Cold Feet (The St. Pete Slashers #2)

Chapter 1

Ipride myself on being first in the office every morning.

It's the quiet I crave – that perfect slice of time when the St. Petersburg Slashers training facility belongs just to me. No sweaty players in the hallways (yet), no coaches barking orders, no social media fires to extinguish before I’ve even fired up my laptop. .

Just me, my caffeine addiction, and the gentle hum of the climate control system fighting back Florida's oppressive heat like a champ.

This morning was no different. I juggled my laptop bag, purse, and what was definitely too many iced coffees (one for me, one for my assistant Katie, and one with an extra shot for Coach Michaels, who would literally rather die than admit he likes anything fancier than gas station swill) as I swiped my key card at the staff entrance.

The halls echoed with that early morning emptiness I loved. Fresh floor cleaner mixed with the lingering scent of hockey – testosterone, ice, and pure ambition.

Smells like home.

In my office, I set down the coffees and allowed myself thirty seconds to appreciate the view.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked our practice rink, still pristine from overnight resurfacing.

Championship banners hung from the rafters like silent bragging rights, including last season's Stanley Cup.

Not bad for a sunbelt expansion team that every hockey purist had written off as "Disney on Ice. "

I settled into my chair and powered up my computer, mentally organizing my day while I mainlined caffeine. Media availability after the morning skate. Final approval on season ticket packages. Draft talking points for Logan's ESPN hit tonight.

My phone buzzed. Coach Michaels.

"Decker," I answered, channeling my most professional voice despite having known Sully Michaels since I was in pigtails.

"Conference room. Now." His voice had that gruff edge that made my stomach drop. In hockey speak, that tone meant someone was either traded, injured, or caught doing something spectacularly stupid on TikTok.

"Good morning to you too, Coach."

"The rest of us are already here." Click.

I stared at my phone. Whatever this was, it wasn't on my calendar. And in hockey, like in PR, unscheduled meetings usually meant someone's world was about to implode.

I grabbed Sully's coffee, mine, and my tablet, mentally cataloging possible disasters as I walked. Player injury? Instascandal? Please, hockey gods, don't let it be another secret baby situation.

When I pushed open the conference room door, I immediately knew this was DefCon 1 serious.

Coach Sully sat at the head of the table like someone had stolen his favorite whistle.

Coach Rocco flanked him, both wearing worried expressions.

Marcus Thompson, our GM, tapped away at his phone with his usual intensity while chatting with Ryan Keller – one of the most ruthless sports agents in the business.

And there was Cam "The Hitman" Murphy.

Hockey's golden boy. The Slashers' star left-winger. My brother's best friend since they were teenagers terrorizing college hockey together. The man whose face I'd plastered across every billboard from Tampa to Orlando as "the NHL's most eligible bachelor."

The man I'd spent the better part of a decade pretending I didn't remember naked.

Cam sprawled in his chair like he owned the place, one long leg extended under the table, arms crossed over a faded Ramones t-shirt that hugged his shoulders in a way that was entirely unprofessional for me to notice.

His golden-brown hair was still damp from a post-workout shower, and when our eyes met across the table, his jaw tightened just enough for me to notice.

Those eyes. Still the same impossible shade of blue that had made me forget my own name once upon a time.

"Lana," Coach Sully nodded. "Close the door."

I set his coffee in front of him – a peace offering for whatever shit storm was brewing – and took the only remaining seat. Directly across from Cam, because apparently the universe has a sick sense of humor.

"What's going on?" I asked, directing my question to Sully while mentally cataloging everyone's stress levels. Years of crisis management had taught me that reading the room was often more useful than whatever corporate speak came out of people's mouths.

Ryan Keller cleared his throat, all business in his two thousand-dollar suit. "We have a situation with Cam's image."

My gaze snapped to Cam. Public image was my domain. If there was a problem with how the world perceived Cameron Murphy, it was ultimately my problem to fix.

"What kind of situation?" I asked, tablet at the ready.

