Chapter 15 #2
At the same time, a wave of guilt washed over me.
I'd dragged my family into this charade.
If the truth ever came out, it wouldn't just be my reputation on the line, but theirs as well.
The Decker name had always stood for integrity in hockey.
What would happen to that legacy if the world discovered their only daughter had orchestrated a fake engagement for a sponsorship deal?
How would they feel when they found out I'd lied to them?
The guilt was squeezing me like a vice.
The opening face-off set the tone immediately: fast, physical, and fierce. Montreal came out aggressive, challenging the Slashers at every turn. Ten minutes in, they drew first blood with a slick wrist shot that sailed past our goaltender Fosse's glove.
The crowd tensed collectively, but I felt a strange calm. This was when Cam was at his best: when challenged, when pushed. I'd seen it enough times to know what was coming.
Sure enough, with just under two minutes left in the first period, Cam intercepted a sloppy pass at center ice.
What happened next was pure artistry. He accelerated past one defender, deked around a second, and then – employing the exact correction my father had suggested – cut back sharply to evade the third.
The Montreal goalie didn't stand a chance as Cam flicked the puck top shelf, lighting the lamp and bringing the crowd to their feet.
"That's my boy!" my mother shouted, clapping wildly. "Go Cameron!"
I cheered loudly and exchanged a meaningful glance with my father. "Looks like you were right about that adjustment."
My father nodded, clearly impressed. "Quick study. He's implemented it perfectly."
The Redline executives exchanged pleased glances. I maintained my professional composure, but inside, a fierce pride bloomed. The sapphire on my finger caught the light as I applauded, and I noticed Vanessa Cheng's eyes tracking it with interest.
"Quite a stunning ring," she commented during a lull in play. "Unique. Like your relationship, I imagine."
I smiled, running my thumb over the ring's band. "Cam has always had excellent taste."
Next to me, Coco suppressed a smirk. "Lana looks at that ring at least fifty times a day," she added helpfully. "I caught her admiring it in the ladies' room mirror earlier."
I shot her a warning look, but the Redline executives seemed charmed by this particular insight into our relationship.
The second period began with renewed intensity. Montreal, stung by the late equalizer, came out hitting harder, playing with an edge that bordered on dirty. Midway through, their defenseman delivered a vicious cross-check to Zayne's back, sending my brother crashing face-first into the boards.
My mother inhaled sharply, and the crowd roared in outrage as Zayne lay motionless for a heart-stopping moment. I tensed, half-rising from my seat, my professional detachment momentarily forgotten as fear clutched my heart. My mother gripped my father's arm, her knuckles white.
Suddenly Cam was there, dropping his gloves, spinning the Montreal player around to face him.
The fight was controlled, precise – not the wild brawl typical of hockey enforcers, but the measured response of a protector.
Four quick punches, and it was over. Cam stood over the fallen player, said something only the ice-level mics could pick up, then skated to the penalty box with dignified fury.
"Now that's a gentleman's fight," my father commented approvingly.
"That's why they call him 'The Hitman,'" James remarked. "Precise. Effective." He glanced at me. "Loyal."
I nodded, watching with relief as Zayne slowly got to his feet, waving off the trainer. My brother skated past the penalty box, exchanging a nod with Cam. An acknowledgment between warriors.
My parents let out a simultaneous sigh of relief.
"He'd do the same for any teammate," I said automatically, the PR director speaking.
"Perhaps," Vanessa replied with a knowing smile. "But one gets the sense there was something personal about that response."
She wasn't wrong. I'd seen Cam defend teammates before, but there was something different about the controlled rage in his movements when he'd seen Zayne go down.
It sent a shiver through me that wasn't entirely professional – but there was something undeniably sexy about a man willing to pummel a guy to defend someone he cared about. The reaction I felt was primal.
The momentum shifted palpably after that.
The Slashers, energized by Cam's defense of Zayne, played with renewed purpose.
When Cam emerged from the penalty box, the crowd erupted, and he responded by immediately stealing the puck and setting up a play that led to Logan scoring, putting the Slashers ahead 2-1.
