowered his voice. "About how you left the party early. About how you're always on your phone. About how you look... soft."
Soft. The word hit me like a slap shot to the throat.
"I have a shutout streak," I said coldly. "Does that look soft?"
"Stats are stats," Jag said. "But vibe is vibe. And your vibe right now? It's... domesticated. You used to be scary, Cam. Now you just look tired."
He patted my shoulder and walked away.
Scary. They wanted the monster. They wanted the Ice King.
Fine.
I stood up. I walked to the center of the room.
"Listen up!" I barked. The room went silent. Thirty heads turned.
"Practice starts in ten minutes," I said, my voice low and lethal. "If anyone is late, if anyone is lazy, if anyone is... soft... you run stairs until you vomit. Are we clear?"
"Yes, Cap," a chorus of voices mumbled.
"Clear!" I shouted.
"YES, CAP!" they roared back.
I grabbed my helmet. The monster was back.
The Penthouse
I got home at 6:00 PM. My body felt like it was held together by duct tape and caffeine.
I unlocked the door.
Music. Loud pop music.
I walked into the living room.
Camila was dancing.
She was in the kitchen, wearing leggings and a sports bra, using a wooden spoon as a microphone. She was singing along to Dua Lipa, shaking her hips, completely lost in the moment. Something was bubbling on the stove that smelled incredible—garlic, tomato, basil.
It was domestic. It was happy. It was everything I wanted and everything I couldn't afford.
She spun around and saw me.
"Cam!" She beamed, turning down the music. "You're home! I made pasta. Carbo-loading, right? For the brain and the body."
She walked toward me, arms open for a hug.
I didn't move. I didn't hug her back.
I walked past her to the counter, dropping my heavy gym bag with a thud.
"Turn the music off," I said.
She stopped. Her arms fell. "It's off. I just turned it down."
"Off," I repeated, not looking at her. "I need silence. I have to study tape."
"Okay," she said slowly. She tapped her phone, killing the music completely. The silence rushed back in, heavy and awkward.
"Rough practice?" she asked tentatively.
"Baxter is coming on Friday," I said, pulling my laptop out of my bag. "The Head Scout."
"Oh," her face brightened. "That's good, right? That means they're interested."
"It means they're skeptical," I corrected, opening the laptop. "It means I have to be perfect. Which means I can't have..." I waved a hand at the kitchen, at her. "...distractions."
She flinched. "I'm making dinner, Cameron. I'm not a distraction. I'm trying to help."
"I don't need help," I muttered, logging into the team portal. "I need focus. I need you to be quiet."
She stood there for a moment. I could feel her eyes on me—hurt, confused.
"Fine," she said quietly. "I'll be in my room."
"Your room?" I looked up. "You mean the guest room?"
"Yes," she said. "Since clearly, my presence is annoying you."
"Camila, don't be dramatic," I snapped. "I'm stressed. I have three days to secure my entire future."
"And I have a midterm tomorrow!" she shot back, her temper flaring. "But you don't see me treating you like an employee."
"You are an employee!" I shouted.
The words hung in the air. Ugly. False.
Her face went pale.
"Right," she whispered. "I forgot. The contract."
She turned off the stove. She took off the apron she was wearing and folded it neatly on the counter.
"Dinner is ready," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Eat it or don't. I don't care."
She walked down the hall. The door to the guest room clicked shut. Then I heard the lock turn.
I sat there in the silence. The smell of the garlic pasta—made with love, made for me—filled the room.
I put my head in my hands.
Soft. Jag was right. I was soft. Because instead of feeling relieved that she was gone, I felt like I had just kicked a puppy.
I looked at the laptop screen. Game footage from last season.
I tried to focus. I tried to watch the angles.
But all I could see was her face when I called her an employee.
2:00 AM
I couldn't sleep.
I had tried. I had eaten the cold pasta standing over the sink like a rat (it was delicious). I had watched three hours of tape. I had showered.
But the bed was too big. It was too cold.
I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. My knee was throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
I got up.
I walked out into the living room. It was dark, illuminated only by the city lights filtering through the snow outside.
I walked to the guest room door.
I hesitated. My hand hovered over the wood.
Leave her alone, the rational part of my brain said. She’s safe in there. You’re safe out here. Focus on Friday.
But my hand didn't listen. I knocked. Softly.
"Mila?"
No answer.
"I know you're awake," I whispered. "I can hear you thinking."
Silence. Then, the sound of the lock turning.
The door opened a crack.
She was standing there in my t-shirt. Her hair was down. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She had been crying.
The sight of it broke something in my chest.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice raspy. "Is the employee needed for something? A midnight snack? Laundry?"
"Stop," I said, wincing. "Please."
"You said it, Cameron."
"I was angry," I said. "I was scared."
"Scared of what?" She opened the door wider, leaning against the frame. "Scared of pasta?"
"Scared of failing," I admitted. "Scared that if I let myself be happy... if I let myself need you... I'll lose my edge. And if I lose my edge, I lose everything."
She looked at me. She looked at the exhaustion etched into my face, the slump of my shoulders.
