Chapter 26
Iawoke to a blast of sunlight streaming through Cam's bedroom windows. No blinds, right on the water. Yeesh. I stretched, instinctively reaching for Cam's warmth, but found his side of the bed empty. The aroma of coffee and something sweet – cinnamon? – drifted up from the kitchen.
Two days. It had been exactly one week since our lives had been turned upside down, inside out, and somehow landed exactly where they were supposed to be.
The fake engagement scandal, the press conference, Cam's public declaration – it all felt like a lifetime ago and just yesterday at the same time.
I smiled, running my fingers over the sapphire ring that hadn't left my finger. It sparkled in the morning light, sending blue reflections dancing across the ceiling. Real. It had been real all along.
Wrapping myself in Cam's discarded T-shirt from yesterday – a BU hockey shirt that had become my unofficial pajamas – I padded downstairs to find him.
The sight that greeted me made my heart do a little somersault.
Cam stood at the kitchen island, concentration etched on his face as he meticulously arranged blueberries on top of a golden pancake.
His game-day ritual was in full effect: left sock first (today featuring little sharks with sunglasses), specific playlist humming softly from the speakers, and precisely timed breakfast three hours before light practice.
"Morning," I said softly, not wanting to break his concentration.
He looked up, and his face transformed with that smile that still, after everything, made my knees weak. "Morning, beautiful." He gestured to his creation. "Blueberry pancakes. The berries are arranged in a '22.'"
I walked closer and saw that indeed, the blueberries formed a perfect jersey number atop the pancake.
"That's..." I tilted my head, "actually really impressive. Do you always make number pancakes on game day?"
"Uh...no?" He looked at me sheepishly, flipped the pancake onto a plate, and slid it toward me. "Because that would be... embarrassing. And today's a big day."
Today. The first home game since our press conference.
The first time we'd appear publicly at our home arena as a real couple.
The official announcement of Cam's decision to stay with the Slashers despite Montreal's monstrous offer.
The game against Pittsburgh, our biggest conference rival.
And just minutes from now, the official signing of the Redline deal.
The doorbell rang, ending our domestic breakfast moment. Cam's agent Ryan arrived with his usual hurricane energy, designer suit impeccable, tablet already open to the Redline contract, a Fedex box under his arm.
"Ready to make history, kids?" Ryan asked, not waiting for an answer before spreading papers across Cam's kitchen island, carefully avoiding the pancake station.
The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of signatures, legal language, and Ryan's excited commentary.
The contract was exactly what they'd promised – six million dollars, creative control over Cam's image in the campaign (my suggestion), and a clause that specifically mentioned me as a potential participant in select promotional activities. (I'm still not sure about that one.)
"And here," Ryan said with a flourish, opening the box, "is your first official Redline package."
Inside were two identical pairs of sleek, black sneakers with teal accents – Slashers colors. The right heel of each shoe featured a tiny embroidered "22," while the left heel had a delicate embossed hockey stick.
"They're not launching the Cameron Murphy line for another six months," Ryan explained, "but they wanted you both to have the prototype."
Cam pulled out the larger pair, turning them over in his hands with something like wonder. "They really did it. Every detail we talked about."
"They're really good at listening," Ryan said, glancing between us with a knowing smile. "Especially when it comes to authentic stories. Pure Cameron Murphy, hockey enforcer and devoted romantic."
After Ryan left, promising to meet us at the arena, Cam pulled a bottle of champagne from the fridge. "It's too early to drink, especially on game day," he said, "but I think we need to mark the moment."
He poured just a splash into two flutes, then handed one to me. "To us," he said simply.
"To us," I echoed, clinking my glass against his. "And to the Slashers for the next three years."
Cam's eyes widened slightly. "You heard about the contract terms already?"
I nodded. "Marcus called this morning while you were in the shower. Three years, eight million per year. He wanted me to know before the press release went out at noon."
Cam set his glass down. "And?"
"And what?"
"What do you think? I know Montreal was planning to offer almost twelve per year."
I set my glass down too, then took both his hands in mine. "I think you made the decision that was right for you. For both of us." I squeezed his hands. "I know what it means to you to stay here, with this team. With Zayne and Logan. With me."
His expression softened. "I dunno," he teased gently. "Four million a year is a lot to leave on the table."