"Redline Athletics wants to make Cam their first NHL endorsement athlete," Ryan continued. "We're talking major mainstream crossover. Game-changing money."

I nodded. Redline was massive – Nike and Adidas level. Getting them interested in hockey, let alone one of our players, was like landing a unicorn.

"That's incredible news," I said carefully, waiting for the other skate to drop.

"It would be," Ryan continued, "except they're concerned about Cam's... personal image."

And there it was.

"Specifically," Marcus jumped in, "there's a morality clause in the contract. They want someone stable. Family-friendly. Someone who screams trustworthy spokesman instead of…uh… collect them all.”

I looked at Cam, whose eyes were now locked on mine with laser focus, intensely blue and unmistakably accusatory.

Ryan slid a contract across the table. "One-point-five million annually for three years. This isn't just sneaker money…this is positioning Cam as the face of hockey for mainstream America."

I flipped through the pages, scanning the morality language. Four-and-a-half million dollars. Holy shit.

"So what exactly about Cam's image is the problem?" I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I already knew.

Cam gave a short, humorless laugh. "Gee, wonder what it could be? Maybe the fact that you've spent three years marketing me as the NHL's resident fuckboy?"

"I wouldn't use that terminology in my media materials," I shot back, stung.

"No, you prefer 'hockey heartthrob' and 'the league's most eligible bachelor,'" he said, air quotes and all. "My personal favorite was 'Win a Dream Date with the Slashers' Sexiest Forward.'"

"That Valentine's promotion sold out the arena in sixteen minutes," I reminded him. "Your jersey sales are second only to Logan's, and you’ve got the highest likability scores in the NHL"

"And now it's costing me the biggest deal of my career." His voice stayed level, but I could see the tension radiating from his shoulders. "You know that's not who I am, Lana. I played along with this... hockey Casanova bullshit for the good of the team, and now it's biting me in the ass."

"As I recall, you weren't exactly opposed to one-night stands back in college, Hitman."

Shit. The words hung in the air like a puck about to drop, heavy with the weight of everything we'd never talked about.

Cam's eyes flashed with something I couldn't name, and suddenly I was twenty years old again, waking up alone in my dorm room with nothing but the lingering scent of his cologne and a hollow ache in my chest.

"Cam and Zayne were teammates at BU," I explained quickly to the room, as if that somehow justified my highly specific knowledge of his college dating habits. "Sorry. That was unprofessional."

The truth was, Cam wasn't wrong. For all his swagger and magazine cover boy looks, he was notoriously private off the ice.

I'd crafted a public image for him that worked brilliantly for the team, amplified it into something that sold tickets and jerseys – but apparently not family-friendly sneakers.

"Okay," I said, switching back to problem-solving mode. "We can work with this. Charity appearances, kids program of some sort, maybe a feature on his off-ice interests. Social media reset. Give me three months and I can shift the narrative."

Ryan and Marcus exchanged one of those looks that made my stomach drop.

"We don't have three months," Ryan said. "The NHL Awards are in two weeks. Redline will be there, watching. They need to see concrete evidence of change by then, or they walk."

"Two weeks?" I looked around the table like someone was about to tell me this was an elaborate prank. "Shoot, I forgot my magic wand at home. I can't completely rebrand someone in two weeks. I'm good, but I'm not a miracle worker."

"Actually," Ryan leaned forward with the smile of a shark who'd just spotted blood in the water, "I have a more immediate solution." His gaze landed squarely on me and I half-expected his undoubtedly forked tongue to flicker out like a snake’s. "Cam needs a girlfriend. A serious one."

I laughed, then quickly realized I was the only one.

"You want me to find Cam a girlfriend in two weeks?" I asked. "What am I supposed to do, hold auditions? Post on LinkedIn?"

"Not exactly," Marcus said carefully.

And that’s when it hit me. The way they were all looking at me. The careful setup of this meeting. The strategic positioning of the only empty chair directly opposite Cam.

"Oh, hell no," I said when I finally found my voice. "Absolutely not."

