Chapter 2
Ispent the next hour staring at my computer screen, pretending to work while my mind replayed Cam's words on an excruciating loop.
Be my fiancée.
The sheer audacity. The absolute nerve. And the way those dreamy fucking blue eyes had held mine when he'd said it – like he was offering me something precious instead of a one-way ticket to career suicide. First class tickets on the Titanic.
I pulled up the Redline contract for the sixth time, scanning the morality clause like it might have magically rewritten itself since the last time I looked. Nope. Still crystal clear.
My phone buzzed. Katie's voice filtered through the intercom: "The social team needs approval on tonight's game graphics."
"Sending now," I replied, grateful for the distraction.
But as I clicked through the graphics, my thoughts wandered back to Boston University, to a snowy night ten years ago.
Boston University, February 2015
The party was limping toward its death – empty beer cans forming small cities on every surface, someone's forgotten playlist cycling through the same twenty songs for the third time.
I'd only come because my roommate Jess had physically dragged me, insisting "Junior year, Lana!
You need to live a little before we graduate into crushing student debt! "
Of course, Jess had disappeared with some pre-law student an hour ago, leaving me to navigate the social wreckage alone.
I was excavating my coat from the bedroom coat pile when the door opened.
"Sorry," said a voice that was warm honey over gravel. "Just hunting for my jacket."
I turned and nearly swallowed my tongue. Golden hair, blue eyes that belonged in a magazine, and a smile that could probably melt a whole rink. I recognized him instantly – hard not to, when the guy was basically a god on campus.
"Escaping the chaos too?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe with the casual confidence of someone who'd never been told no in his life.
"Mission accomplished, actually." I held up my rescued coat. "Time to make my exit before things get really ugly."
"That's a tragedy," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "I just got here."
"Then you're about three hours late for the good times."
"Or maybe right on time for the better ones." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. "I'm Cam."
"Lana."
"Lana." The way he repeated my name, like he was testing how it felt on his tongue, sent an unexpected flutter through my chest. "Tell me something, Lana. You strike me as someone with opinions. What's the verdict on this party?"
I considered him for a moment. "Mediocre music, watered-down drinks, and at least three guys who think 'wanna see my hockey stick' is a clever pickup line. The usual."
His laugh was genuine, surprised. "Harsh but fair. What would make it better?"
"Different company," I said before I could stop myself.
The smile that spread across his face should have come with a warning label. "Well, lucky for both of us, I know where we can find some."
We ended up at a 24-hour diner off Commonwealth, sharing a plate of inexplicably delicious pancakes while snow fell outside the steamed-up windows.
"You know, earth is the only planet we know with hip hop and pancakes," he'd said as he slid into the booth right next to me.
He told me about learning to skate on frozen Minnesota ponds before he could tie his shoes.
I told him about growing up in hockey rinks, about my communications major, about wanting to work in sports media someday – carefully leaving out the part where my family was a legit hockey dynasty.
The conversation flowed like we'd known each other for years instead of hours. He was funny, thoughtful, surprisingly well-read for a hockey player. When he mentioned loving Kurt Vonnegut, I nearly choked on my coffee.
"Shocked?" he asked, amused.
"Impressed," I corrected. "Most guys I know think literature peaked with ESPN The Magazine."
"Most guys are missing out."
"Quick, what's your favorite Vonnegut quote," I asked, "so I know you're not completely full of shit."
"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be."
"I love that. Is that Mother Night?" He nodded in response, his blue eyes dancing.
We talked until the sun came up, the night dissolving around us until it was just him and me and words that felt more important than they should have. When he walked me back to my dorm, I didn't want it to end.
"This was..." I started, then trailed off, not sure how to finish.
"Yeah," he agreed softly, “it was.”
When he kissed me outside my building, it felt inevitable. When I invited him upstairs, it felt right. And when we made love until dawn, it felt like the beginning of everything.
But then came the moment that changed everything.
We were lying tangled in my sheets, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on my shoulder, when his gaze landed on the framed photo on my nightstand – Dad holding his first Stanley Cup, grinning like he'd conquered the world.
