Chapter 9
Cameron
The Wolves' Den—the team’s unofficial fraternity house—was vibrating.
The bass from the speakers was so heavy it felt like a secondary heartbeat thumping in the floorboards. The air was a miasma of cheap beer, expensive perfume, and the distinct, primal scent of victory.
We had won. A shutout. A statement game.
Everywhere I looked, people were screaming my name. Strangers were patting my back. Girls I didn’t know were offering me shots, their eyes wide and hungry.
"The Wall!" Jagger yelled, jumping onto a coffee table and spraying champagne over the crowd. "Build the wall! Build the wall!"
The chant started. Fifty, then a hundred voices chanting my nickname.
It was everything I had worked for. It was the dream.
So why did I feel like I was suffocating?
I stood in the corner of the living room, nursing a bottle of water. My body was screaming. The adrenaline from the game had worn off, replaced by a deep, aching throbbing in my knee and the sharp stab of the bruise on my ribs every time I inhaled.
I scanned the room. I wasn't looking for teammates. I wasn't looking for scouts.
I was looking for her.
Camila had arrived ten minutes after me. She had walked in wearing my jersey—still oversized, still looking better on her than it ever had on me—and the room had tilted on its axis.
I spotted her near the kitchen. She was holding a red solo cup, surrounded by a group of players from the offensive line. They were laughing at something she said. Big, hulking guys leaning in like moths to a flame.
One of them—Marko, a defenseman with hands like hams—reached out and touched her arm. He let his hand linger on the sleeve of my jersey.
A bolt of pure, irrational rage shot through me. It was hotter than the pain in my knee.
I pushed off the wall. The movement made my ribs protest, but I ignored it. I waded through the crowd. I didn't say excuse me. I didn't weave. I just walked. People moved. The Wall was moving, and you didn't stand in front of the Wall.
I reached the kitchen.
"Vance!" Marko grinned, seeing me approach. "Hell of a game, man. We were just telling Cami here about the time you—"
"Camila," I corrected, my voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "Her name is Camila."
Marko blinked. The smile faltered. "Right. Camila. Sorry."
I stepped up beside her. I didn't touch her. I didn't have to. I just occupied the space. I loomed. I let my presence be a physical weight.
"Hey," she said, looking up at me. Her eyes were bright, maybe a little too bright. She looked tired behind the smile. "You found me."
"I always find you," I murmured.
I looked at Marko. I looked at his hand, which was still dangerously close to her arm.
"Marko," I said evenly. "Don't you have a keg stand to do?"
Marko looked at me. He looked at the set of my jaw, the flat, dead look in my eyes that usually meant I was about to check someone into the boards.
"Right," Marko said, pulling his hand back. "Keg stand. Catch you later, Cap."
He bolted. The other linemen followed him like a herd of frightened buffalo.
We were alone in the crowded kitchen.
"You scared them," Camila noted, taking a sip of her drink.
"Good," I said. "They were crowding you."
"They were just being friendly, Cam."
"I don't care," I growled. "I don't like it."
I looked down at her. She was wearing ripped tights—the ones I had torn in the medical room. The sight of the jagged run in the black nylon against her pale thigh made my mouth go dry. It was a secret. A visible mark of what we had done.
"You okay?" she asked softly, stepping closer. She put a hand on my chest, right over the bruise. "You look... grey."
"I'm tired," I admitted. The words felt heavy on my tongue. I never admitted weakness. "My knee is throbbing. And if one more person slaps me on the back, I might commit a felony."
"Then let's go," she said immediately. She set her cup down on the counter. "Let's get out of here."
"I can't," I said. "It's the victory party. The Captain has to stay. The scouts might stop by."
"The scouts are gone, Cameron," she said. "They left after the second period to beat traffic. I saw them."
"They left?" A spike of anxiety hit me. "Did they look happy? Did they look impressed?"
"They looked cold," she said. "And they looked like they had seen enough."
She reached up and touched my jaw, forcing me to look at her.
"You did your job. You were perfect. Now, let me do mine."
"Your job?" I frowned.
"Stabilizer," she reminded me. "Girlfriend. Keeper of the Wall."
She grabbed my hand. Her fingers were warm and small in mine.
"I'm taking you home, Vance. And I'm not asking for permission."
