Chapter 11
Cameron
Happiness was a performance-enhancing drug.
I was an idiot.
I sat in the back of the library, my hat pulled low over my eyes, pretending to read a biography of Ken Dryden. In reality, I was watching Camila.
She was sitting three tables away, bathed in the soft afternoon light filtering through the dust motes.
She was wearing my grey hoodie again—the one she had claimed as her own after the "incident" three days ago—and her hair was piled in a chaotic bun held together by a pencil and sheer willpower.
She was chewing on the end of a stylus, frowning at her tablet.
She looked beautiful. She looked focused.
She looked like mine.
A slow, warm heat spread through my chest, expanding until it felt like my ribs couldn't contain it. It was a terrifying sensation. It felt like buoyancy.
Three days ago, I had stormed out of the penthouse, convinced she had played me. I had driven to the rink, put on my pads, and taken shots from the ball machine until my muscles failed. And in the silence of the empty arena, I had realized the truth.
Camila Sterling wasn't a manipulator. She was a survivor. Just like me. Her father was the villain, not her.
I had driven back. I had found her sitting on the floor of the kitchen, wearing my t-shirt, staring at the snow.
The grovel had been historic. I didn't beg—Vances don't beg—but I had knelt. I had offered her a new deal.
“The world thinks this is a transaction,” I had told her, holding her cold hands. “They think I’m using you for the draft, and you’re using me for money. Let them think it. Let them think we’re fake. But in here? Behind that door? We’re real.”
She had looked at me with those big, wet hazel eyes and asked, “How real?”
And I had carried her to the bedroom and shown her exactly how real.
Now, we were living in a paradox. To the public, we were the calculated power couple, the "PR Stunt." To the team, I was the Captain "taking one for the squad."
But in the dark? We were insatiable.
Camila shifted in her chair. She looked up, scanning the room. Her eyes locked on mine.
She didn't smile. She didn't wave.
She slowly took the stylus out of her mouth. She licked her lips. Then, she deliberately dropped her pen.
She bent down to pick it up. She disappeared under the table.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Mila: I’m not wearing panties.
I choked on my own spit. I coughed loudly, earning a glare from the librarian—a terrifying woman named Mrs. Higgins who had been patrolling these stacks since the Cold War.
I looked back at Camila. She was sitting up again, looking the picture of innocence. She tilted her head, watching me.
I typed back under the table.
Me: You’re in a library. Behave.
Mila: I am behaving. I’m studying the effects of friction. Specifically, the friction of denim against... well, you know.
I shifted in my seat. My jeans suddenly felt two sizes too small.
Me: You are a brat.
Mila: And you’re distracted. I thought you were supposed to be the disciplined one?
Me: I’m coming over there.
Mila: Don’t you dare. Mrs. Higgins is watching. We have a reputation to maintain. You’re supposed to be stoic.
I looked at her. She winked.
God, I wanted to drag her into the stacks. I wanted to press her against the biography section and ruin her.
This was the new normal. Every moment was a game of chicken. How close could we get to the edge without falling off? How much could we touch without getting caught?
I was playing the best hockey of my life. I was sleeping four hours a night and waking up energized. I was walking around with a constant, low-level hum of arousal that sharpened my senses rather than dulling them.
I stood up. I couldn't sit there anymore.
I walked over to her table. I kept my face blank.
"Sterling," I greeted, loud enough for the nearby students to hear.
"Vance," she replied, not looking up from her screen. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Time to go," I said. "We have a schedule."
"You and your schedules," she sighed, packing up her bag. "You know, some people live spontaneously."
"Spontaneity causes errors," I recited.
She stood up. She swung her bag over her shoulder. As she brushed past me, her hand trailed along the front of my jeans. It was a fleeting, ghost-like touch, but it nearly buckled my knees.
"Meet me in the car," she whispered, her breath hot against my neck. "I have a theory about friction I want to test."
I watched her walk away. The sway of her hips in the tight jeans was mesmerizing.
I checked my watch. I had practice in an hour.
I had time.
The Equipment Room
The equipment room at the arena smelled of rubber, ozone, and unwashed gear. It was filled with racks of sticks, rows of skates, and piles of jerseys. It was the least romantic place on earth.
