Chapter 15 #3
"Cam, that was possibly your strongest season opener ever. You seem to be playing with a new level of focus this year. What's changed?"
A small, reflective smile crossed his face. The camera lingered on him, capturing every nuance of his expression as he considered his answer.
"I've got someone in my corner this year who's changed everything," he said simply. "Makes me want to be better. Play better. Be worthy of the faith they've put in me."
The reporter pressed, clearly sensing a story. "A new coach? Training regimen?"
Cam just smiled enigmatically. "Some things are private. But they know who they are."
I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Around me, staff members exchanged curious glances, looking in my direction with speculative expressions. I kept my face carefully neutral, but inside, emotions crashed like the waves against our seawall.
On the monitor, I saw Zayne approach Cam as the interviews concluded.
They stood on the ice, now nearly empty except for a few lingering staff members.
The camera caught them in profile from behind: Zayne's intense expression, Cam's earnest response.
I couldn't hear what they were saying over the noise in the corridor, but the serious set of both their faces suggested it was significant.
Their conversation appeared deep and meaningful, Cam's hand gesturing occasionally to emphasize a point while Zayne listened intently.
After a moment, Zayne's posture seemed to relax slightly.
The camera captured them exchanging what appeared to be a meaningful fist bump followed by the typical hockey guy half-hug, both men's expressions hidden from view.
Whatever had passed between them clearly held significance.
Before I could ponder it further, my phone buzzed with a text from Cam.
CAM: Still need to hit the shower. Wait for me? We should leave together – good optics for Redline.
I hesitated, then replied:
ME: I'll meet you in the box. Don't rush. Told my parents we'd join them for a quick celebration drink with the Redline people. Great game tonight.
I paused, then added:
ME: Seriously impressive. Hat tricks look good on you.
His response came quickly:
CAM: Just wait till you see what else looks good on me. Or off me.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks and quickly locked my phone screen as a staff member approached with questions about tomorrow's media availability. Professional. I needed to be professional. But the undercurrent of anticipation flowing through me felt anything but.
Forty-five minutes later, I sat at my desk, reviewing post-game media coverage while trying not to obsessively check the time.
I'd changed from my formal blazer into a more casual sweater I kept in my office for late nights, smoothed my hair, and touched up my makeup – all while telling myself these actions were unrelated to Cam's imminent arrival.
A soft knock on my door made my pulse jump.
"Come in," I called, feigning absorption in my computer screen.
Cam entered, freshly showered and changed into a tailored smoke gray suit that fit perfectly across his broad shoulders, and everywhere else for that matter.
His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and his face glowed with the lingering effects of athletic triumph.
He carried his practice bag over his shoulder, usual sneakers replaced with dress shoes.
"Hey," he said, his voice low and warm. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
I looked up, trying to project casual professionalism. "No problem. Congratulations on the hat trick."
"Thanks." He set his bag down and leaned against my desk, close enough that I could feel the heat of exertion still radiating off of him. "Did the Redline people seem happy?"
"Ecstatic," I confirmed, swiveling slightly in my chair to put minimal distance between us before my body betrayed me. "Your performance tonight couldn't have been better timed. The fight defending Zayne was particularly appreciated: shows your loyalty and team-first mentality."
His expression shifted subtly. "That wasn't for Redline."
Our eyes locked, and the atmosphere in the office seemed to thicken. I swallowed hard.
"Well, it made an impression regardless," I said lightly, breaking eye contact to gather my things. "Ready to go? My parents and the Redline execs are waiting for us."
"Of course." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Your mom already texted me. Twice."
I groaned. "I swear I did not give her your number. She has her ways. I'm sorry. She's a bit... enthusiastic about all this."
"I like it," he said simply. "Makes me feel like I belong somewhere."
The candid admission caught me off guard. Before I could respond, he straightened and offered me his hand.
"Shall we, Cupcake Queen? Best to give the lingering media what they want."
I took his hand, trying to ignore how perfectly our fingers interlaced. "Right. For the optics."
His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Right. The optics."
We walked through the arena corridors hand in hand, nodding to staff members and lingering reporters. The energy between us felt electric, charged with something I couldn't – or wouldn't – name.
Back in the VIP suite, a small celebration was already underway. My parents, the Redline executives, and a few team officials mingled over drinks. My mother beamed when she spotted us, hurrying over to embrace Cam with unabashed enthusiasm.
"Three goals! What a performance!" she exclaimed. "We're so proud of you, Cameron."
I watched as Cam's expression softened, his smile genuine as he accepted her praise.
Something gooey tugged at my heart – he wasn't just playing a part anymore.
He was soaking in the Decker family warmth like a man who'd been cold for too long.
I suddenly realized just how much it meant to him to have my parents there, supporting him.
A strange mixture of guilt and tenderness washed over me.
"Couldn't have done it without Frank's advice," he replied, nodding toward my father. "That adjustment made all the difference."
My father clasped Cam's shoulder, his expression pleased. "You implemented it perfectly. Textbook execution."
I watched the interaction with growing awareness.
All the things my parents had said about Cam at the beach house were true.
He was a generational talent, as my father claimed.
He was great with kids, as my mother had observed.
He did love fishing with my brother and father.
He fit into our family as if he'd always been there.
