Chapter 17
Cameron
Zurich was beautiful. It was clean, efficient, and cold.
It was exactly what I deserved.
I sat in the locker room of the ZSC Lions, lacing up my skates. The room smelled different than the one in Wickfield. It smelled of espresso and expensive cologne. The teammates around me spoke a mix of German, French, and English. They were professionals. Grown men with wives and mortgages.
I was the kid. The import. The American rookie who had been air-dropped in to save their season.
"Vance," the captain, a towering Swiss defenseman named Weber, nodded at me. "Bereit? Ready?"
"Ready," I said. My voice was flat.
I finished tying my skates. I put on my pads. I pulled the new jersey over my head. Blue, white, and red. A lion on the chest.
It felt heavy. It felt like a costume.
I walked down the tunnel. The noise of the crowd was polite, rhythmic clapping. Not the chaotic roar of a college arena.
I stepped onto the ice. It was perfect. Smooth as glass.
I skated to the crease. I banged my stick on the posts. Clang. Clang.
I looked up at the stands.
I didn't mean to. It was a reflex. A muscle memory carved into my brain over the last three months. I looked for the jersey. I looked for the wild curls. I looked for the girl who waved frantically.
There was no one. Just a sea of strangers in scarves.
The ache in my chest, the one that had been my constant companion for two weeks, twisted sharper. It was a physical thing—a hollowed-out space behind my ribs where my heart used to be.
"Focus," I whispered to myself. "Do the job."
The puck dropped.
My life in Zurich was a study in minimalism.
I lived in a serviced apartment provided by the team. It was white, modern, and soulless. It had a view of the lake, which was ironic, considering I couldn't look at water without thinking of her.
My schedule was rigid.
7:00 AM: Wake up.
8:00 AM: Train.
12:00 PM: Eat (Chicken and rice. No garlic pasta. Never pasta).
2:00 PM: Nap.
6:00 PM: Game or Video Review.
10:00 PM: Stare at the ceiling until exhaustion knocked me out.
I didn't speak to anyone unless it was necessary. I didn't go out. I was the perfect professional. The machine.
My agent, a slick guy named Miller (no relation to Coach), called me every day.
"You're killing it, Cam!" he'd shout into the phone. "Two shutouts in your first three games? The Swiss press loves you! They call you 'The Glacier'! We're already getting calls from NHL teams asking about buy-out clauses for next year."
"Great," I would say.
"You sound thrilled. Come on, kid! You made it! You're rich! You sent the wire to your mom, right?"
"Yeah. The debts are paid."
"So celebrate! Go find a nice Swiss girl. Buy a watch."
"I have to go," I would say, and hang up.
I had sent the money. My mother had texted back: Received. Thanks baby. Proud of you.
That was it. The goal of my entire life. The reason I had sacrificed everything. The debts were gone. She was safe. I was safe.
And I felt... nothing.
Actually, that was a lie. I felt plenty. I felt rage. I felt betrayal. And underneath it all, a crushing, suffocating loneliness.
Every night, I would open my drawer. Not the junk drawer—I didn't have one here. My bedside drawer.
Inside was a single key card. The one she had left on the ledge at the arena.
I would hold it. I would trace the plastic edge.
“It was a game, Cameron. And the game is over.”
Her voice haunted me. The cruelty in her eyes. The dismissal.
“You're the help.”
It burned. It burned hotter than any save, any injury.
I hated her. I told myself that every morning while I brushed my teeth. I hate Camila Sterling. She is a spoiled, manipulative liar who used me for entertainment.
But then I would see a flash of neon pink in a shop window, or smell vanilla in a bakery, and I would have to lean against a wall to catch my breath because the grief would hit me so hard I thought I might die from it.
The Game
Tonight was a big game. Against Bern. The rivals.
The arena was packed. The atmosphere was hostile.
I was in the zone. I was stopping everything. My body moved on autopilot.
Thwack. Blocker save.
Thwack. Glove save.
In the second period, a Bern forward crashed the net. He slammed into me.
I went down. My helmet hit the ice.
For a split second, I was back in Wickfield. I was on the floor of the medical room. She was straddling me. Her hands were on my chest. “I hate watching you get hurt.”
"Get up, Vance!" Weber yelled, pulling me to my feet.
I stood up. I shook my head to clear the vision.
I looked at the Bern player. He was sneering at me.
I felt a surge of anger. Irrational, violent anger.
I slashed his stick. Hard.
The wood shattered.
The whistle blew.
"Penalty! Vance! Two minutes for slashing!"
The crowd booed. My teammates looked at me in shock. The Glacier didn't slash. The Glacier didn't lose his temper.
I skated to the penalty box. I sat down. I slammed the door.
I was unraveling.
The machine was glitching.
We won the game 3-2. No shutout.
I didn't stay for the post-game meal. I showered quickly, ignored the reporters, and walked out into the cold Zurich night.
I walked home. It was snowing. Big, fat flakes that stuck to my eyelashes.
I walked past a bar. It was crowded, warm light spilling out onto the street. Inside, people were laughing, drinking, touching.
I saw a couple in the window. The girl had dark, curly hair. She was laughing, her head thrown back. The guy whispered something in her ear and she melted into him.