"You think needing someone makes you weak," she said.
"Doesn't it?"
"No," she stepped out into the hallway. "It makes you human. And humans are stronger than machines, Cameron. Machines break. Humans heal."
She reached out. She took my hand.
"Come here," she said softly.
She led me not to the bedroom, but to the living room couch. She pushed me down gently.
"Sit."
She went to the freezer. She grabbed a bag of frozen peas.
She came back and knelt between my legs. She placed the peas on my knee.
"You were limping today," she said. "I saw it when you walked in."
"It's fine," I started to say.
She put a finger to my lips. "Shh. No lies."
She began to massage my calf, just below the knee. Her thumbs worked into the tight muscle. It hurt, but in a good way. A releasing way.
I let my head fall back against the cushions. I closed my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "About what I said. You're not an employee. You're..."
I stopped. I couldn't say it. Everything.
"I know," she said quietly. "You're just an idiot under pressure."
She worked on my leg for a few minutes in silence. The tension in my body began to unspool.
"Cam?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared too," she admitted. "My midterm is tomorrow. If I fail... my dad was right. I am useless."
I opened my eyes. I looked down at her.
"You're not useless," I said fiercely. "You're smart. You're resilient. You cleaned up my mess. You handle me. Do you know how hard that is?"
She smiled faintly. "It's a full-time job."
"You're going to ace it," I said. "I tutored you. And I'm an excellent teacher."
"You're a tyrant," she corrected.
"Effective tyrant."
She laughed. It was a small sound, but it filled the empty space in my chest.
"Can I ask you something?" she asked, moving her hands up to my thigh.
"Anything."
"What happens if you don't get drafted?"
I stared at the ceiling. The question I never let myself ask.
"I don't know," I said. "I guess... I get a job. I become a goalie coach. I live a normal life."
"Would that be so bad?" she asked.
"It would be failure," I said. "It would mean I couldn't save my mom. It would mean I couldn't give you..."
I stopped again.
"Give me what?"
"The life you're used to," I said quietly. "The penthouses. The clothes. The safety."
She stopped massaging. She looked up at me. Her eyes were fierce.
"Cameron," she said. "I don't want those things because they're expensive. I want safety because I've never felt safe. And the only place I feel safe... is with you. In a penthouse or a cardboard box."
She climbed up onto the couch. She straddled my lap, careful of my knee. She wrapped her arms around my neck.
"You are my safety," she whispered. "Not your money. You."
She kissed me. Softly. Sweetly. A kiss of forgiveness.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her close. I buried my face in her hair.
She was right. She was the anchor.
"Stay with me," I murmured. "Tonight. Please."
"I'm not going anywhere," she promised.
We fell asleep on the couch, tangled together under a throw blanket.
For a few hours, the pressure was gone. The scouts didn't exist. My mother didn't exist.
There was only her.
But as I drifted off, a small voice in the back of my head whispered the truth.
This is the calm before the storm.
And when the storm comes, it's going to tear you apart.
Friday Morning
The day of reckoning.
I woke up alone on the couch. Camila had left early for her midterm. She had left a sticky note on my forehead.
Good luck, Wolf. Don't let the bastards grind you down. P.S. I aced the friction question.
I smiled. It was the first time I had smiled on a game day in years.
I got up. I felt... okay. My knee was stiff, but manageable. My head was clear.
I went to the rink.
The atmosphere was tense. Everyone knew Baxter was coming.
I went through my routine. Tape the stick. Stretch. Visualize.
Coach Miller walked in.
"Vance. They're here. Baxter is in the stands. He brought the GM."
The General Manager. Holy shit. This was real.
"Show them what you've got," Miller said.
I nodded. I put my helmet on.
I skated out onto the ice.
Practice began.
It was intense. Miller ran us ragged. 3-on-2 drills. Breakaways. High-speed passing.
I was in the zone. I was seeing the puck in slow motion.
Save. Save. Save.
I felt good. I felt light.
Then, halfway through practice, I saw movement in the tunnel.
It wasn't a scout.
It was a woman. Blonde hair. Fur coat.
My mother.
She was standing at the glass, waving at me. She looked drunk. She was holding a sign.
PROUD MOM.
And next to her... was a man with a camera.
My heart stopped.
She had done it. She had come. And she had brought the press.
I froze.
The puck was coming. A slap shot from Jag.
I didn't move. I was staring at my mother.
The puck hit me.
Not in the glove. Not in the pad.
It hit me in the throat. Right under the plastic protector of my mask.
The impact was like a sledgehammer.
I couldn't breathe. My windpipe collapsed.
I fell to my knees, clutching my throat. The world went grey.
"Man down!" someone screamed.
I was choking. I was drowning on dry land.
I looked up. I saw my mother's face through the glass. She wasn't smiling anymore. She looked horrified.
And then, I saw the scouts. Baxter and the GM. They were standing up, looking at me with disappointment.
Fragile.
Distracted.
Broken.
The darkness took me.
And the last thing I thought before I passed out was: I lost.