Chapter 19
Camila
There is a specific kind of silence that happens after a war ends. It’s not the silence of devastation, but the silence of clarity. The smoke clears, and you look around to see what’s still standing.
I was standing. Cameron was standing. And we were standing together.
We drove back into Wickfield in the dented rental Corolla, holding hands over the center console. The sun was shining—a cruel, bright spring sun that seemed to be mocking the disaster we were driving into.
"Are you ready?" Cameron asked, squeezing my hand as we passed the 'Welcome to Wickfield' sign.
"No," I admitted. "My father is going to eviscerate me. He’ll probably try to sue you for emotional distress or kidnapping. And Coach Miller... he might actually murder you."
"Miller is a teddy bear," Cameron said, though his jaw was tight. "It's my mother I'm worried about. She's been texting me non-stop since the museum. Apparently, I owe her an explanation for ruining her retirement plan."
"We'll handle her," I said. "Together."
"Together," he echoed. It was our new favorite word.
We drove straight to the arena. We knew Miller would be there. And we knew Baxter, the Canadiens scout, had said he would be in town for one more day.
This was it. The final play.
We walked into the arena. I wasn't wearing the jersey this time. I was wearing jeans and Cameron’s grey hoodie—my armor. Cameron was wearing the rumpled suit from the museum, tie loose, top button undone. He looked like a renegade CEO.
We walked past the security guard, who just stared at us with his mouth open.
We walked down the tunnel.
We walked into the locker room.
The team was there. They were getting ready for practice. The music stopped abruptly when we walked in. Thirty pairs of eyes turned to us.
"Holy shit," Jag whispered, dropping his stick. "He's alive."
Cameron didn't say anything. He just walked to the center of the room. He didn't look at the floor. He didn't look ashamed. He looked like the Captain.
"Where's Miller?" he asked.
"In his office," Jag said, stepping forward. "With Baxter. And... your mom."
Cameron stiffened beside me. I squeezed his hand.
"Let's go," I whispered.
We walked to the office door. Cameron didn't knock. He pushed it open.
The Lion's Den
The office was crowded. Coach Miller sat behind his desk, looking like he had aged ten years in the last week. Baxter was leaning against the wall, looking amused. And sitting in the guest chair, wearing a fur coat that had seen better days, was Evelyn Vance.
She jumped up when we walked in.
"Cameron!" she shrieked. "Where have you been? Do you know what you've done? You quit! You walked away from millions! Are you insane?"
She rushed toward him, hands reaching out to grab him, shake him, maybe hit him.
Cameron didn't flinch. He just held up a hand.
"Stop," he said.
It wasn't a shout. It was a calm, absolute command.
Evelyn stopped. She blinked, shocked. Cameron had never told her to stop. He had always taken it.
"Sit down, Mom," Cameron said.
"I will not sit down! I—"
"Sit. Down."
The authority in his voice was terrifying. Evelyn sat.
Cameron turned to Coach Miller.
"I'm here to apologize," Cameron said. "Not for loving her." He gestured to me. "But for letting the noise affect the team. That was on me. I lost focus. I won't let it happen again."
"You quit, Vance," Miller said, shaking his head. "You walked out on a contract in Zurich. You're uninsurable. You're a risk."
"I know," Cameron said. "But I'm also the best goalie you've ever had. And you have the Frozen Four next week. You need me."
Miller looked at Baxter. Baxter shrugged.
"He's got a point, Coach," Baxter said. "The kid has balls. I like balls."
"And you," Cameron turned to his mother. "We need to talk about the money."
"There is no money!" Evelyn wailed. "You threw it away! For her!" She pointed a venomous finger at me. "She's the problem, Cameron! She's a spoiled little—"
"She is my family," Cameron cut her off. His voice was ice cold. "And if you ever speak to her like that again, you will never see a dime from me. Ever."
The room went dead silent.
"I am going to get drafted," Cameron continued. "I am going to make money. And I will pay your debts, Mom. I will make sure you have a roof over your head. But that is it. No more guilt trips. No more emotional blackmail. No more showing up at my games with reporters."
He stepped closer to her.
"You are my mother. But you are not my owner. If you want to be in my life, you play by my rules. If not... you're on your own."
Evelyn stared at him. Her mouth opened and closed. She looked small. For the first time, I realized she wasn't a monster. She was just a sad, broken woman who had lost control of the one thing she thought she owned.
She nodded slowly. "Okay, Cam. Okay."
Cameron let out a breath. He turned back to Miller.
"So, Coach. Am I on the team? Or do I go play in a beer league?"
Miller looked at him. He looked at the determination in Cameron’s eyes. He looked at me, standing right beside him, holding his hand.
Miller sighed. A long, weary sigh.
"Get your gear on, Vance," Miller grumbled. "Practice started five minutes ago. And if you let in one soft goal... you're running stairs until you die."
Cameron smiled. A real, brilliant smile.
"Yes, Coach."
He turned to Baxter.
"And you?"
Baxter pushed off the wall. He handed Cameron a pen.