I stopped. I stared.
It wasn't her. Of course it wasn't her.
But the sight of it—the intimacy, the easy joy—broke me.
I walked faster. I practically ran back to my apartment building.
I got into the elevator. I pressed the button for the 10th floor.
When I got to my apartment, I didn't turn on the lights.
I threw my bag on the floor.
I walked to the window. I looked out at the city. It was beautiful. It was a postcard.
And I hated it.
"I hate this," I whispered to the empty room. "I hate this place. I hate this team. I hate this money."
I walked to the kitchen. I opened the fridge. Chicken and rice.
I grabbed the container and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and exploded. Rice went everywhere.
"FUCK!" I screamed.
I grabbed a glass from the counter. I threw it. Smash.
I grabbed a chair. I overturned it.
I was destroying the apartment. I was letting the chaos in.
I sank to the floor in the middle of the mess. I put my head in my hands.
"Camila," I choked out.
The name tasted like blood.
I missed her. God, I missed her. I missed her mess. I missed her laugh. I missed the way she challenged me. I missed the way she looked at me like I was a hero, not a project.
“You’re the only one who saw me.”
Had she lied about that too?
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out my phone.
I hadn't looked at her social media in two weeks. I had blocked her number. I had tried to erase her.
My thumb hovered over the Instagram icon.
Don't do it. It's just pain shopping.
I did it.
I searched for her name.
@CamiSterling
Her profile picture was new. It was a black and white photo of a sculpture. Apollo and Daphne.
I scrolled down.
The most recent post was from yesterday.
It was a photo of her in the library at Westbrook. She was buried behind a stack of books. She looked... thin. Her eyes were tired. She wasn't smiling.
The caption read: The art of endurance. #FinalsWeek #SurvivalMode
I looked closer at the photo.
She was wearing it.
My grey hoodie.
The one I had left behind.
My heart stopped.
Why would she wear my hoodie if she hated me? If I was just "the help"?
I scrolled down to the comments.
TripHalloway: Looking rough, Princess. Maybe you need a new goalie to save you.
Her reply: Go to hell, Trip. Or just look in a mirror.
I scrolled further back.
A post from the day I left. The day of the breakup.
It was a picture of the frozen pond at her cabin. No caption. Just a blue heart emoji.
I stared at the blue heart.
The pond. My safe place.
“You’re my pond, Mila.”
A realization hit me like a lightning bolt. It started in my stomach and worked its way up to my throat.
She hadn't dumped me because she was bored.
She hadn't dumped me because I was "the help."
She had dumped me... to save me.
She had told me my father called Zurich. That he got me the contract.
Why would Richard Sterling help me? He hated me. He wanted me gone.
Unless...
Unless that was the price.
You leave. He gets the contract. I stay.
It was a deal. A sacrifice.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."
I stood up. I paced the room, stepping over broken glass and rice.
It made sense. It made terrible, perfect sense.
She had paid Trip off to protect me. When that blew up, she had made a deal with the devil—her father—to get me out of the wreckage.
She had lied to me. She had broken my heart. She had made me hate her.
Just so I would leave. Just so I would take the contract and save my mother.
"She loves me," I said aloud.
The words echoed in the empty apartment.
She loved me enough to let me go. She loved me enough to let me think she was the villain.
I looked at the view of Zurich one last time.
The money. The career. The safety.
It was all ash.
I didn't want safety. I wanted her.
I grabbed my phone. I dialed my agent.
"Miller," I said when he answered.
"Cam? It's midnight. What's wrong? Did you celebrate too hard?"
"I need to break my contract," I said.
Silence.
"Excuse me? You're breaking up. I thought you said you wanted to break your contract."
"I did," I said. "I'm quitting. I'm coming home."
"Are you insane?" Miller screamed. "You just signed! There are penalties! You'll lose the signing bonus! You'll be blacklisted in Europe!"
"I don't care," I said. "Pay the penalties. Keep the bonus. I'm done."
"Cameron, listen to me. This is career suicide. If you walk away now, you're done. No NHL. No Europe. Nothing."
"I have enough for a ticket," I said. "That's all I need."
"Why?" Miller demanded. "Why are you doing this?"
I looked at the photo on my phone. The girl in the grey hoodie. My girl.
"Because I left something behind," I said. "Something I can't live without."
"A girl?" Miller scoffed. "You're throwing away millions for a girl?"
"She's not just a girl, Miller," I said. "She's the game. And I'm done playing defense."
I hung up.
I walked to the bedroom. I grabbed my suitcase.
I packed in five minutes. Clothes. Passport. The key card.
I left the rest. The apartment. The team gear. The life I thought I wanted.
I walked out of the apartment. I took the elevator down.
I hailed a taxi.
"Flughafen," I told the driver. "Airport."
"Where are you going?" he asked in heavily accented English.
"Boston," I said.
I leaned back in the seat as the taxi sped through the snowy streets.
I was going back to the chaos. I was going back to the storm.
I was going back to Wickfield.
And this time, I wasn't going to let her push me away.
I was going to break down the door if I had to.
I was going to get my girl back.