It was currently my favorite place on earth.
I locked the heavy metal door and turned.
Camila was already sitting on the washing machine—the industrial-sized one that vibrated violently during the spin cycle.
She had her legs wrapped around my waist before I even fully stepped into her space.
"Hi," she breathed.
"Hi," I groaned, burying my face in her neck.
We kissed like we hadn't seen each other in years, instead of twenty minutes. It was messy and desperate. Her hands were in my hair, pulling my head back; my hands were under her hoodie, gripping her waist.
"You really aren't wearing them," I discovered, sliding my hand down the back of her jeans.
"I don't lie to you, Cameron," she murmured against my lips. "I only lie to the press."
She pulled back, looking at me. Her eyes were dark, blown wide. "We have twenty minutes before the guys start showing up."
"Twenty minutes is an eternity," I growled.
I lifted her. She gasped as I adjusted her position on the edge of the washer. I stepped between her legs, pressing her back against the metal control panel.
"Wait," she whispered, putting a hand on my chest.
"What?"
"Someone's coming."
I froze. I listened.
Footsteps. Heavy ones. And whistling.
Jag.
He was walking down the hallway, whistling the fight song.
"Cap? You in there?" The handle rattled.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Not out of fear, but out of the thrill. The sheer, illicit adrenaline of it.
"Yeah, Jag," I called out, my voice surprisingly steady. "Just checking the inventory. The stick shipment was short."
"Coach wants a meeting in ten," Jag yelled through the door. "Says he has news about the Montreal scout."
"I'll be there," I said.
"Right on."
The footsteps faded.
I looked at Camila. She was biting her lip to keep from laughing. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling.
"Checking the inventory?" she whispered. "Is that what I am?"
"You're high-value cargo," I muttered.
"Dangerous," she said. "We almost got caught."
"Do you want to stop?" I asked, my hands tightening on her hips.
"No," she said fiercely. "I want you to be quick."
She reached for my belt.
We moved with a frantic urgency. There was no foreplay this time—the danger was the foreplay. The knowledge that my teammates were fifty feet away, lacing up their skates, heightened every sensation.
I freed myself. She lifted her hips.
I pushed into her.
She swallowed a scream, burying her face in my shoulder.
"God, Cam," she whimpered.
"Quiet," I warned, nipping at her ear. "Unless you want Jag to join us."
"Don't make me laugh," she hissed. "I'm trying to focus."
"Focus on this."
I set a rhythm. Hard. Fast. Brutal. The washing machine rattled behind her, but neither of us cared.
It wasn't romantic love-making. It was possession. It was marking. It was a frantic assertion that despite the lies, despite the rumors, despite the world trying to pull us apart, we belonged to each other.
She dug her nails into my back through my shirt. "I'm close."
"Take it," I growled.
She shattered against me, her body clamping down. I followed her seconds later, stifling my own groan against her neck.
We stayed there for a moment, chest to chest, hearts racing in sync.
"Ten minutes," she panted, checking the clock on the wall. "You have a meeting."
I pulled away, adjusting my clothes with shaking hands. She hopped off the washer, fixing her jeans.
She looked thoroughly ravished. Her lips were swollen, her hair was a disaster, and there was a flush on her chest that no amount of foundation could hide.
"You look..." I started.
"Like I just got banged in a closet by the goalie?" she smirked, finding a mirror behind a stack of helmets to fix her hair.
"Something like that."
I walked up behind her. I kissed the top of her head.
"Go out the back exit," I instructed. "I'll see you at home."
"Aye aye, Captain."
She slipped out the back door, disappearing into the shadows of the loading dock.
I took a deep breath. I smoothed my shirt. I checked my reflection in the side of a shiny helmet.
I looked wild.
I ran a hand through my hair, forcing it into some semblance of order. I composed my face into the mask. The Wall.
I unlocked the door and walked out into the hallway.
I felt invincible.
The Locker Room
The locker room was the usual chaotic symphony of snapping tape, blasting rap music, and crude jokes.
I walked in, heading for my stall.
"There he is!" Jag shouted. "The man, the myth, the inventory manager."
He tossed a roll of tape at me. I caught it one-handed.