"Contract is with your agent," Baxter said. "Second round. Signing bonus is... substantial. Montreal needs a goalie who can handle pressure. Seems like you qualify."
Cameron took the pen. He looked at it.
He looked at me.
"We qualify," he whispered.
We weren't done.
Cameron went to practice. I sat in the stands, watching him. He was electric. He stopped everything. He moved like a man who had been unchained.
After practice, we drove to the Sterling Estate.
This was my battle.
We walked up the steps. The butler opened the door.
"Ms. Camila," he said, looking nervous. "Your father is in the library. He... he is not in a good mood."
"I know, Jenkins," I said. "Thanks."
We walked into the library.
My father was standing by the fireplace. He turned when we entered. His face was a mask of cold fury.
"You have a lot of nerve," he said to Cameron. "Coming here after that display at the museum. You humiliated me."
"I told the truth," Cameron said calmly.
"You broke our deal," my father spat at me. "I offered you a way out. I offered to save him."
"You offered to control him," I corrected. "And me. I'm done being controlled, Dad."
"You're cut off," my father said. "The trust fund. The allowance. The car. All of it. Gone. You are destitute, Camila."
"I know," I said. "And I don't care."
I reached into my bag. I pulled out a check.
It was from the sale of my jewelry. The Birkin. The Chanel. I had sold them all to a consignment shop in Boston this morning before we drove back.
I placed the check on his desk.
"This is for the semester's tuition," I said. "I'm paying for it myself. And the rent for the apartment I'm going to get. I don't need your money."
My father looked at the check. He looked at me. He looked confused. He had never seen me pay for anything in my life.
"And the internship?" he asked. "The gallery connections? Those are gone too."
"I'll get my own internship," I said. "I have a 4.0 GPA. I have recommendations from my professors. I'm good at this, Dad. Not because of your name. Because I work hard."
"She's brilliant," Cameron added. "You should read her paper on the Baroque period. It's fascinating."
My father stared at us. The united front. The wall he couldn't break.
"You're making a mistake," he said quietly. "Love doesn't pay the bills, Camila. You'll be miserable. You'll be poor."
"Maybe," I said. "But I'll be free."
I took Cameron’s hand.
"Goodbye, Dad. Call me when you're ready to be a father, not a banker."
We walked out.
As we stepped onto the porch, I felt a lightness I had never known. The weight of the Sterling legacy was gone.
I was broke. I was homeless (temporarily).
But I was free.
We drove back to the penthouse.
Cameron unlocked the door.
It was exactly as we had left it. The rice I had thrown was cleaned up (the cleaning service was efficient), but the air still felt heavy with the ghosts of our fight.
We walked in.
Cameron dropped his keys on the console. He turned to me.
He didn't say anything. He just looked at me.
"We did it," I whispered.
"We did," he said.
He walked toward me. He backed me against the door.
"You were amazing today," he murmured, his hands finding my hips. "Standing up to him. Paying him back. You looked... powerful."
"I learned from the best," I smiled, wrapping my arms around his neck. "The Wall taught me how to stand my ground."
"The Wall is gone," he said, pressing his hips against mine. "There's just Cameron now."
He kissed me.
It wasn't a desperate kiss like in the museum. It wasn't a sad kiss like in the cabin.
It was a celebration.
He picked me up. I wrapped my legs around him.
He carried me to the bedroom.
He set me down on the bed—our bed.
He stripped off his suit. I stripped off the hoodie.
We came together in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
"Wait," I said, pushing him back onto the pillows. "My turn."
I straddled him. I looked down at him.
He was beautiful. The bruise on his ribs was fading to yellow. The tension in his face was gone. He looked young. He looked happy.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you more," he countered.
"Impossible."
I lowered myself onto him.
He groaned, his head falling back into the pillows. "God, Mila."
"Mine," I whispered, setting a slow, torturous rhythm.
"Yours," he agreed, his hands gripping my hips. "Always yours."
We moved together. It was slow, deep, and perfect. There was no rush. We had all night. We had all the nights.
I watched his face as he came apart. I watched the way he said my name like a prayer.
And when I shattered, I felt him catch me.
We lay in the afterglow, the city lights twinkling outside the window.
"So," I said, tracing the tattoo on his ribs. "Montreal."
"Montreal," he agreed sleepily.
"I'm going to need a coat," I said. "A really warm one. Maybe faux fur. Blue."
"I'll buy you ten coats," he promised. "With my signing bonus."
"And a dog," I added. "Puck."
"Sparkles III," he corrected.
I laughed. I kissed his chest.
"Deal."
He tightened his arm around me.
"Hey, Mila?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For breaking me," he whispered. "I needed to be broken so I could be put back together the right way."
I squeezed him tight.
"You're welcome, Wolf."
We fell asleep.
The world outside was still chaotic. My father was still angry. His mother was still a wildcard. The NHL was a grinder.
But in here? In the sanctuary we had built out of the wreckage?
Everything was perfect.
We had won the game. And we hadn't even needed overtime.