"Think about it," Ryan pressed on like a man who sensed weakness.

"You've known each other for years. You're at the same events constantly.

Cam's close with your brother. Your family is hockey royalty…

I mean, Frank Decker's daughter dating a Slashers player?

The optics are exactly what we need. Plus, your position with the team explains why you'd keep it private. "

I could feel Cam's eyes on me, but I refused to look at him.

“This is insane,” I said, my mind already racing through the implications, pitfalls, the type of media strategy we’d need. It was sickeningly logical from a PR perspective. "You can't seriously expect me to pretend to be Cameron Murphy's girlfriend.”

"Not girlfriend," Ryan corrected. "Fiancée."

The room fell silent.

"I'm sorry," I said slowly, fighting to keep my voice level. "Did you just suggest I fake an engagement to one of my own players? The media would crucify us when they found out it was fake."

"If they found out," Ryan amended.

"When," I corrected firmly. "This is the NHL. Everything leaks eventually. You know that Ryan."

"Six weeks, " Marcus spoke up, his voice gravelly but firm. " A few months, tops. Play nice for the cameras at the awards, let the deal get signed, then quietly break up in the off-season. Clean and simple."

"What about my brother?" I looked directly at Cam for the first time since this nightmare began. "Zayne would literally murder you. With his bare hands. On television."

"I'll handle Zayne," Marcus said confidently.

"Good luck with that," I muttered under my breath.

Zayne had made it abundantly clear to every player he'd ever played with since Pee Wee that his sister was off-limits.

Period. Full stop. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not even think about Lana Decker unless you wanted to become intimately acquainted with the business end of his stick.

The fact that he and Cam were not only teammates but best friends would make this even more complicated.

"Look," Sully finally joined the conversation, sliding my coffee closer like he sensed I needed the reinforcement.

"Nobody's forcing anything here, Lana. Your job's not on the line, and we'll respect whatever you decide.

But this deal..." He shook his head. "This could change everything.

For Cam, for the organization, for hockey. "

I looked at Cam, who'd been suspiciously quiet during this part of the conversation. “And you’re on board with this plan?”

Those pale cobalt eyes held mine steady, and for just a moment, I saw past the careful control to something that looked almost... vulnerable. "I don't see another way," he said simply.

I closed my eyes, trying to think clearly. This was professionally questionable at best, ethically murky at worst. And personally? A disaster waiting to happen.

"I'll have an answer for you tomorrow," I said finally. “But I’m not committing to anything until I’ve thought through every possible angle.”

Sully nodded, recognizing that was the best he'd get. As everyone filed out, Cam lingered by the door.

"You're really considering this?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"I'm considering every option," I corrected. "That's my job."

"You created this problem, you know." No heat behind it, just tired resignation.

"And you were perfectly happy to play along when it was selling out arenas and getting you the cover of Sports Illustrated.

" I stood, gathering my things with sharp efficiency.

"Maybe next time mention your secret ambition to be a sneaker mogul before I turn you into hockey's answer to Harry Styles. "

A genuine laugh escaped him. "Deal."

I brushed past him toward the door, but he caught my elbow before I made my escape. His hand on my skin sent an unwelcome shock right through me.

"Lana." The way he said my name made me stop. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

We were standing too close now. Close enough that I could see the small scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick two seasons ago. Close enough to remember things I'd spent a decade trying to forget.

"I'll let you know tomorrow," I managed, pulling my arm free.

As I reached for the door, his voice stopped me one last time.

"Lana? If we do this... be my fiancée, not girlfriend."

I turned back, confused. "Why?"

The smile that spread across his face was pure Cam Murphy – devastating, confident, and entirely too knowing.

"Because if you're going to lie, Lana Banana, you might as well make it a good one."

The ridiculous nickname he'd whispered against my neck one night ten years ago hit me like a slap shot to the chest.

I walked out without answering, my heart pounding a rhythm that felt dangerously like the echoes of a mistake I'd made once before.

A mistake named Cameron Murphy.