Chapter 15
Collins leans back in his chair like he’s king of the damn world.
“It’s already arranged,” he says, folding his hands.
“It will be your first public appearance together. A power couple in a charity event will appeal to the public. The press will eat it up and leave no crumbs. Your pictures will make front cover headlines. It will send the right message we are going for at this point in your career.”
I don’t miss the wild glint in his eyes as he speaks. Collins lives and breathes for this spotlight.
I chuckle as he ends his little presentation.
“A gala? Seriously? That’s your idea of a fun debut? How about a club, somewhere with good music and more people? A place where I won’t get bored by long speeches and being fucking professional the entire time.”
He gives me that look, the one that says he knows what he’s doing. “This isn’t about having fun, Cameron. It’s about your image.”
That word, there it is again. Will I ever be rid of it? Well, definitely not with Jack around.
Brie who’s been lounging on the couch with her phone, decides now’s the time to speak up.
“He’s right, you know. You showing up at a charity gala with your wife on your arm will make you look responsible for once.
” She smirks at me like she’s enjoying this too much.
“And when you make donations there, your compassionate side will show, not just the reckless player everyone talks about.”
I drag my hands down my face. “Oh, great. So instead of rumors about me drinking too much and screwing around, we’ll get headlines like ‘Cameron pretends to care about sick kids.’ Perfect, really does the job.”
Brie puts her feet up on the coffee table, certainly to spite me. “Better than the alternative: ‘Cameron spotted grinding at another club, wife nowhere in sight. Trouble in paradise?’” she retorts.
I glare at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
She beams at me. “I am, babe. That’s why I’m saying this. I know the saying goes that two heads are better than one but right now, I’m the only sensible one here, don’t you agree?”
I seethe and jab a finger at Collins. “You two make a great team, you know that? Puppet master and court jester.”
She laughs. “Better than being the clown.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, getting up from my chair. I can feel the heat crawling up my neck, the kind that always comes when someone tries to make me do something I’d rather not.
My chest is tight and if I don’t move right now, I’ll explode. “I’m not doing this with you two, not today. I’ve got practice.”
Collins raises his voice. “Sit down, Cameron. We’re not finished.”
I don’t even look back. “Oh yeah? Well, I am.”
I hear him calling my name, but I keep walking. I’m not going to let anyone ruin today for me.
The ice welcomes me the second I step on, cold air blasting my face, harsh enough to wake me up from the crap storm Collins and Brie dumped on me earlier. Out here, it’s just me, my blades and the puck. Nothing else matters.
“Pick it up, Cameron!” Coach’s voice rings across the rink.
I drop my shoulders, bend low and push harder. The ice gives back with that satisfying slice under my skates, and for a second I almost feel free. The puck glides, I chase it down, flick it across to Keith, watch him miss by an inch.
“Come on, man,” I call, half-laughing, half-irritated. “You’re killing me.”
He shoots me a look. “Maybe if you passed it clean.”
“Maybe if you could handle one clean pass…” I shoot back, grinning even though my lungs are already on fire.
The guys chuckle, the sound bouncing off the empty seats. It feels good. This is where I belong.
We break into scrimmage. I’m weaving, spinning, chasing, my stick clashing against theirs, the puck snapping away and back like it’s alive. My heart’s hammering, sweat dripping down my neck, but I don’t stop. Every stride feels like punishment and therapy all at once.
I slam the puck toward the goal, hear the satisfying thunk as it ricochets off the post. “Damn it!”
“Close one,” Reed Hendrix yells, but he’s racing down the ice.
I chase after him, legs burning, my chest screaming for air. I catch him near the boards, bump into him just hard enough to make him stumble.
“Cheap shot,” he spits, laughing.
“All’s fair,” I toss back, smirking.
Coach’s whistle pierces the air again. We circle back, sucking wind, hunched over our sticks.
“Again,” Coach barks. No break, no mercy. This is the rhythm I’m used to.
I shove my helmet back, sweat stinging my eyes, and for some reason I think of Collins and that stupid gala. I tighten my grip on the stick and shove forward again. Now’s not the time for distractions.
Practice was swell but the second I step into the locker room, I know the universe isn’t done messing with me because Jack is the first person I see.
He’s leaning against the wall with his signature smirk in place.
“Well, well,” he says, “The man of the year finally arrives.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t start.”
He pushes off the wall, circling me like a predator. “Married, huh? Thought you’d never go that far. Guess even you figured a ring might distract people from what a mess you are.”
My fists curl, nails digging into my palms. “Say that again.”
He grins wider, eyes glittering with that devilish warmth. “I pity her. The poor girl has no idea what she’s getting into. You’ve probably already lied your way through half the engagement.”
It’s like a matchstick striking a matchbox, igniting a fire inside me. Heat floods my chest. I want to deck him. Right here, right now.
Coach’s whistle fills the air, breaking the tension between us. “Enough.” His voice booms, eyes scanning the locker room.
Then his gaze narrows in on me. “Pour some water on that hothead, Gray. Don’t test my patience today.”
I open my mouth, but the warning in his eyes kills whatever comeback I had.
Jack smirks, satisfied.
I’m left fuming and wondering why I’m always the one caught in the crosshairs. Jack is never dealt a blow, it’s always me.
I slam my locker shut harder than I mean to, ignoring the sting in my knuckles.
The semi-final lap of practice helps me blow off steam, at least for a while but when it’s over, I’m left with that familiar hollow feeling in my chest.
I dress in a hurry, eager to go back for the final lap.
I grab my skates and pause. They look the same, but when I run my fingers along the inside, something feels off.
The padding feels wrong, like it’s been messed with.
I slide my foot in anyway, lacing up quickly, and the difference is as clear as day.
It’s like standing on someone else’s feet.
“What the hell,” I mutter, tugging the laces loose. My pulse races because there’s no time. The final practice starts soon, and I can’t exactly waltz in late, complaining about my damn shoes. Options flood my head but none sound appealing. If I complain to the coach, he’ll think I’m making excuses.
I stare at the skates wondering who the hell is messing with my shit.