Chapter 13
Cameron
Hospital rooms all smell the same. It’s a distinct cocktail of antiseptic, floor wax, and the metallic tang of fear. It was a smell that lived in the deepest, darkest corners of my memory, usually accompanied by the image of my mother strapped to a gurney or shouting at a nurse.
But this time, I was the one in the bed.
I opened my eyes. The lights were too bright. My throat felt like I had swallowed a handful of razor blades.
"He's awake," a soft voice whispered.
I turned my head. It hurt. Everything hurt.
Camila was sitting in the chair next to the bed. She was still wearing her exam clothes—a pencil skirt and a blouse that looked like it had been slept in. Her hair was a disaster. Her eyes were red and swollen. She was gripping my hand so hard her knuckles were white.
"Hey," I rasped. It came out as a croak.
"Don't talk," she said, standing up and grabbing a cup of water with a straw. She held it to my lips. "Drink. Slowly."
I drank. The cool water soothed the fire in my throat, but swallowing was agony.
"What happened?" I whispered, pulling away.
"You took a puck to the throat," she said, her voice trembling. "Collapsed windpipe. Severe laryngeal contusion. You... you stopped breathing, Cam. On the ice. They had to intubate you in the ambulance."
The memory flashed back. The practice. My mother’s face. The slap shot. The darkness.
My hand flew to my throat. There was a brace around my neck.
"The scouts," I choked out. "Did they see?"
Camila’s face fell. She looked away.
"They saw," she said quietly. "They stayed until the ambulance left. Baxter spoke to Coach Miller."
"And?"
She hesitated.
"Tell me," I demanded, though it came out as a whisper.
"They said... they said they were concerned about your 'durability'," she said, tears leaking from her eyes.
"And the distraction. Your mother... she made a scene, Cam.
She was screaming at the paramedics to take you to a 'real' hospital.
She tried to get in the ambulance. The police had to escort her out. "
I closed my eyes. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest harder than the puck had.
It was over.
The draft. The bonus. The escape plan.
My mother had burned it all down. Just like she always did.
"Get me out of here," I whispered.
"Cam, you need to rest. The doctor said—"
"I said get me out," I rasped, opening my eyes. "I can't be here. Not in a hospital. Please, Mila. Take me home."
She looked at me. She saw the panic rising in my eyes, the way I was starting to hyperventilate against the pain. She knew about the trauma. She knew why hospitals were my personal hell.
"Okay," she said, squeezing my hand. "I'll get the discharge papers. But you have to promise to do exactly what I say."
"Promise," I lied.
The Drive to Nowhere
We didn't go back to the penthouse.
"Where are we going?" I asked, looking out the window as Camila turned the Range Rover onto the highway heading north, away from Wickfield.
I was reclined in the passenger seat, hopped up on painkillers and wearing sweatpants she had brought from the apartment.
"Away," she said. Her hands were steady on the wheel. "If we go to the penthouse, the team will be there. Or the press. Or your mother. You need quiet."
"I have a game on Friday," I argued weakly.
"You have a crushed windpipe," she countered. "You're not playing on Friday. You're not playing for at least two weeks."
Two weeks. The season would be over. The scouts would be gone.
I slumped back against the seat. I didn't have the energy to fight her.
We drove for two hours. The landscape changed from suburban sprawl to deep, snowy woods. The sun began to set, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange.
She pulled off the highway onto a narrow, winding road that led up a mountain.
"Where is this?" I asked.
"My family's cabin," she said. "Well, lodge. My dad bought it five years ago for tax purposes. He never comes here. It's empty."
We pulled up to a massive structure made of timber and stone, nestled into the side of a mountain overlooking a frozen lake. It looked like a fortress.
She used a code to open the gate. We drove up the heated driveway.
"It's safe," she said, parking the car. "No one knows we're here. No cell service unless you stand on the roof. Just us."
Just us.
It sounded terrifying. It sounded perfect.