"Oh no," I started to freak out. "Are you regretting it already? I mean, it's also not like you'll be struggling to make rent," I pointed out. "Besides, there's no state income tax in Florida. And you don't have to learn French."
He laughed, pulling me into his arms. "I'd have learned French for you."
"Je t'aime," I said, one of the few French phrases I remembered from college.
"I love you too," he murmured against my hair. "More than hockey. More than money. More than anything."
The way he said it – so simple, so certain – made my throat tight with emotion. Cam Murphy, the man who'd been through so many broken homes he'd stopped believing in forever, was promising me exactly that. Forever.
The arena was buzzing with energy when we arrived – separately, because we didn't want to mess with the usual routine. Cam with the team for pre-game preparations, me to handle the media and last-minute PR details. But this time, we shared a steamy kiss next to the stairs before parting ways.
"For luck," he said with a wink.
"You don't need luck, Hitman." I straightened his tie. "But I'll take that kiss anyway."
Inside, Katie was waiting for me with a tablet full of interview requests and a sparkling water.
"You're a goddess," I said, taking the water gratefully.
"You look happy," she observed, falling into step beside me as we headed toward my office.
"I am," I said simply.
"Good. Because you've got seventeen interview requests, Sports Illustrated wants you and Cam for a cover story, and People is still pushing for that exclusive."
I nodded, shifting into work mode. "Let's prioritize hockey press for today. ESPN, The Athletic, Hockey Night. We'll consider the lifestyle angles next week after we've seen how tonight's game coverage goes."
Katie made notes, then glanced up with a sly smile. "Oh, and that package you ordered arrived. I put it in your office."
The package – the special surprise I had planned for tonight. "Perfect. Thank you."
My office felt like a haven of calm amid the pre-game chaos. I took a moment to center myself, going through my game-day checklist with practiced efficiency. Press box arrangements confirmed. VIP accommodations for special guests arranged. Social media monitoring rolling.
A knock at my door interrupted my rhythm. I looked up to see Coach Sully standing there, his imposing figure filling the doorframe.
"Got a minute, Decker?"
"Of course, Coach." I gestured to the chair across from my desk.
He sat, his expression unreadable. "Quite a week you've had."
I nodded, unsure where this was going. "It's been... eventful."
"That's one word for it." He leaned forward slightly. "I've been coaching a long time, Lana. Seen every kind of drama, distraction, and disaster you can imagine. What happened this past week could have torn this team apart."
I tensed, bracing for criticism. "I understand, and I – "
He held up a hand. "Let me finish. It could have torn this team apart, but instead, it's brought us closer. The way you handled the press conference, the way Murphy stepped up, the way the team rallied around you both – I haven't seen this kind of unity outside a Cup run."
Relief flooded through me. "Thank you, Coach."
"Don't thank me. You earned it." He stood, straightening his Slashers tie. "And for what it's worth, I've never seen Murphy play better than he has in practice this week. Whatever you two have, it's good for him. Good for the team."
After Coach left, I sat for a moment, absorbing his words.
Then I reached for the package Katie had mentioned – a flat, square box delivered from a custom t-shirt shop in downtown St. Pete.
Inside was exactly what I'd ordered: a simple black t-shirt with "PUCK DADDY" emblazoned across the chest in the Slashers' teal and white.
It was ridiculous. Completely unprofessional. The exact kind of thing the old Lana would never have considered wearing to a game.
I tucked it into my bag with a smile.
On my way to the arena floor, I ran into Logan, who gave me a warm smile.
"Hey, PR guru," he said, already in his warm-up gear. "Team's buzzing about Cam staying. Hometown discount and everything."
"He loves it here," I said simply.
"He loves you here," Logan corrected with a knowing look. "But we'll take it either way. The Slashers are a family, and you're both part of it."
By game time, the arena was electric. Every seat filled, the crowd a sea of teal and black, buzzing with anticipation. I took my usual spot behind the bench, clipboard in hand, mermaid sapphire ring catching the arena lights every time I moved.
The Penguins were a formidable opponent, currently leading our division by a slim margin. Their enforcer-turned-scorer, Mike "the Vike" Bracken, had been featured on the cover of last week's Sports Illustrated, much to our marketing department's chagrin.