Chapter 5
The Las Vegas skyline glittered beyond my hotel window, a constellation of man-made stars stretching across the desert night.
Twenty floors below, the famous Bellagio fountains performed their choreographed dance, but from this height, they looked like miniature splashes in a very expensive bathtub.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, trying to calm the nervous energy that had been building since our plane landed three hours ago.
The team charter flight had been agonizingly awkward, with Cam sitting next to Logan and the rest of his teammates in the back of the plane, and me up front with our GM and Coach Sully's wife Trixie.
There was no clear answer on where we should sit given our newfound status, so I decided we should keep it professional and Cam decided to "visit" me approximately six times during the flight.
It felt a lot like performance art in a flying fishbowl. And every single eye was on us.
Two weeks. It had been exactly two weeks since our "selfie tour" had exploded across social media.
Fourteen days of fielding calls from curious reporters, deflecting questions from well-meaning colleagues, and maintaining the carefully curated facade of new romance whenever Cam and I were in the same room.
And what a couple of weeks it had been.
The photo of us laughing by the mural had been picked up by three major sports blogs.
The one of us sharing a cupcake had spawned a fan-made video compilation set to Taylor Swift's "Lover" that somehow got over two million views.
Even ESPN had run a segment titled "Bad Boy Settling Down?
" featuring a panel of experts seriously discussing whether Cam Murphy's apparent new relationship would affect his performance on the ice.
I unzipped my garment bag, removing the midnight blue gown I'd selected for tomorrow's NHL Awards ceremony.
The silky fabric slipped through my fingers as I hung it in the closet, trying not to think about how its color reminded me of Cam's eyes in certain light, or how he'd texted "Blue is my favorite color on you" when I'd sent him a photo of options last week.
My phone buzzed with a text from my assistant:
KATIE: Are you EVER going to give me details about you and Cam? I'm dying here. Also, the Tampa Trib wants an exclusive.
I sighed, typing back:
ME: Nothing to tell that isn't already on Instagram. And no exclusives until after awards.
The lie came easier each time, which should have concerned me more than it did.
Another notification popped up – this one from Ryan Keller, Cam's agent:
RYAN: Redline executives confirmed attendance tomorrow. Looking good so far. Remember, happy couple vibes only.
I set my phone down, anxiety bubbling in my chest. Tomorrow night would be the real test – not just a casual selfie on the beach or a choreographed coffee run, but a formal, high-profile event with cameras tracking our every move, analyzing our body language, searching for the truth behind the carefully constructed fiction.
The past few weeks had been a masterclass in strategic public appearances.
A team charity event where Cam kept a respectful but affectionate hand at my back.
A practice session where I personally delivered notes to him on the ice, our conversation captured from a distance but just intimate enough to fuel speculation.
Cam had even shown up at a women's shelter fundraiser I'd organized, bringing a signed stick for the auction that fetched triple its expected auction price – and leaving with his arm casually draped around my shoulders, just in time for the local news cameras to catch us.
Each moment calculated. Each touch choreographed. Each smile measured to reveal just enough, but not too much. And yet, beneath the performance, something unexpected was happening. Something I wasn't prepared for.
Cam was... different. Not the arrogant playboy of his public persona, nor even the focused professional I'd worked with for years. This Cam laughed more easily. Listened more intently. Asked questions about my day and actually waited for the answer.
Yesterday, he'd appeared at my office door with a lavender vanilla cupcake "just because." The day before, he'd texted me a photo of socks covered in tiny monkeys wearing bow ties with the caption: Too much for the awards dinner?
Small moments. Inconsequential acts. Except they weren't part of our agreement, weren't performed for any audience. They were just... us.
He was pushing me way past my comfort zone.
I unpacked my toiletries, arranging them meticulously on the marble counter of the expansive bathroom. Organization had always been my defense against chaos, and right now, my life felt decidedly chaotic.
The NHL awards added an extra layer of pressure to an already stressful situation. Half the hockey world was already in town, including my brother, who was nominated for the Norris Trophy.
