Chapter 8 #2
The trainer sighed, grabbed a towel, and walked out, brushing past me. "Five minutes. Then I'm icing it again."
He closed the door.
We were alone.
I walked over to him. I felt shaky. Seeing him like this—broken, bleeding, but still standing—did something visceral to me. It wasn't just fear. It was a primal, overwhelming need to touch him, to prove he was still whole.
"You're an idiot," I said, my voice trembling. "You could have been killed."
"I stopped the puck," he said simply. He winced as he shifted his leg.
"Is that all that matters?" I demanded, stopping between his spread knees. "The puck?"
"Tonight? Yes."
He reached out. His hands were wrapped in tape. He grabbed the fabric of his jersey—the one I was wearing. He pulled me closer until I was standing right against the edge of the table.
"You wore it," he murmured, his eyes tracking the number on my chest.
"You told me to," I said.
"It looks better on you."
He rested his forehead against my stomach. I could feel the heat radiating off him. He was burning up.
"I saw you fall," I whispered, running my fingers through his damp, sweat-soaked hair. "I thought you weren't getting up."
"I always get up," he mumbled into the fabric. "That's the job."
"You're hurt."
"I'm fine. Just... bruises."
He inhaled deeply, breathing in my scent. His hands tightened on my hips.
"God, the adrenaline," he groaned. "It's not wearing off. I feel like I'm vibrating."
"Cam..."
He looked up. His eyes were wild. The pupils were blown so wide the blue was just a thin ring of fire.
"I need you," he said. "Right now. I need to feel something other than pain."
He pulled me forward. His mouth crashed onto mine.
It wasn't like the kiss in the car. This was raw. Violent. It tasted of salt and desperation. He kissed me like he was trying to devour me, to replace the agony in his body with pleasure.
I gasped, opening for him. I wrapped my arms around his naked shoulders. His skin was slippery, hot, and hard as stone.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound in his throat. His hands slid down to my thighs, gripping them. He lifted me effortlessly, pulling me onto the table so I was straddling his lap.
My skirt hiked up. My knees pressed into the metal table on either side of his hips.
"Be careful," I panted against his mouth. "Your knee."
"Fuck the knee," he growled.
He buried his face in my neck, biting down on the sensitive cord of muscle. I cried out, arching back.
"Cam," I moaned. "We're in the medical room. Anyone could walk in."
"Let them," he muttered, his hands roaming over my back, squeezing, claiming. "Let them see. You're mine."
He pushed his hand under my skirt. His fingers found the edge of my tights. He ripped.
The sound of tearing nylon was loud in the small room.
"Cameron!" I gasped, shocked and thrilled.
"I'll buy you new ones," he said, finding my skin. His fingers were rough with tape, creating a friction that made my brain short-circuit.
He touched me. Right there. No preamble. No slow buildup. He just claimed me.
I threw my head back, a broken sound escaping my throat. The sensation was overwhelming—the cold room, his hot hands, the smell of antiseptic and sweat.
"You were so scared," he whispered against my ear, his rhythm relentless. "I saw it. Even on the ice. I could feel your fear."
"I hate watching you get hurt," I sobbed, clinging to him.
"Then watch this," he commanded. "Watch me make you feel good."
He moved his hand faster. He kissed me again, swallowing my cries.
I was falling. Spinning. The adrenaline from the game mixed with the lust was a potent cocktail. I was high on it. High on him.
"Cam, please," I begged. "I'm close."
"Come for me, Mila," he growled. "Come for the winner."
I did. I exploded in his arms, shaking violently, digging my nails into his shoulders.
He held me tight, absorbing my tremors, grounding me.
Slowly, the world came back. My breathing slowed.
I rested my forehead against his. We were both panting.
He kissed my nose gently. "Better?"
"You're insane," I whispered. "You just played sixty minutes of hockey and you still have energy for that?"
"Goalies have stamina," he smirked, though he looked exhausted.
The door handle rattled.
We froze.
"Cameron? You in there?" It was Coach Miller.
Cameron grabbed my hips and lifted me off the table. I smoothed my skirt down, hiding the torn tights.
"Yeah, Coach," Cameron called out, his voice surprisingly steady. "Just... stretching."
I suppressed a hysterical giggle.
"Scouts want a word," Miller said through the door. "Five minutes. Get dressed."
"On it," Cameron said.
He looked at me. He reached out and wiped a smudge of lipstick off his mouth with his thumb.
"Go," he whispered. "Wait for me in the car. I'll be twenty minutes."
"Okay," I said.
I walked to the door. I paused and looked back.
He was sitting on the edge of the table, battered, bruised, and beautiful.
"Hey, Vance?"
He looked up.
"Nice save."
He smiled. A real, tired, triumphant smile.
"Nice jersey," he replied.
I walked out into the hallway, my heart singing.
I made it past the security guard, past the lingering fans, and out into the cold night air.
I was walking toward the parking lot when a shadow detached itself from the wall.
"Camila Sterling?"
I stopped. It was a man in a trench coat. He held up a camera.
Click.
The flash blinded me.
"Is it true you and Vance are living together?" he asked, stepping closer. "Is it true your father threatened to pull the team's funding if he didn't date you?"
My blood ran cold.
"What?" I stammered. "No. That's insane."
"We have sources," the reporter sneered. "Sources say the Commissioner set this whole thing up. A fake romance to rehabilitate his spoiled daughter's image. And Vance gets a guaranteed draft spot in exchange."
He stepped closer, the camera lens looking like a weapon.
"So, how much is he getting paid to touch you, sweetheart?"
The world tilted.
This wasn't just a rumor. This was a narrative. And it was a narrative that could destroy everything.
I turned and ran. I ran to the Range Rover, unlocked it with shaking hands, and locked myself inside.
I curled up in the passenger seat, hugging my knees.
The high of the game was gone. The heat of the medical room was a distant memory.
All I felt now was the cold dread of the truth.
We were faking it.
But the world thought it was a conspiracy.
And if Cameron found out people thought he was being paid to love me...
It would break him.
And it would break us.