She turned and started walking toward the door, pulling me behind her.
And for the first time in my life, I let someone else lead.
The drive home was silent.
It wasn't the heavy, loaded silence of our earlier drives. It was the silence of exhaustion.
I leaned my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes. The hum of the tires on the snow was hypnotic. Every bump in the road sent a dull throb through my body, a reminder of the collision.
I felt Camila’s hand on my thigh. She wasn't gripping me; she was just resting there. A point of contact. An anchor.
"How bad is it?" she asked softly, not taking her eyes off the road.
"Six out of ten," I lied. It was an eight.
"Liar," she whispered.
We pulled into the garage of the penthouse building. She parked the Rover perfectly. She killed the engine.
In the sudden silence of the garage, the air felt thick.
I turned my head to look at her. The dashboard lights cast a soft blue glow on her face. She looked beautiful. She looked worried.
"You should have stayed," I said. "It was a good party."
"I hate parties," she said, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Loud music. Sticky floors. People pretending to like you because you're winning."
"You used to love parties," I pointed out. "You were the queen of the scene."
She looked at me. Her expression was sad.
"That was before," she said. "Before I realized that being the queen just means you're the one everyone is watching waiting to fall."
She opened her door.
"Come on," she said. "Let's get you vertical."
We walked to the elevator. I leaned heavily on the wall as we ascended. My knee was stiffening up. By the time we reached the penthouse, I was limping noticeably.
She unlocked the door.
The apartment was dark and quiet. The sanctuary.
"Go to the bedroom," she ordered, locking the door behind us. "I'll get the ice."
I didn't argue. I walked down the hall, shedding my coat as I went. I walked into my bedroom—the grey, minimalist box that usually felt so empty.
I sat on the edge of the bed. I groaned as I bent my leg to take off my boots.
"Leave it," Camila said from the doorway.
She walked in. She was holding two ice packs and a glass of water. She set them on the nightstand.
"I can do it," I said, reaching for my laces.
"Stop," she said. She knelt in front of me.
She pushed my hands away. She started unlacing my boots. Her movements were efficient, gentle. She pulled the heavy boots off, then my socks.
She looked up at me from the floor.
"Jeans," she said.
I hesitated. "Mila..."
"You can't ice your knee through denim, Cameron. Take them off."
I stood up, wincing. I unbuckled my belt. I unbuttoned the fly. I pushed the jeans down.
She helped me step out of them.
I was standing there in my boxer briefs. The bruise on my ribs was a mottled canvas of purple and yellow. My left knee was swollen to the size of a grapefruit.
She gasped softly when she saw the extent of the damage.
"Oh, Cam," she whispered.
She stood up. She walked over to me. She didn't touch the bruise. She just hovered her hand over it, as if she could heal it with her energy.
"It looks worse than it is," I said automatically.
"Shut up," she said, tears in her eyes. "Just shut up and let me take care of you."
She guided me back to the bed. I sat down, swinging my legs up. I leaned back against the pillows, exhaling a long, shuddering breath.
She placed the ice pack on my knee. The cold was a shock, then a relief. She placed the second one on my ribs.
"Better?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me.
"Yeah," I breathed. "Thanks."
She picked up the glass of water and handed it to me. I drank.
She watched me. Her eyes traced the line of my throat as I swallowed.
"You were amazing tonight," she said softly. "The save... the one where you got hit... it was incredible."
"It was lucky," I said, handing the glass back.
"Stop doing that," she scolded gently. "Stop minimizing yourself. You're incredible."
"I'm just a guy who stops pucks," I said, closing my eyes.
"No," she whispered. "You're more than that."
I felt her hand on my chest. Skin on skin. Her palm was warm over my heart.
I opened my eyes.
She was leaning over me. Her hair fell forward, creating a curtain around us. She was still wearing my jersey.
"Why are you so good to me?" I asked, my voice rough. "I'm mean. I'm controlling. I made you sign a contract."
"Because," she smiled sadly. "Underneath all that armor... you're just as scared as I am."
She leaned down. She kissed the bruise on my ribs. Her lips were soft, cool.
A jolt went through me that had nothing to do with pain.
"Mila," I warned.
"Shh," she murmured against my skin. "Just rest."
