Chapter 14
Camila
Happiness, I had discovered, was loud.
It wasn't the quiet contentment I had expected after our weekend in the cabin. It was a brass band marching through my chest. It was the urge to sing in the shower, to skip down the hallway, to grab strangers by the lapels and shout, “I’m in love with the goalie and he loves me back!”
I chewed on the end of my pen, smiling like an idiot.
Cameron’s hand felt like that. Firm. Possessive. Hot.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
Wolf: Stop objectifying the marble. I can feel you thinking dirty thoughts from across campus.
I bit my lip to stifle a giggle.
Me: How do you know I’m thinking about you? Maybe I’m thinking about Bernini.
Wolf: Bernini is dead. I’m alive. And I’m currently stretching. In compression shorts.
My breath hitched. I typed back furiously.
Me: Proof or it didn't happen.
A second later, a photo appeared. Just a thigh. A massive, muscular thigh encased in black compression fabric, with a hockey stick resting casually against it.
I dropped my phone. It clattered loudly onto the desk.
Professor Halloway (Trip’s dad, unfortunately) stopped lecturing. He peered over his glasses at me.
"Ms. Sterling? Is there something in the Baroque period that requires such... percussive enthusiasm?"
"Sorry," I squeaked, snatching my phone back. "Just... admiring the composition."
"Indeed," Halloway droned, turning back to the screen.
I looked at the photo again under the desk.
We were invincible.
That was how it felt. We had survived the ambulance, the press, my father’s threats, and his mother’s chaos. We had spent three days in a cabin, cut off from the world, and we hadn't killed each other. Instead, we had forged something unbreakable.
Cameron was back in Wickfield, cleared for light practice (though not contact yet). I was back in classes, actually understanding the material thanks to his tyrannical tutoring.
We were winning.
Class ended. I packed up my bag, feeling lighter than air.
"Camila!"
I turned. Trip Halloway was leaning against the doorframe, wearing a smirk that made me want to sanitize my eyes.
"Trip," I said coolly, trying to brush past him.
"Whoa, slow down," he stepped in front of me, blocking my path. "Heading to the rink? Gotta go cheer on the golden boy?"
"I'm heading to lunch," I lied. "Move, Trip."
"You know, everyone is talking about you two," Trip said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "The ambulance ride. The disappearing act this weekend. Very dramatic. Very... calculated."
"It's called a relationship, Trip. Try it sometime. It involves caring about someone other than yourself."
Trip laughed. It was a dry, ugly sound.
"Caring. Right. Is that what we're calling it? Because my dad... he had dinner with the Dean last night. And the Dean said your dad is threatening to pull the funding for the new stadium unless Vance gets benched."
My stomach dropped.
"That's a lie," I said, though my voice wavered.
"Is it?" Trip leaned closer. He smelled of expensive cologne and entitlement. "Because it looks like a power play to me. Vance dates you, he gets the draft spot. But now... now it looks like he's getting greedy. Maybe he thinks he can have the girl and the glory."
"You don't know anything," I snapped.
"I know Vance," Trip sneered. "He's trash, Camila. Trailer park trash. He'll do anything to climb out of the gutter. Including using you."
Rage, hot and white, flared in my chest.
"He's worth ten of you," I hissed, stepping into his space. "He earned everything he has. You? You're just a legacy hire waiting to happen."
Trip’s face darkened. "Careful, Princess. You're riding high now, but gravity is a bitch. And when you fall... I'll be there to catch you. Or laugh."
I shoved past him. I didn't look back.
I marched out of the building, my heart pounding.
Invincible. That’s what I told myself.
But Trip’s words stuck in my brain like a splinter. Gravity is a bitch.
The Ice Rink
I needed to see him. I needed to ground myself.
I walked into the arena. It was empty except for the Zamboni doing its rounds and a few players stretching by the bench.
Cameron was in the goal crease. He wasn't in full gear—just track pants and a hoodie—but he was moving. He was testing his knee, sliding side to side.
He looked fluid. Powerful.
I walked down to the glass.
He saw me. His face lit up. The transformation was startling. The stoic mask melted away, replaced by a warmth that was just for me.
He skated over.
"Hey," he said through the glass. "You're early."
"I missed you," I said, pressing my hand against the cold plexiglass. "And I needed to verify the compression shorts situation."
