Chapter 13 #2
"Good luck with that. I'm not sure 'happy' is in his wheelhouse."
"Yeah, he has a bit of a reputation," I said.
"He's a hell of a player. Always had some challenges off the ice, though."
"Yeah, I've been warned. What about you?" I asked. "Besides working with Rocco?
"Early skate, film review, probably get my ass handed to me by Dr. Peters for that hip flexor thing again."
"From a fight you didn't need to get into," I reminded him. "Pre-season games aren't worth a strained hip, Cam."
"Asshole cross-checked Zayne from behind," Cam said simply, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did. Cam's loyalty, especially to teammates, was absolute and unwavering.
"And don’t forget the meeting with Redline on Thursday!!!!" I did a little happy dance for Cam in the passenger seat, and my voice went up about three octaves when I mentioned the sneaker meeting.
He laughed. “How could I?”
As we approached the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, I leaned forward slightly in my seat.
On a clear day, the drive across the massive yellow cable-stayed bridge was one of my favorites in Florida – a spectacular view of Tampa Bay stretching to the horizon, the funny excitement of rising 200 feet above the sparkling water. Like a slow-moving roller coaster.
"Wow," Cam said, slowing as we joined the line of cars preparing to cross. "This traffic is worse than usual."
I checked the time on my phone. "Almost 8:00. This is pretty bad, even for rush hour. I wonder what's going on..."
"Might be an accident," he concluded, peering ahead. "I think I see flashing lights."
As we inched onto the bridge, an official-looking orange sign confirmed his theory: "ACCIDENT AHEAD. SINGLE LANE. EXPECT DELAYS."
"Great," I sighed. "We're going to be late."
"Could you please text Rocco and let him know we're stuck in traffic on the bridge," Cam asked. "He'll let Sully know. I don't want to get fined for being late to practice, especially not with the Redline deal hanging in the balance."
"Already on it," I said, fingers flying across my phone. "You've never been late to practice, have you?"
"How do you know that?" He looked at me inquisitively.
"I know all," I tease. "I literally get reports on everything you guys do because I have to know everything, all the time so I don't look like a deer in headlights when some reporter decides to surprise me with a question about somebody's secret baby or whether that hamstring injury is going to sideline so-and-so for the rest of the season, or, or, or. ..
Cam raised his eyebrows for comic effect, "Who's got a secret baby?"
I rolled my eyes at him, "You're terrible."
"Well, yes, but I've only been late to practice once in my life since I started peewee hockey and I don't have a secret baby."
"Once?"
"Yeah," he answered, eyes on the road. "I was late to practice once, back in college."
I couldn't help but wonder, but I didn't dare ask.
Traffic crawled forward at an agonizing pace, stopping completely for long stretches before lurching forward a few car lengths.
By the time we reached the steep incline of the bridge, dark clouds had begun gathering in the distance, the air taking on that charged, electric quality that precedes Florida storms.
"Looks like we're in for some weather," Cam observed, nodding toward the horizon where gray clouds billowed like smoke.
I watched the clouds with growing unease.
The Sunshine Skyway was beautiful on clear days, but its exposed position over the bay made it vulnerable to sudden weather shifts, particularly high winds.
As we climbed higher, I could see whitecaps forming on the water below, the palm trees along the fishing pier bending in the strengthening breeze.
By the time we'd crept to the apex of the bridge, the highest point, 200 feet above the bay with nothing but steel cables and engineering between us and the churning water, traffic had stopped completely.
We sat immobile, the first fat raindrops beginning to splatter against the windshield as the wind audibly picked up around us.
I gripped the edge of my seat, trying to appear casual, but when a particularly strong gust rocked the car slightly, I couldn't suppress a small gasp.
The bridge was designed to sway in high winds (a safety feature, not a flaw) but the sensation of movement while suspended so high above the water sent a spike of adrenaline through my system.
"You okay?" Cam asked, his eyes concerned.
"Fine," I said automatically, then reconsidered. "Actually, no. I hate being stopped up here. Especially in weather."
He nodded, not dismissing my fear or trying to reason me out of it. "It should clear up soon."