"Sticks are accounted for," I said, sitting down to unlace my boots.
"Good," Jag sat down next to me. He lowered his voice. "Because you look like you just won the lottery. Or got laid. Which, considering you're living with the hottest girl on campus, I assume is happening."
I kept my face neutral. "We have an arrangement, Jag. It's complicated."
"Complicated," Jag snorted. "Is that what we're calling hickeys now?"
I froze. "What?"
Jag pointed to his own neck, just below the ear.
I reached up. I felt the spot. It was tender.
Camila. In the car yesterday. She had bitten me.
"Must be a bruise from the game," I said quickly. "Strap rubbed."
"Right," Jag grinned. "The strap. The strap with lips."
He leaned in closer. "Look, Cam. I don't care. I think it's great. But Coach? He's watching you. He thinks you're distracted. He thinks the whole 'fake dating' thing is a circus."
"I'm playing the best hockey of my life," I argued, ripping a piece of tape with my teeth.
"You are," Jag agreed. "But you're also... different. You're smiling, man. You hummed in the shower yesterday. It's unnerving the rookies."
"I do not hum."
"You were humming Taylor Swift," Jag said gravely. "It was terrifying."
"Vance! My office. Now."
Coach Miller’s voice boomed from the doorway.
I exchanged a look with Jag.
"Good luck," Jag whispered. "Don't hum."
The Coach's Office
Coach Miller’s office smelled of stale coffee and fear. It was a small room plastered with tactical diagrams and photos of past championship teams.
Miller sat behind his desk. He didn't offer me a seat.
"Close the door," he said.
I closed it.
"Sit."
I sat.
Miller stared at me for a long moment. He drummed his fingers on a file folder.
"Do you know who called me this morning?" he asked.
"No, Coach."
"Lenny Baxter. Head Scout for the Montreal Canadiens."
My stomach tightened. This was it. The dream.
"And?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.
"He likes your stats, Vance. He likes your size. He likes your technical ability."
Miller paused. He opened the folder. He slid a photo across the desk.
It was the photo from the parking lot. Me and Camila. The look of panic on her face. The reporter.
"But he doesn't like the drama," Miller said. "He asked me if you were 'focused.' He asked me if you were running a hockey team or a reality show."
"It's under control, Coach," I said. "Camila is... she's supportive. She's stabilizing."
"Is she?" Miller asked. "Because I hear rumors. I hear her father is pulling strings. I hear you're doing this for a guaranteed spot."
"That's not true," I said firmly. "I'm doing this because I... because we're together."
"Together," Miller repeated the word with distaste. "Listen to me, Cameron. You have three weeks until the Frozen Four. Three weeks until the draft order is finalized. In those three weeks, you need to be a ghost. No parties. No scandals. And absolutely no distractions."
He leaned forward.
"If this girl causes one more headline... if I see one more picture of you looking like a deer in headlights outside a club... I will bench you. I don't care if you're Patrick Roy reincarnated. I will put the freshman in net. Do you understand?"
The threat hung in the air.
Bench me.
If I was benched, I wouldn't get drafted. If I didn't get drafted, I wouldn't get the signing bonus. If I didn't get the bonus...
I couldn't pay off my mother.
I couldn't fix the mess I came from.
"I understand," I said. "No distractions."
"Good," Miller dismissed me. "Get to practice."
I walked out of the office. My hands were shaking.
I walked back to my locker. I pulled out my phone.
I had a text from my mother.
Mom: Saw the picture in the paper. She looks expensive, Cam. I hope you have enough left over for your family. Rent is due on the 1st. Don't make me call the reporter myself.
I stared at the screen.
The high of the equipment room crashed. The buoyancy vanished.
I felt the weight of the world settle back onto my shoulders.
I looked across the locker room. Jag was laughing with the rookies.
I was alone again.
I put the phone away. I put my helmet on.
I could have Camila. Or I could have my future.
But looking at that text, and remembering Miller’s threat, I realized I probably couldn't have both.
Because to keep my future, I had to be perfect.
And Camila Sterling was the beautiful, chaotic flaw in my system that I couldn't afford to keep.
But God help me, I couldn't afford to lose her either.