And my family had fully embraced him, rallying around to support him with the Redline executives. I felt a swell of pride at how easily they'd accepted him, how naturally they treated him as one of our own. This was a Decker first.
James Whitley approached, champagne flute in hand. "Mr. Murphy, spectacular performance tonight. Exactly the kind of presence Redline is looking to associate with."
"Please, call me Cam," he replied easily, his arm sliding around my waist in a gesture that felt both possessive and protective. "And I appreciate your support. I'm looking forward to our meeting on Thursday."
"As are we," Vanessa added, her eyes moving between Cam and me with undisguised interest. "And perhaps Ms. Decker will join us as well?"
I forced a professional smile. "I'll be coordinating the media aspects, of course."
"Of course," she said smoothly. "But we'd also value your perspective as someone... personally invested in Cam's future."
I felt Cam's hand tighten slightly at my waist, “Everything’s better when Lana’s around.”
James agreed, raising his glass. "To tonight's hat trick… and to many more victories ahead."
We all clinked glasses, the moment picture-perfect for our carefully constructed narrative.
But as the conversation continued around us, Cam's hand never left my waist, his thumb tracing some unknown pattern against my hip through the fabric of my dress.
Each touch sent electricity skittering across my skin, making it increasingly difficult to focus on the business discussion.
My mother sidled up to Cam, linking her arm through his free one and leaning in conspiratorially. "We've got them right where we want them," she whispered, though not quite quietly enough that I couldn't hear.
Cam's surprised laugh was genuine, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he squeezed her hand affectionately. "Diana Decker, master strategist. I'm not surprised."
My mother preened, clearly delighted by his response. "Well, we take care of our own, dear. Always have."
The casual inclusion in "our own" wasn't lost on Cam. I could see it in the way his expression softened, in the subtle straightening of his shoulders. He seemed like he belonged here, with my family, in a way that had nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with who he was.
The realization left me breathless.
After about twenty minutes of obligatory socializing, during which Cam's hand found seemingly endless excuses to touch me – my waist, my lower back, my elbow, even a quick brush of his fingers against mine as he handed me a fresh drink – he smoothly made our excuses.
"I hate to cut this short," he said, the perfect blend of apologetic and exhausted athlete, "but it's been a very long day, and we have an early practice tomorrow."
I hate to cut the night short, I thought to myself, but I can't wait one more second to rip this man's clothes off...
My mother hugged us both goodbye, whispering something in Cam's ear that made him laugh. My father shook his hand firmly, promising to call with more observations from the game. The Redline executives seemed thoroughly charmed by the entire Decker family dynamic and Cam's place within it.
We made our exit, hand in hand, through the main concourse where a few lingering fans and media personnel snapped photos. Perfect optics indeed.
But once we reached his car in the darkness of the executive parking area, something shifted. The air between us crackled with tension as he unlocked my door, his body close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. Our eyes met, and suddenly the last shreds of pretense fell away.
"Lana," he said, my name a low rumble that sent electricity shooting through my body like a downed power line.
Suddenly I was breathless. "Puck Daddy."
He grinned, a slow, predatory smile that made my heart race.
He stepped closer, caging me against the car, one hand braced beside my head, the other settling on my hip.
His touch was firm, possessive, and sent a jolt of desire through me.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "Tell me this is all just for show."
I couldn't. I didn't want to. Instead, I reached up, my fingers threading through his still-damp hair, and pulled his mouth to mine.
The kiss was explosive, ten long years and the last few weeks of pent-up tension finally breaking.
His lips moved against mine with hungry precision, demanding and giving in equal measure.
I matched him eagerly, my body arching into his, desperate for more contact.
Desperate to feel every part of his body against every part of mine.
His hand slid from my hip to the small of my back, pressing me closer until I could feel every hard plane of his athletic body against the soft curves of mine.
"Tell me," he whispered.
"I don't want you to stop," I whispered back. Ever, I didn't say. But I was thinking it.
He lifted me effortlessly onto the hood of the car, his hands strong and sure as they supported my weight. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, desperate to feel every inch of him against me. His hands moved to my thighs, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through me.
"Tell me you want this too," he said, his breath hot on my skin.
I looked into his eyes, seeing the man I'd known for a decade come into sharp focus. The man I'd been trying to deny, trying to push away, for fear of how much he could hurt me. But in that moment, all fear was eclipsed by the sheer, overwhelming need to be with him.
"I want this too," I whispered, my voice shaking with the weight of the admission. "I want you."
His lips curved into a slow smile, one that promised everything I'd been longing for without even realizing it.
He leaned in, his mouth finding mine again, this time with a gentleness that was almost reverent.
It was as if he was savoring the moment, drawing out every sensation, every whispered promise.
His tongue teased the seam of my lips, and I opened for him, letting him deepen the kiss.
He tasted like champagne and desire, a heady combination that made me dizzy with need.
My hands roamed over his broad shoulders, down his powerful back, feeling the muscles shift beneath my touch.
He growled low in his throat, a sound of pure masculine satisfaction that had me trembling with anticipation.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his eyes had darkened to the deep blue of a stormy ocean. He looked at me like he wanted to devour me, like I was the only thing that mattered in the world. It was intense, overwhelming. And I couldn't look away.
"My place," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "Now."
My knees buckled.