As if in direct contradiction, the sky darkened further, and a flash of lightning illuminated the clouds. The rain intensified into a torrential downpour, drumming on the roof of the car, and the wind howled around us, causing the bridge to sway perceptibly.
"The whole structure is designed to flex with the wind," Cam offered. "I think it's rated for a Cat 3 or 4."
Any Floridian who plans to survive the increasingly intense hurricane season each year must basically become an amateur meteorologist. One of the hazards of living in the Sunshine State, among others.
"That's not as reassuring as you think," I replied through gritted teeth as another gust rocked Cam's sports car. My heart hammered in my chest, and I found myself taking short, shallow breaths.
Cam reached across the center console and took my hand, his palm warm against my suddenly clammy fingers. "You're okay," he said firmly. "We're okay."
I nodded, unable to speak as another powerful gust buffeted the car.
"Breathe with me," he instructed, his voice calm and steady. "In for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight."
I stared at him, surprised. "Since when do you know breathing exercises?"
A small, self-deprecating smile crossed his face. "I had panic attacks when I was a kid. Not many people know that."
This revelation, this unexpected vulnerability from Cam of all people, momentarily distracted me from my fear. "You did?"
He nodded, still holding my hand. "Started after my parents' first divorce. Got worse during high school. Better now, but..." He shrugged. "I've learned some techniques."
I couldn't reconcile all this new information with the Cam I thought I knew: the carefree, confident Hitman who seemed to skate through life as effortlessly as he skated on ice.
"Breathe with me," he said again, and this time I followed, matching the steady rhythm he set. In for four... hold for seven... out for eight. Again and again until the vice grip of panic around my chest loosened slightly.
"Talk to me," I said, needing further distraction as the wind howled around us, the bridge creaking beneath our tires. "Tell me something else I don't know about you."
He thought for a moment, "I usually sleep with the TV on," he said finally. "Always have a game or a baking show or a documentary playing."
"Why?"
"Um...I used to have a hard time settling down to sleep, thanks to the musical chairs of all my parents' different houses when I was a kid.
Too many weird sounds. And then later when I played on traveling teams, and now sleeping in different hotels all the time when we travel for games.
.. I can get too many thoughts when it's quiet. TV drowns them out."
"Oh no! You should have told me," I said apologetically. "I would have turned the TV on for you at the beach house."
Cam grinned suddenly and winked at me, charisma radiating on full blast. "Thanks, but I already had plenty to distract me, Cupcake Queen."
"I alphabetize my spices," I offered in return. "And my books. And my nail polish."
He grinned. "That tracks."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You like order. Control." There was no judgment in his tone, just observation. "Makes sense, given everything."
"Everything?" I echoed.
He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Family legacy. Brothers in the spotlight. Always having to prove yourself."
The accuracy of this assessment, from someone I'd never really discussed it with, took me by surprise. The car rocked again in the wind, but my anxiety had dialed back from acute to merely uncomfortable.
"What was it like?" he asked after a moment. "Growing up in the Decker dynasty?"
I'd been asked variations of this question a hundred times by reporters, but something about Cam's genuine curiosity made me want to give a real answer, not the polished sound bite I usually offered.
"Complicated," I said finally. "I love my parents and my brothers obviously; they're my favorite people in the universe.
The "anything for the team" mentality was sometimes hard to deal with.
The dynasty part – I'm so proud of my family's accomplishments.
I loved the games, being part of the community, always being around hockey. But also..."
"Never quite feeling like you belonged?" he suggested quietly.
I looked at him intensely, trying to puzzle out how he saw so much. "Yes. Exactly. How did you know?"
He shrugged, eyes on the stationary traffic ahead. "Recognized something familiar, I guess. Different circumstances, same feeling."
The bridge swayed beneath us, but I barely noticed now, caught in the current of this unexpected conversation. "Tell me," I said.
Cam was silent for so long I thought he might not answer. Then he sighed, his fingers still intertwined with mine.
"The family stuff. I've made some pretty bad choices in my life, sacrificed some things I shouldn't have, just trying to feel like I belonged."
The raw honesty in his voice made my throat tighten. It struck me again how similar we were – I wasn't the only one who'd been hiding behind a professional mask all these years. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to just hug him.