Chapter 15
Cameron
Friday was judgement day.
The arena was buzzing. The energy was different tonight—sharper, more desperate. It was the last home game before the playoffs. It was Senior Night. And it was the night the Montreal Canadiens scouts were returning to see if Cameron Vance was a sound investment or a liability.
I sat in my locker, taping my stick. Heel to toe. Overlap. Smooth.
I felt... good.
Better than good. I felt invincible.
My knee was wrapped, but the pain was distant, a dull hum I could ignore. My throat was healed enough to breathe without wheezing. And my mind? My mind was clear.
Because for the first time in four years, I wasn't just playing for escape. I was playing for a future. A specific future.
I closed my eyes and pictured it. An apartment in Montreal. Old brick, high ceilings. Camila complaining about the cold while wearing my hoodie. Us, walking down Saint Catherine Street, eating bagels. Her curating a gallery. Me stopping pucks.
It wasn't a fantasy anymore. It was the plan.
"Two minutes!" Coach Miller shouted.
I stood up. I put my helmet on. I snapped the straps.
"Cap," Jag said, bumping my shoulder. "You ready?"
I looked at him. "I was born ready."
We walked down the tunnel. The noise of the crowd hit us like a wave.
I skated out onto the ice.
I looked up at the VIP box.
She was there. Camila. Wearing the jersey.
She waved. A small, frantic wave. She looked pale. Tired. She had been acting weird all week—jumpy, secretive—but she had sworn it was just midterms stress.
I nodded at her. I see you.
Then I looked at the scouts section. Baxter was there. He was watching me.
I banged my stick on the posts. Clang. Clang.
Let's dance.
The game was a masterpiece.
Sometimes, everything clicks. The puck looked like a beach ball. I was moving before the shooter even released the shot. I was in their heads.
Save. Kick. Glove.
The crowd was chanting my name. "VANCE! VANCE! VANCE!"
We won 4-1.
When the buzzer sounded, the team mobbed me. Jag hugged me so hard I thought he cracked a rib.
"You're a legend!" he screamed. "Montreal, baby! Pack your bags!"
I skated off the ice, high on adrenaline and victory.
Coach Miller met me at the bench. He was grinning. Actually grinning.
"Baxter wants to talk," he said. "Locker room. Now."
I walked down the tunnel.
Camila was waiting for me outside the locker room door.
She looked... terrified. She was wringing her hands.
"Cam," she whispered. "We need to talk."
"Not now, baby," I said, grabbing her and spinning her around. I kissed her hard. "Baxter is waiting. This is it. The offer."
"Cam, wait," she tried to pull away. "Something happened. I did something..."
"Whatever it is, we'll fix it," I said, drunk on success. "We can fix anything. I love you."
I froze. I hadn't meant to say it. Not here. Not in a sweaty hallway.
Her eyes went wide. Tears welled up instantly.
"You... what?"
"I love you," I repeated, louder this time. "I love you, Camila Sterling. And I'm going to go in there, sign a contract, and then I'm going to take you to Montreal."
She let out a sob. "Oh god, Cam."
"Wait for me," I said, kissing her forehead. "Ten minutes."
I walked into the locker room.
The Meeting
The office was quiet. Baxter sat across from me. He looked like a man who had seen a thousand goalies and was bored by all of them.
"Good game, Vance," he said.
"Thank you, sir."
"You have technique. You have size. You have focus."
He paused.
"We want to draft you. Second round. Maybe late first, depending on the combine."
My heart soared. First round money. That was life-changing. That was freedom.
"However," Baxter said, leaning forward. "We have concerns about the... external noise."
"The noise is gone," I promised. "My focus is 100% on hockey."
"Good," Baxter stood up. He extended a hand. "Keep it that way. We'll be in touch with your agent."
I shook his hand.
I walked out of the office floating.
I had done it. I had beaten the odds. I had beaten my past.
I walked back into the main locker room. The guys were celebrating. Music was blasting.
I grabbed my phone from my locker.
I wanted to text Camila. We did it.
But when I turned the screen on, I saw the notifications.
Fifty text messages. Twenty missed calls. Twitter alerts blowing up.
My stomach dropped.
I opened a text from Jag, sent two minutes ago.
Jag: Dude. Don't look at the internet.
I looked at the internet.
It was everywhere.
A photo.
Not the photo from the tunnel.
A photo of Camila.
She was in the library. Late at night. Handing a thick envelope of cash to a guy.
Trip Halloway.
The headline on the campus gossip site The Wickfield Whisperer read:
STERLING SCANDAL: Heiress Caught Paying Off Rival to Bury Vance's Dirt? Or Buying His Silence?