"Hockey fan?" Cam asked casually.
The question shot panic through me. I’d just met him. Lie or own up to it?
"That's my dad."
I felt him freeze, though he tried to play it off. "Frank Decker is your father?"
Every defense mechanism I'd ever built snapped into place. How many guys had shown interest just to get closer to my family? How many had seen dollar signs and their NHL shot instead of me?
"You know him?" I asked carefully.
"And Zayne Decker?"
"My brother." I sat up slightly, tension creeping into my shoulders. "You know him?" I already knew the answer.
Something complicated flickered across his face – recognition, then something darker. "Yeah. We're teammates. So you're his sister? He's, uh,... protective of you."
I laughed, some of my worry easing. "That's the understatement of the century."
"How come we've never met?"
"My whole life has been hockey. I don't come to games unless my parents are here. I've been trying to steer clear since I got here. You know, find my own way outside of my family's shadow."
Cam smiled then, pulling me closer and kissing me until I forgot to worry about anything else. But looking back, I realized that smile didn't look like all the other ones I'd seen that night.
When I woke up, he was gone. No note. No explanation. Just the fading scent of his cologne and a hollow ache in my chest.
"Uh oh, Sorry, Did I catch you in the middle of a coma?"
I jerked back to the present to find Logan Rivers standing in my doorway, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. Our team captain had a way of moving through the world that commanded attention without demanding it – all steady confidence and natural authority.
"Hilarious. Sorry," I said, minimizing the Redline contract on my screen. "What's up?"
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with the deliberate care of someone who had things to say that weren't meant for public consumption.
“You’d think after last season you’d be nicer to me,” I teased.
“You’d think,” he grinned. "Coco says hi."
“What’s up?”
"Heard you had an interesting morning meeting," he said, settling into the chair across from my desk like he had all the time in the world.
"News travels fast around here." I kept my tone carefully neutral, though my pulse had kicked up a notch. Exactly why there's no way in hell we'd ever pull this off.
Logan leaned back, studying me with those perceptive captain's eyes that missed nothing. "Cam said you're considering the Redline situation."
"The completely insane Redline situation," I corrected. "The potentially career-ending Redline situation."
"Is it, though?" Logan tilted his head. "Seems pretty logical to me. Cam needs to fix his image. You're the best in the business at managing images. Perfect partnership."
"There's nothing perfect about pretending to be engaged to a player I work with."
"Because of what happened in Boston?"
My heart stuttered. "What do you know about Boston?"
Logan's expression softened, shifting from captain to friend. "Lana, I've been Cam's teammate for almost four years. He's one of my closest friends. You think he never mentioned the girl who got away? The one night that ruined him for everyone else?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "It was one night a decade ago. Hardly worth ruining anyone over."
"That's not how he tells it." My heart skipped uncomfortably. “What does that mean?"
Logan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, I'm not here to play telephone between you two. That's between you and him. But I am here to say that Cam Murphy is not the guy you've been selling to the public."
"I know that," I said defensively. "It's PR. I take what's there and amplify it."
"No," Logan shook his head. "You've created a complete fiction. Cam's not a player. He hasn't seriously dated anyone in years. He spends most nights at home watching cooking shows and calling his mom."
I blinked. "Calling his mom?"
"Every Sunday. Without fail. She's got MS – has for years. He checks in, manages her care, makes sure she's got everything she needs."
This didn't align with the image I had of Cam – or rather, the image I'd cultivated. Sure, I knew the public persona was exaggerated, but I'd assumed there was some truth to it. The frequent appearances with models and actresses, the flirtatious interviews, the way women flocked to him...
"Why didn't he ever object?" I asked. "To the image we created?"
Logan shrugged, but the motion seemed too casual to be genuine. "You'd have to ask him that. But my guess? He figured it was easier to play the role you assigned him than fight it. Especially since..."
"Since what?"
Logan looked momentarily uncomfortable, like he'd said more than he intended. "Since it was you doing the asking."
Something twisted in my chest; a complicated knot of guilt, confusion, and a feeling I refused to name.