Zayne had been uncharacteristically quiet about the whole situation, though the stony silences whenever Cam entered the room told me he wasn't exactly thrilled.
My phone rang – a FaceTime call from Monica, the stylist I used for televised events. I propped it against the mirror as her face appeared on screen.
"Show me the dress again," she demanded without preamble, her New York accent more pronounced when she was in professional mode.
I held up the midnight blue gown with its subtle beading and elegant silhouette.
"Perfect," she nodded approvingly. "Hair up, minimal jewelry. Let the dress do the talking."
"Agreed," I said, returning the gown to its hanger. "I was thinking just diamond studs and – "
"And whatever ring your hockey boy gives you," she finished with a knowing smile. "Which I'm still waiting to hear about, by the way."
"There's no ring, Monica,” forcing a casual laugh.
She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Really? Because the entire internet seems to think otherwise. Hashtag hockey-wife-material is trending, and your hot-as-sin forward has been spotted at Tiffany's."
My heart skipped. "He what?"
"TMZ caught him there this morning. It's all over socials today." She peered at me through the screen. "Wait, you didn't know? I thought you two were..." She made a vague gesture with her hands.
"I was on the plane, so my assistant is monitoring socials today," I managed, the practiced line rolling off my tongue. "It's complicated with my position on the team."
"Oh shit, sorry. She probably didn’t want to ruin the surprise for you. And honey, nothing about the way that man looks at you is complicated," Monica replied with a knowing smirk. "That's the look of a man who knows exactly what he wants."
We hung up a few minutes later and I sank onto the edge of the king-sized bed, suddenly exhausted. The lie was growing, taking on a life of its own, evolving into something more complex, more entangled with my actual life than I'd anticipated.
My phone buzzed again.
CAM: Dinner in your room or mine? Unless you'd prefer the restaurant downstairs with a hundred phones pointed at us.
I smiled despite myself:
ME: Room service. My suite at 8?
His response came immediately:
CAM: See you then, CupcakeQueen.
I'd barely had time to shower and change into loungewear – sleek gray shorts with a drawstring and a matching top – when a knock sounded at my door. Glancing at the clock, I frowned. 7:43. Early, even for Cam, who was always the first guy to show up for practice. Even before Logan.
Through the peephole, I saw him shifting his weight from foot to foot, one hand thrust deep in his pocket. His usual confident posture was replaced by something more hesitant, almost nervous.
I opened the door, prepared with a quip about his punctuality, but the words died in my throat when I saw his expression. There was an intensity in his eyes I'd rarely seen off the ice, a tightness around his mouth that spoke of carefully contained emotion.
"Can I come in?" he asked, his voice lower than usual.
I stepped back wordlessly, letting him enter.
He wore dark jeans and a sleek black cashmere v-neck that stretched across his broad shoulders, elegant and casual but deliberately chosen.
He smelled faintly of testosterone and something woodsy – a scent that instantly transported me back to that night in my dorm room ten years ago, when those same broad shoulders had hovered above me in the darkness.
"I haven't ordered dinner yet," I said, filling the strange silence that had settled between us. "I thought maybe – "
"I have something for you," he interrupted, pulling his left hand from his pocket.
And there it was. A small box wrapped in that unmistakable Tiffany blue, tied with a perfect white satin ribbon.
My breath caught. Even though I knew this was coming – the sight of that iconic little box in Cam Murphy's hand made my heart stutter in my chest.
"The ring," I said unnecessarily, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "Right. Nice work. I just heard about the TMZ story. "
Cam didn't immediately offer it to me. Instead, he turned the box over in his hands, studying it with an expression I couldn't quite interpret. His fingers – strong from years of stick handling – traced the edges of the box with surprising gentleness.
"I thought about having it delivered," he said quietly. "Would've been easier. But then I realized – " He paused, seeming to carefully choose his next words. "If this were real, I wouldn't do it that way."
Our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us – acknowledgment that we were now operating in a strange liminal space between fiction and reality.
"May I?" he asked, holding the box out at last.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. With careful movements, he untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, revealing a nest of white velvet cradling the most breathtaking ring I'd ever seen.