The Lodge
The inside of the lodge was ridiculous. Vaulted ceilings, antler chandeliers, leather furniture that cost more than my education. A fire was already crackling in the massive stone hearth—remote controlled, apparently.
Camila helped me to a sofa that was the size of a small island. She piled blankets on me.
"Stay," she ordered. "I'm making soup."
I watched her move around the kitchen. It wasn't the sterile, modern kitchen of my penthouse. It was rustic, warm. She looked small in the space, but she moved with a new confidence.
She wasn't the Brat anymore. She was the Caretaker.
She brought me a bowl of broth. I managed to swallow half of it before the pain became too much.
"Thanks," I whispered.
She sat on the floor next to the sofa, leaning her back against the cushions near my head. She looked exhausted.
"You should sleep," I said, reaching out to touch her hair.
"I can't," she said. "Every time I close my eyes, I see you falling. I see you turning blue."
She turned to look at me. Her eyes were haunted.
"I thought you were dead, Cam. For a second, I really thought you were gone."
"Hard to kill," I tried to joke.
"It's not funny," she said fiercely. "It's not funny at all."
She buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders started to shake.
"Hey," I said, ignoring the pain to sit up. I slid off the sofa onto the floor next to her. "Come here."
I pulled her into my arms. She collapsed against me, sobbing.
"I hate this," she cried. "I hate hockey. I hate the pressure. I hate your mother."
"Me too," I whispered into her hair. "Me too."
We sat there on the rug in front of the fire for a long time. The only sound was the crackle of wood and her quiet weeping.
Eventually, she quieted. She pulled back, wiping her eyes.
"Why?" she asked. "Why did she do it? Why did she bring the press?"
I leaned my head back against the sofa, staring at the antlers above.
"Because she's desperate," I said. "Because she owes money to people who break legs. Because she knows I'm her only ticket out."
I looked at Camila. It was time. The real truth. Not just the photos in the drawer. The whole ugly story.
"My father left when I was four," I started. My voice was a gravelly whisper. "He was a semi-pro player. Good hands, bad temper. He beat her. Then he left. She... she fell apart. Drugs. Alcohol. Anything to numb the pain."
Camila listened. She didn't interrupt. She just held my hand, her thumb rubbing my knuckles.
"I became the adult when I was six," I continued. "I learned how to hide her stash so the social workers wouldn't find it. I learned how to forge her signature on my report cards. I learned that if I was quiet, if I was invisible, the bad men who came over wouldn't notice me."
I swallowed, the pain in my throat flaring.
"Hockey was the escape. The ice was the only place that made sense. Rules. Lines. Penalties. If you followed the rules, you were safe. If you stepped out of line, you got hurt. Simple."
"So you became the best," Camila whispered.
"I became a machine," I corrected. "I shut everything off. Fear. Sadness. Hope. Because hope is dangerous, Mila. Hope makes you careless. My mom... she always hoped he would come back. And every time he didn't, she sank lower."
I looked at her.
"That's why I'm like this. That's why I need control. Because if I lose control... I turn into her. I turn into the chaos."
"No," Camila said firmly. "You don't."
"Look at today," I gestured to my neck. "She showed up. I panicked. I froze. And I got hurt. She is the chaos, and she infects me."
"You froze because you're human, Cameron," she said. "Not because you're broken."
She moved closer. She cupped my face in her hands.
"You carry everyone," she said softly. "Your mom. The team. The legacy. Who carries you?"
I looked into her hazel eyes. I saw my reflection there. I didn't see a machine. I saw a man who was tired.
"You do," I whispered.
The admission hung in the air. Heavy. Real.
"I've got you," she promised. "I'm not going anywhere. Even if you don't get drafted. Even if we have to live in this cabin and eat fish from the lake. I'm staying."
"Why?" I asked. "I'm damaged goods now. The scouts saw. I'm a risk."
"Because," she leaned in, her forehead resting against mine. "You're the only person who ever saw me, Cam. Not the heiress. Not the party girl. Me. You saw the girl crying on the bench. And you picked her up."