She moved up. She kissed my collarbone. She kissed the hollow of my throat.
My hands came up to grip her waist. I should push her away. I should tell her to go to her room.
But I couldn't. I was weak. I was tired. And I wanted her more than I wanted my next breath.
"You're playing with fire," I rasped.
"I'm tired of the cold," she whispered.
She moved up until she was hovering over my face.
"Kiss me, Cameron," she ordered. "A real kiss. No audience. No adrenaline. Just us."
I reached up. I tangled my hand in her hair. I pulled her down.
Our lips met.
It was slow. Sweet. A drugged, heavy kiss that tasted of water and trust.
She shifted. She swung her leg over my hips, straddling me carefully so she didn't touch my knee.
She settled her weight on my thighs. The friction was instant.
I groaned into her mouth. My hands slid under the jersey, finding the bare skin of her back.
"Cam," she sighed, breaking the kiss to rest her forehead against mine. "Are we doing this?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "If we do... there's no going back. The lines are gone."
"Good," she said. "I hate lines."
She sat up. She grabbed the hem of the jersey.
"Can I take this off?" she asked.
"Please," I groaned.
She pulled the jersey over her head. She tossed it onto the floor.
She was wearing a black lace bra that matched the torn tights. Her skin was creamy in the dim light. Her breasts rose and fell with her rapid breathing.
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"You're stunning," I whispered.
She blushed, looking down. "I'm a mess."
"You're a masterpiece," I corrected.
I reached up and unclasped her bra. It fell away.
I cupped her. Her skin was so soft. I ran my thumbs over her nipples, watching them harden. She threw her head back, a soft moan escaping her lips.
"Cameron," she whimpered.
"I've wanted to do this since the moment you spilled that drink on me," I confessed. "I wanted to ruin you."
"Ruin me," she begged. "Please."
She reached for the waistband of my boxer briefs.
My hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
"Wait," I said, panting. "Your tights."
"What about them?"
"They're still on," I said. "And I want to see you. All of you."
She stood up on the bed, towering over me. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the torn tights and her panties.
She pushed them down. She stepped out of them. She kicked them away.
She stood there, naked and glorious in the moonlight filtering through the window.
"Come here," I commanded.
She straddled me again.
This time, there was nothing between us.
The sensation of her skin against mine—hot, wet, soft—was electric.
She lowered herself. She wrapped her hand around me.
I hissed a breath through my teeth.
"Condom," I gasped, the last shred of responsibility firing in my brain. "Nightstand. Top drawer."
She reached over. She grabbed the foil packet.
She tore it open with her teeth. She rolled it onto me. Her touch was hesitant but eager.
Then, she positioned herself over me.
"Look at me," I said.
She looked down. Her eyes were locked with mine.
"Slow," I instructed. "Take it slow."
She sank down.
Inch by inch. She was tight. So tight.
She gasped, her head falling back as she took me in.
When she was fully seated, she froze. She let out a long, shaky breath.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
"You okay?" I asked, gripping her hips.
"I'm... full," she breathed. "You feel... huge."
"You feel perfect," I groaned.
I started to move. Just a small upward thrust of my hips.
She moaned. She started to rock.
We found a rhythm. It wasn't frantic like in the medical room. It was slow. Deep. Intimate.
Every thrust was a conversation. Every touch was a promise.
I watched her face. I watched the pleasure wash over her features. I watched the way she bit her lip, the way her brow furrowed.
I reached up and touched her face.
"Let go," I whispered. "I've got you."
She shattered.
She cried out my name, her inner muscles clamping down on me.
It pushed me over the edge.
I thrust up, hard and deep, burying myself in her. I came with a roar, pouring myself into her, giving her everything I had.
We collapsed together. She fell forward onto my chest.
We lay there in the silence, limbs tangled, hearts beating in sync.
The ice packs had melted. The pain in my knee was a distant memory.
All I felt was her.
"Cam?" she whispered after a long time.
"Yeah?"
"I'm not leaving tonight," she said.
"I know," I said, wrapping my arms around her. "You're never leaving."
It was a dangerous promise. A terrifying one.
But as I drifted off to sleep with her warm weight on top of me, I knew it was the only truth that mattered.
The Wall had fallen. And I was finally free.