He grinned. "Verification granted later. In private."
He looked around. The arena was mostly empty.
"Come down to the tunnel," he whispered. "I have ten minutes before Miller gets here."
"Is that safe?" I asked, looking at the security cameras.
"Miller is in a meeting with the AD. The guys are in the gym. It's just us."
Just us. The magic words.
I walked to the tunnel entrance. He met me there.
He opened the door and pulled me into the shadows of the concrete corridor.
He kissed me.
It was hungry. Possessive. He tasted of Gatorade and cool air. His hands roamed over my coat, pulling me closer until there was no air between us.
"God, I missed you," he groaned against my neck. "Three hours is too long."
"We're pathetic," I laughed breathlessly. "We're codependent."
"I don't care," he murmured. "Let's be codependent."
He backed me against the wall. His thigh pressed between mine. The friction was electric.
"So," he whispered, nipping at my ear. "Did you like the photo?"
"It was... educational," I gasped. "I learned a lot about anatomy."
"I can teach you more," he promised, his hand sliding under my coat to grip my waist.
We were lost in the moment. The smell of the rink, the heat of his body, the thrill of sneaking around. It felt safe because it was familiar.
We didn't hear the door open.
"Well, well, well."
We sprang apart.
Standing at the end of the tunnel, silhouetted by the bright lights of the arena, was a figure.
Not Coach Miller. Not Jag.
It was a girl.
Sloane. My friend. My roommate (before I got evicted).
She was holding a clipboard. She worked part-time for the athletic department filing stats.
She stared at us. Her eyes were wide.
"Sloane!" I gasped, smoothing my hair. "Hi! We were just..."
"Just making out in the tunnel?" Sloane finished, her voice flat. "Yeah. I can see that."
She walked closer. She looked from me to Cameron. Her expression wasn't friendly. It was... disappointed.
"So the rumors are true," she said. "You guys are actually... a thing."
"We're dating," Cameron said, stepping in front of me slightly. Protective instinct.
"Dating," Sloane repeated. She looked at me. "Mila, can I talk to you? Alone?"
Cameron looked at me. "I can stay."
"It's okay," I said, touching his arm. "It's Sloane. Go finish your warm-up. I'll handle this."
He hesitated, then nodded. "I'll be on the ice."
He gave Sloane a wary look and walked back toward the rink.
We were alone in the tunnel.
"Sloane," I started, reaching out. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It's complicated. There were... contracts involved. But it's real now. I swear."
Sloane didn't take my hand. She crossed her arms over her chest.
"Real," she scoffed. "Is that what you call it? Because I saw your dad's statement, Mila. 'A mutually beneficial arrangement to ensure the stability of the program.'"
"That was spin!" I argued. "That was damage control!"
"Was it?" Sloane stepped closer. "Because I also saw something else. Yesterday. In the library."
My blood ran cold.
"What did you see?"
"I saw you drop your pen," Sloane said quietly. "I saw you go under the table. And I saw Vance's face. He didn't look like a boyfriend, Mila. He looked like a guy getting serviced."
I gasped. "We didn't... I wasn't..."
"I don't care what you were doing," Sloane snapped. "What I care about is that you're lying to everyone. You're lying to me. You're lying to the school. And you're playing a dangerous game."
"I'm in love with him, Sloane!" I shouted. The words echoed off the concrete walls.
Sloane flinched. The anger drained out of her face, replaced by pity.
"Oh, Mila," she whispered. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"It's the truth."
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe you're just lonely. And maybe he's just using you to secure his draft spot. Think about it. He's a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. You're the Commissioner's daughter. It's a classic play."
"He's not like that," I said fiercely. "He told me about his past. He opened up to me."
"Of course he did," Sloane said. "That's how you hook a girl like you. You give her a sob story. You make her feel like the savior."
"Stop it," I warned. "You don't know him."
"I know hockey players," Sloane said. "And I know that when the season ends... they leave. Every time."
She sighed. She looked at her clipboard.
"Look. I won't tell anyone what I saw. I'm not a snitch. But be careful, Mila. Because when this blows up... and it will blow up... you're going to be the one left in the wreckage. He has a helmet. You don't."
She turned and walked away.
I stood there in the tunnel, shaking.
Sloane was wrong. She had to be wrong.
But the seed was planted. It burrowed deep into the soil tilled by Trip’s comments and my father’s threats.