As the second period wound down, Cam struck again. It was a classic Hitman goal, brutal in its efficiency. He muscled past a defender, maintained possession despite a hook that should have been called, and buried the puck with such force that the net rippled violently. 3-1 Slashers.
"Your man is on fire tonight," Coco whispered, nudging me gently. "I wonder what got into him..."
"He's always had the skill," I replied softly. "But he seems... a bit different tonight. More focused."
"Hmmmm...I wonder why," she said with a knowing smile, her eyes dropping pointedly to the ring on my finger.
I found myself unwittingly cataloging every move Cam made on the ice.
The power in his stride. The deft handling of the puck.
The way his jersey stretched across his shoulders when he leaned into a shot.
The intensity of his expression when he battled for position.
It was impossible not to notice the sheer athleticism of his body, the effortless strength that commanded attention.
And it was also becoming increasingly difficult to ignore how that athleticism was affecting me.
The professional distance I'd always maintained when watching games was crumbling, replaced by a visceral awareness of Cam as a man – powerful, dominating, completely in his element.
I crossed my legs, trying to ignore the heat building low in my body each time he executed a particularly impressive play.
Or grinned at his teammates. Or, you know, skated around wearing his uniform.
The third period unfolded like a coronation. The Slashers dominated, skating circles around an increasingly frustrated Montreal team. With less than five minutes remaining, it happened – the moment that would soon flood social media and sports highlight reels.
Cam collected the puck behind the Slashers' net, then began an end-to-end rush that defied description.
He weaved through defenders as if they were standing still, his speed and control otherworldly.
At the blue line, he executed a spin move that left Montreal's star defenseman completely flat-footed.
Then, with a single, fluid motion, he flipped the puck into the top corner of the net, completing his hat trick in spectacular fashion.
The arena erupted. Hats rained down onto the ice as the crowd paid tribute to the achievement. The Slashers bench emptied, players piling onto the ice and surrounding Cam in a celebratory huddle.
And then, at the height of the chaos, Cam broke free from his teammates and looked directly up to our box.
Past the executives, past the media, his eyes found mine with laser precision.
Even from this distance, the intensity of his gaze was palpable.
He raised his stick slightly – a subtle, private salute.
"Oh my," my mother whispered beside me. "That was for you, sweetheart."
I felt heat rush to my cheeks as I tried to maintain my composure.
Around me, the suite had erupted in applause, the Redline executives looking positively gleeful at their star prospect's performance.
But all I could focus on was the lingering sensation of Cam's eyes locked with mine, the wordless communication that had passed between us.
Coco leaned over, speaking low enough that only I could hear. "Nothing fake about that."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because she was exactly right.
The final horn sounded with a decisive 5-1 Slashers victory.
Zayne had scored an empty net goal in the final seconds, sealing their win with an exclamation point.
As the crowd began to disperse and the executives exchanged enthusiastic handshakes, I excused myself to handle the post-game media coordination.
In the bustling corridor outside the locker rooms, I directed traffic – ensuring photographers got their shots, reporters found their assigned positions, and the team's messaging remained consistent.
All the while, a steady stream of updates flowed to my phone: social media metrics, press requests, congratulatory messages from league officials.
"Ms. Decker!" A reporter from ESPN waved me over. "Any comment on Murphy's stellar performance tonight? Three goals and a fight – talk about a statement game."
"The team played exceptionally well," I replied, falling back on PR autopilot. "Cam exemplified the Slashers' commitment to each other and to winning hockey games. That's what the organization is all about."
I moved on quickly, not wanting to linger on the subject of Cam any longer than necessary.
Through the nearby monitors, I could see the post-game interviews beginning.
Logan spoke first, captain's responsibility, praising the team's collective effort.
Then Zayne, stoic as ever, discussing defensive adjustments and the physicality of the game.
Finally, Cam took the microphone, still flushed with exertion, hair damp with sweat, his eyes bright with the unique high that comes from complete and total athletic dominance. He fielded standard questions about the hat trick, the fight, and the team's performance. And then: