Chapter 8
Camila
The Westbrook Arena was not a building; it was a beast.
From the outside, it was a sleek, modernist structure of glass and steel that glowed against the night sky like a spaceship that had crash-landed in rural Massachusetts. Inside, however, it was a coliseum.
The noise was a physical thing—a wall of sound composed of screaming students, blaring horns, and the rhythmic stomping of five thousand feet on concrete bleachers. The air smelled of popcorn, beer, and the metallic tang of adrenaline.
I stood in the VIP box, clutching the railing until my knuckles were white.
I was wearing it. The Jersey.
Number 30. VANCE.
It was enormous on me. The sleeves hung past my fingertips, and the hem hit my mid-thigh, covering the denim skirt I had paired with knee-high boots. It smelled like fabric softener and him. Wearing it felt like a declaration of war. It felt like branding.
"You look nervous, darling," a smooth voice said beside me.
I turned to see Evelyn Vance, Cameron’s mother. Or rather, the woman who had birthed him and then proceeded to haunt him.
She didn't look like the woman in the Polaroid photos Cameron kept in his junk drawer.
She looked polished. Dangerous. She was wearing a white fur coat that probably cost more than my tuition, her blonde hair coiffed into a perfect, frozen helmet.
But her eyes... her eyes were frantic. They darted around the arena, cataloging every exit, every face, every potential threat.
"I'm not nervous," I lied, smoothing the front of the jersey. "Just excited. It's a big game."
"They're all big games," Evelyn said, taking a sip from a flask she had pulled from her Chanel bag. "Especially when the scouts are here. Look at them."
She pointed a manicured finger toward a cluster of men in suits sitting a few rows down. They were stoic, unmoving, taking notes on iPads. The gatekeepers.
"He has to be perfect tonight," Evelyn whispered, her voice tightening. "If he chokes... if he lets even one soft goal in... it's over. The contract. The signing bonus. Everything."
She wasn't worried about Cameron. She was worried about the payday.
A surge of protective rage boiled in my gut. I wanted to push her out of the box. I wanted to tell her to leave him alone.
But I couldn't. I was playing a role. The supportive girlfriend. The stabilizer.
"He won't choke," I said firmly. "He's the best there is."
"We'll see," Evelyn muttered, taking another swig. "He's been distracted lately. I can tell. He's... softer."
She looked at me with sharp, accusatory eyes.
"Don't break him, honey," she warned. "He's fragile. He looks like granite, but inside? He's glass. One crack, and he shatters."
Before I could respond, the lights in the arena dimmed.
A spotlight hit the tunnel entrance. The crowd roared, a sound so loud it vibrated in my teeth.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," the announcer bellowed. "WELCOME YOUR WESTbrOOK WOLVES!"
Smoke billowed from the tunnel. The music—a heavy, pounding rock anthem—shook the floor.
And then, he skated out.
Cameron.
He was massive in his pads. He looked like a tank made of kevlar and composite. His mask was down, painted with a snarling wolf on one side and a brick wall on the other. He didn't wave to the crowd. He didn't acknowledge the cheering.
He skated straight to the crease. He banged his stick against the goalposts. Clang. Clang.
He scraped the ice in front of the net, marking his territory.
Then, he stopped. He stood perfectly still, staring out at the ice.
I held my breath.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head. He looked up. Straight at the VIP box.
He couldn't see me—the lights were blinding—but he knew where I was. He nodded. Once. A barely perceptible dip of the helmet.
I see you.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Showtime," Evelyn whispered.
The first period was a blur of violence.
Hockey on TV is fast. Hockey in person is terrifying.
The speed at which they moved defied physics.
Men who weighed two hundred pounds were colliding at thirty miles an hour, creating sounds that made me wince.
The crack of sticks. The crunch of bodies against the boards. The hiss of skates cutting ice.
Cameron was a machine.
He moved with an efficiency that was mesmerizing. He didn't flail. He didn't panic. He just... arrived. The puck would be screaming toward the top corner, and his glove would just be there to swallow it. A player would try to jam it in low, and his pad would seal the ice like a vault door.
Save. Save. Save.
"He looks good," Dean Reynolds said from behind me, sounding relieved. "Focused. Very focused."
"He's a wall," I agreed, not taking my eyes off him.
But I saw the tension in his shoulders. I saw the way he shook his left hand after catching a particularly hard slap shot. He was hurting. He was hiding it.
The Boston University Terriers were aggressive. Dirty. They knew Cameron was the key to Westbrook’s defense, so they were targeting him. Every time there was a whistle, a BU player would "accidentally" bump into him, or slash at his pads, or spray snow in his face.
"Ref!" I yelled, surprising myself. "Are you blind? That was interference!"
Evelyn laughed beside me. "Get used to it. The goalie is the target. If they can rattle him, they win."
The second period was worse. The score was 0-0. A defensive stalemate. The tension in the arena was ratcheting up with every minute.
Then, it happened.
With two minutes left in the second, a BU forward broke away. A breakaway. Just him and Cameron.
The crowd stood up. The silence was deafening.
The forward deked left. Cameron tracked him. The forward deked right. Cameron pushed off, sliding across to cover the angle.
The forward shot.
Cameron made the save—a brilliant, sprawling kick save with the toe of his boot.
But the forward didn't stop. His momentum carried him forward. He crashed into Cameron at full speed.
There was a sickening sound. Not the hollow thud of pads, but the heavy, wet crunch of impact.
Cameron went down. Hard.
His helmet flew off, skittering across the ice. He lay motionless in the crease, face down.
The arena went dead silent. Five thousand people holding their breath.
"Cam!" I screamed, the sound tearing out of my throat.
I gripped the railing so hard I thought the metal would bend. My vision tunneled. The world narrowed down to the figure on the ice.
Get up. Please, get up.
The trainer ran out onto the ice. Coach Miller was screaming at the refs. Jagger Cole had tackled the BU forward and was currently punching him in the face, starting a massive brawl in the corner.
I didn't watch the fight. I watched Cameron.
He moved. A hand pressed against the ice. He pushed himself up to his knees. He shook his head, looking dazed. His black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.
He looked up. He looked disoriented.
The trainer was talking to him, checking his eyes for a concussion. Cameron shoved him away. He grabbed his helmet.
"He's staying in," Dean Reynolds gasped. "The madman is staying in."
"He shouldn't," I whispered, panic clawing at my throat. "Take him out! He's hurt!"
"If he comes out, the scouts will think he's weak," Evelyn said coldly. "He has to finish."
I looked at her. Her face was pale, but her eyes were hard. She was willing to let him break just to secure the bag.
I looked back at the ice. Cameron was standing now. He put his mask back on. He banged his stick against the posts. Clang. Clang.
But the sound was weaker this time.
The game restarted.
The third period was agony. Every time the puck came near him, I flinched. He was slower. Just a fraction of a second. He was favoring his left leg.
But he didn't let anything in.
He stopped a slap shot with his chest. He stopped a wraparound with his skate. He was playing on pure instinct and pain tolerance.
With ten seconds left, BU pulled their goalie for an extra attacker. It was 6-on-5. A siege.
The puck bounced around the crease like a pinball. Shots were coming from everywhere.
Save. Rebound. Save. Block.
The buzzer sounded.
0-0. A shutout.
The crowd exploded. The Wolves poured off the bench, mobbing Cameron.
He didn't celebrate. He barely moved. He let them hug him, let them pat his helmet, but his body language was rigid.
He skated off the ice. He didn't look up at the box. He kept his head down and disappeared into the tunnel.
"He did it," Evelyn breathed, taking a triumphant swig of her flask. "He did it."
I didn't wait. I grabbed my purse.
"Excuse me," I said, pushing past the Dean and Evelyn.
"Where are you going?" Evelyn asked. "The post-game reception is upstairs."
"I'm going to see him," I said.
"You can't go down there," she scoffed. "It's a locker room. It's men only."
"I'm his girlfriend," I snapped, channeling every ounce of entitlement I had left. "And I go where I want."
I ran out of the box.
The Tunnel
The bowels of the arena were a maze of concrete corridors. It smelled of sweat, tape, and testosterone.
I flashed my VIP pass at the security guard. He knew who I was—everyone knew who I was now.
"He's in the medical room, Miss Sterling," he said, pointing down the hall.
I ran. My boots clicked loudly on the concrete.
The door to the medical room was open.
I stopped in the doorway.
Cameron was sitting on a metal table. He was stripped to the waist. His chest was heaving. His skin was slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with exhaustion.
The trainer was wrapping a bag of ice around his left knee. Another bag was already taped to his ribs.
There was a massive, purple bruise blooming on his side, right over the tattoo of the coordinates.
He looked... wrecked.
"Cam," I whispered.
He looked up. His eyes were glassy, dilated with adrenaline and pain. When he saw me, something in his face softened. The mask cracked.
"Mila," he rasped.
"Give us a minute," he told the trainer.
"Cam, I need to check your knee stability," the trainer argued.
"A minute," Cameron growled. It wasn't a request.