And below it, a video.
A shaky phone video taken from behind a bookshelf.
Trip’s voice: "Five grand? That's a lot of money, Princess. What are you buying? Vance's reputation? Or are you buying him time?"
Camila’s voice: "Just take the money, Trip. And delete the photos. If Cameron finds out about this... if he finds out I'm doing this... it will kill him."
Trip: "So the rumors are true. He is fragile. And you're the one holding him together with daddy's money."
I stared at the screen. The sounds of the locker room faded into a dull roar.
Buying him time.
Fragile.
Holding him together with daddy's money.
My mother's voice echoed in my head. Trash. You're still trash.
And now, the whole world knew it.
Camila hadn't just been my girlfriend. She had been my fixer. She had been paying people off to protect me. Like I was a charity case. Like I was a broken toy that needed to be glued back together.
The door to the locker room burst open.
Coach Miller stormed in. His face was purple.
"Vance!" he screamed. "My office! Now!"
Behind him, Baxter was standing in the doorway. He wasn't smiling anymore. He looked disgusted.
"Is this true?" Baxter asked, pointing at his phone. "Is your girlfriend paying off people to hide your scandals?"
"No," I whispered. "I didn't know."
"You didn't know?" Baxter scoffed. "You live with her. You expect me to believe you didn't know she was bribing students?"
He shook his head.
"This is exactly what I was talking about. Noise. Drama. Liability."
He looked at Miller.
"Deal's off. We don't draft circus acts."
He turned and walked out.
I stood there. Frozen.
The deal was gone. The future was gone. Montreal was gone.
And Camila...
She had done this.
She had tried to save me, and in doing so, she had destroyed me.
I grabbed my bag. I pushed past Miller.
"Vance! Where are you going?"
"Home," I said. My voice sounded dead. "To pack."
The Penthouse
I didn't take the elevator. I took the stairs. Twelve flights. I needed to burn. I needed to feel pain to drown out the numbness.
I unlocked the door.
Camila was sitting on the couch. Her suitcase—the pink trunk—was already packed.
She stood up when I walked in. Her face was tear-stained. She looked small.
"Cam," she whispered. "I can explain."
"Explain what?" I asked, walking into the kitchen. I needed water. My mouth tasted like ash. "Explain how you paid Trip Halloway five thousand dollars? Explain why you were selling your jewelry? Explain why the entire internet thinks I'm a charity case?"
"He had photos," she cried, following me. "Photos of us in the tunnel. He was going to send them to Miller. He was going to get you benched. I had to stop him!"
"So you paid him?" I spun around. "You paid him off like I'm some... some problem to be managed?"
"I was protecting you!"
"You were patronizing me!" I shouted. I threw the glass of water into the sink. It shattered.
She flinched.
"I am not your project, Camila! I am not something you fix with your daddy's money!"
"It wasn't my dad's money!" she screamed back. "It was mine! I sold my things! I sold my Birkin! I sold my earrings! Because I love you!"
"Love?" I laughed. It was a cruel, jagged sound. "This isn't love. This is pity. You feel sorry for the poor boy from the trailer park. You wanted to play hero."
"That's not true," she sobbed. "You know that's not true."
"Do I?" I looked at her. "Because right now, Baxter just walked out. The draft is gone. My career is gone. Because of you."
She went white. "Baxter... he left?"
"He called me a circus act. He said I was a liability."
I walked closer to her. I looked down at her. The girl I had loved. The girl I had planned a life with.
"You said you were my safety," I whispered. "You said you were my anchor."
"I am," she pleaded, reaching for me.
I stepped back.
"No," I said. "You're the storm. You're the chaos. And I can't survive you."
"Cameron, please," she begged, grabbing my arm. "We can fix this. We can go to Europe. Like we planned."
"There is no 'we'," I said, pulling my arm away. "Not anymore."
I pointed to the door.
"Get out."
"Cam..."
"Get out!" I roared. "Take your trunk. Take your chaos. And get out of my house!"
She stared at me for a long moment. Her eyes were dead. The light I had loved so much was extinguished.
"Okay," she whispered.
She walked to her trunk. She grabbed the handle.
She dragged it to the door.
She paused with her hand on the knob.
"I did it because I believed in you," she said softly. "I believed you were worth saving. But maybe Trip was right. Maybe you are fragile."
She opened the door.
"Goodbye, Cameron."
She walked out. The door clicked shut.
I stood in the silence of the penthouse.
It was clean. It was quiet. It was empty.
Just like me.
I sank to the floor. I put my head in my hands.
And I screamed.