He has a helmet. You don't.
The Penthouse
That night, the atmosphere in the penthouse was strained.
Cameron was in a good mood. He had had a good practice. His knee was holding up.
"I think I can play on Friday," he said over dinner (tacos this time, because I needed comfort food). "Miller is hesitant, but if I pass the physical tomorrow, I'm in."
"That's great," I said, pushing a piece of lettuce around my plate.
"What's wrong?" he asked immediately. He put his fork down. "You've been quiet since you got home. Did something happen?"
I looked at him. I wanted to tell him about Sloane. About Trip. About the fear gnawing at my gut.
But looking at his hopeful face—the first time he had looked hopeful about hockey in weeks—I couldn't do it. I couldn't be the one to burst his bubble.
"Nothing," I lied. "Just... midterms stress. And Sloane is mad at me for moving out without telling her."
"Ah," he nodded. "Roommate drama. Do you want me to talk to her? I can be very persuasive."
"No!" I said quickly. "No. I'll handle it."
He studied me for a second. The blue eyes were sharp, analytical.
"You're lying," he said softly.
"I'm not," I insisted. "I'm just tired."
He didn't push it. But the air changed. The ease of the last few days evaporated, replaced by the old tension.
"Okay," he said. "Let's watch a movie. Turn your brain off."
We moved to the couch. He pulled me into his arms. I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was steady. Strong.
But I couldn't relax.
Every time his phone buzzed, I flinched. Every time he looked at me, I wondered if he was calculating the odds.
Is he using me?
No.
But what if he has to?
While Cameron was in the shower, his phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I knew I shouldn't look.
Rule Number One: Don't snoop.
But fear makes you do stupid things.
I picked it up.
A text from an unknown number.
Unknown: I have the photos from the tunnel. You and the girl. Touching. Very intimate. Coach Miller would be very disappointed to see his 'focused' captain breaking protocol. $5,000. Cash. Tonight. Or I send them to the AD.
My hand shook so hard I almost dropped the phone.
The tunnel. Today.
Someone had been watching. Someone had taken photos.
And now they were blackmailing him.
Cameron couldn't afford $5,000. He was sending every spare cent to his mother.
If these photos came out... Miller would bench him. My father would pull the funding. The team would collapse.
And Cameron would lose everything.
Because of me. Because I had distracted him. Because I had insisted on seeing him at the rink.
I heard the shower turn off.
I put the phone back exactly where it was.
I sat on the couch, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
I couldn't tell him.
If I told him, he would panic. He would try to fix it. He would do something reckless.
Or worse... he would resent me. He would realize that Sloane was right—I was a liability.
I had to fix this.
I was Camila Sterling. I didn't have a helmet, but I had something better.
I had a trust fund. Or at least, I had things I could sell.
I stood up. I walked to the guest room.
I opened my pink trunk.
I pulled out the Birkin bag. The vintage Chanel. The diamond earrings my grandmother gave me.
I could sell them. I could get the money. I could pay the blackmailer.
I would save him.
And he would never know.
The bathroom door opened. Cameron walked out, a towel wrapped around his waist, steam billowing around him.
"You okay?" he asked, seeing me standing by my trunk.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice steady. "Just... organizing."
He smiled. He walked over and kissed my forehead.
"Come to bed," he said. "I need my anchor."
"I'll be there in a minute," I promised.
He walked into the bedroom.
I looked down at the pile of luxury goods.
It wasn't enough. I needed more cash. Fast.
There was only one person who had that kind of money available immediately.
Trip Halloway.
I grabbed my phone. I typed the text before I could talk myself out of it.
Me: I need a favor. A big one. Meet me at the library in 20 minutes.
Trip: Well, well. The Princess comes crawling back. This should be good.
I grabbed my coat. I grabbed the bag of designer goods.
I walked to the bedroom door. Cameron was already in bed, scrolling on his tablet.
"I forgot my charger in the car," I lied. "Be right back."
"Hurry back," he murmured, not looking up.
I walked out of the penthouse.
I was going to fix this.
But as the elevator descended, a cold dread settled in my stomach.
I was lying to him. I was meeting his enemy.
I was doing exactly what Sloane said I would do. I was creating a disaster.
But I loved him. And love meant sacrifice.
Even if the sacrifice was the truth.