She kissed me. Softly. Carefully avoiding my bruised neck.
"I love you," she whispered against my lips.
My heart stopped. Then it restarted, beating a new rhythm.
I had never said those words. Not to my mother. Not to anyone.
But looking at her—fierce, loyal, beautiful Camila—I realized I couldn't hold them back anymore. The dam had broken.
"I love you too," I rasped.
She smiled. A radiant, tear-filled smile that lit up the room brighter than the fire.
"See?" she said. "Not so scary."
"Terrifying," I corrected.
The Bedroom
Later that night, the pain meds started to wear off, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache.
We went to the master bedroom. Massive bed. fur throws. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the snowy forest.
We lay in the dark. I was on my back, propped up by pillows to help me breathe. She was curled into my side, her head on my chest, careful of the ribs.
"What if I don't get drafted?" I asked into the silence.
It was the fear that had been eating me alive since the ambulance.
"Then we figure it out," she said. "I'm good at math now. Thanks to you."
I chuckled, which hurt. "You are."
"My dad... he has connections," she said hesitantly. "In Europe. The leagues there... they pay well. Switzerland. Sweden."
"Europe," I mused. Far away from my mother. Far away from the press.
"We could go," she said, tracing a pattern on my chest. "Just us. You could play. I could work in a gallery. We could eat chocolate and ski."
"It sounds like a fantasy," I said.
"It could be a plan," she countered.
A plan. A future.
For the first time in my life, I let myself imagine it. A life that wasn't defined by the NHL or my mother's debts. A life with her.
"Maybe," I whispered. "Maybe."
"Cam?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell me something good. From your childhood. There has to be one thing."
I thought about it. The screaming matches. The cold nights.
Then, a memory surfaced. Faint, but warm.
"The pond," I said. "Behind the trailer park. It froze over in November. I would go out there at night. The moon was so bright you didn't need lights. It was quiet. Just the sound of my skates. Swish. Swish. I felt... free. I felt like I could fly."
"That's beautiful," she whispered.
"You're my pond, Mila," I said. "When I'm with you... the noise stops. I feel free."
She sniffled. "You're making me cry again."
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
She kissed my chest, right over my heart.
"Go to sleep, Wolf. I'll watch the door."
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time in years, I slept without dreaming of falling.
The Morning After
I woke up to sunlight streaming through the windows. The pain in my throat was a dull roar now, manageable.
Camila was gone.
Panic flared for a second, then subsided when I smelled coffee.
I got up slowly. I walked out into the living room.
She was standing by the window, looking out at the lake. She was wearing one of my flannel shirts she must have found in the closet. She was on the phone.
Her voice was low. Tense.
"I know, Daddy," she was saying. "I know what the article said. But it's not true."
I froze.
"He loves me," she said. "And I love him."
Pause.
"No. I won't do that. I won't leave him. Not now. He needs me."
Pause.
"If you do that... if you pull the funding... I will never speak to you again. I swear to God, Dad. I will disappear."
She hung up. She stood there, her shoulders shaking.
I walked over to her. I wrapped my arms around her from behind.
She jumped, then melted into me.
"He's angry," she whispered. "About the scene at the arena. He says it's embarrassing. He says your mother is a liability."
"She is," I agreed.
"He threatened to cut the team's funding if Coach Miller doesn't bench you for the rest of the season," she said. "He wants to force you out. To separate us."
"Let him try," I said, kissing the top of her head. "I'm not going anywhere."
"But the draft..."
"Screw the draft," I said. And I meant it. "I have you. We'll go to Switzerland. We'll eat chocolate."
She turned in my arms. She looked up at me.
"Really?"
"Really."
She smiled. But her eyes were sad.
"I won't let him hurt you, Cam," she vowed. "I'll fix this."
"We'll fix it," I corrected. "Together."
We stood there, looking out at the frozen lake.
It was a beautiful morning.
But I knew the storm wasn't over. My mother wasn't done. Her father wasn't done.
And the hardest save of my life was still to come.