Chapter 18
Cameron
But I was alive. For the first time in weeks, I was actually alive.
I grabbed my bag from the carousel and ran to the rental car counter.
"I need a car," I told the sleepy agent. "Whatever you have. Fast."
"We have a Toyota Corolla," she yawned.
"Fine. Give me the Corolla."
I drove like a maniac. The highway was slick with slush, but I didn't care. I had one destination. One goal.
Wickfield.
I had texted Jag from the plane.
Me: Where is she?
Jag: Dude? You’re in Switzerland. It’s 3 AM here.
Me: I’m in Boston. Where is she?
Jag: Holy sht. You came back? Okay. Today is the Spring Gala at the Museum. Her dad is the keynote speaker. She’s definitely there. It starts at noon.*
The Museum. Richard Sterling's turf. Perfect.
If I was going to blow up my life, I might as well do it in front of the man who tried to buy it.
I pulled into Wickfield at 11:30 AM. I drove straight to the penthouse building. I didn't go up. I just parked the rental car, ran inside to the front desk, and begged the doorman—Frank, who liked me because I tipped well at Christmas—to let me into the package room.
I grabbed the one suit I had left behind. The charcoal one. The one she had spilled the Blue Hawaiian on. I had gotten it dry cleaned, but there was still a faint, ghostly outline of the stain on the lapel if you looked closely.
I changed in the lobby bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face. I looked in the mirror.
I looked like a man who had walked through fire. Stubble, dark circles, wild eyes.
Good. Let them see the wreckage.
I got back in the car.
The Wickfield Museum of Art was a fortress of glass and stone. Valets were parking Bentleys and Mercedes.
I pulled the dented Corolla up to the front. I tossed the keys to a stunned valet.
"Keep it running," I said.
I marched up the steps.
"Ticket, sir?" the woman at the door asked, blocking my path.
"I'm with the band," I lied, pushing past her.
I walked into the Grand Hall.
It was packed. Wickfield’s elite were there, sipping champagne and pretending to care about art. In the center of the room, on a raised stage, Richard Sterling was speaking into a microphone.
"...and that is why the Sterling Foundation is committed to preserving the legacy of..."
I scanned the room.
I saw her.
She was standing near the back, by a sculpture of a winged victory. She was wearing a black dress. High neck, long sleeves. It looked like mourning clothes. Her hair was pulled back tight. She looked beautiful. She looked severe. She looked miserable.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Camila.
I started walking. I didn't weave through the crowd. I cut a straight line.
People turned to look. Whispers started.
“Is that...?”
“I thought he was in Europe.”
“He looks insane.”
I reached her.
She was staring at her father on stage, her face blank. She didn't see me until I was three feet away.
"Mila," I rasped.
She froze. She turned her head slowly, as if afraid it was a hallucination.
Her eyes widened. The glass of champagne in her hand tilted dangerously.
"Cameron?" she whispered. "What... what are you doing here?"
"I quit," I said.
"What?"
"I quit the team. I quit Zurich. I broke the contract."
Her face went pale. "No. No, you didn't. Tell me you didn't."
"I did," I stepped closer. "I told Miller to keep the bonus. I told them to go to hell."
"Are you crazy?" she hissed, grabbing my arm and trying to pull me behind the sculpture. "My father... he'll ruin you! He'll blacklist you! You just threw away your future!"
"I threw away the cage," I corrected. "I don't want a future if you aren't in it."
"Stop it," she said, tears springing to her eyes. "Don't say that. You don't know what you're doing. You're just... you're emotional. You need to go back. Get on a plane. Fix this."
"I am fixing it," I said. "I'm fixing the mistake I made when I let you walk out of that arena."
"I walked out because I don't love you!" she lied. She said it fiercely, but her chin was trembling. "I told you, Cameron. It was a game. You were a project."
"Liar," I said softly.
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out my phone. I pulled up the photo.
The blue heart. The frozen pond.
"I saw this," I said, showing her the screen. "The day I left. You posted this."
She stared at the phone. Her breath hitched.
"So?" she deflected. "It's a pond. I like nature."
"It's my pond," I said. "It's the place I told you about. The place where I felt free. You posted it because you missed me. Because you were grieving."
"You're delusional," she tried to pull away.
"And the hoodie," I pressed, stepping into her space. "You're wearing my hoodie in every picture since I left. Why wear the clothes of a guy who was just 'the help'?"
"It's comfortable!" she cried. "It's cold!"
"Admit it, Mila," I demanded. "Admit you made a deal with your father. Admit you sacrificed us to save me."
"I didn't—"
"ADMIT IT!" I roared.
The room went silent. Richard Sterling stopped speaking mid-sentence. Every head turned toward us.
Camila looked around, panicked.
"Lower your voice," she pleaded. "Everyone is staring."
"Let them stare," I said. "I want them to see. Especially him."
I pointed at her father on the stage. Richard Sterling was glaring at me with pure hatred.
I looked back at Camila.
"I know what you did," I said, my voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "I figured it out. You broke your own heart to get me that contract. You let me hate you so I would leave. That's not a game, Mila. That's love. That's the most terrifying, selfless love I've ever seen."
Tears spilled over her lashes. She couldn't stop them now.
"I had to," she sobbed softly. "You were going to lose everything. Your mom... the debts... I couldn't let you drown, Cam. I had to be the villain so you could be the hero."
"I don't want to be the hero," I said, grabbing her hands. "I want to be the guy who loves you. I don't care about the money. I don't care about the NHL. I can work construction. I can coach. I can do anything, as long as I come home to you."
"But your dream..."
"You are the dream," I said. "Don't you get it? The hockey... it was just a way to survive. But you? You're the reason to live."
I dropped to my knees. Right there on the museum floor. In front of the Wickfield elite.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"Cameron, get up," she begged, trying to pull me up. "Please. You're embarrassing yourself."
"I don't care," I said, looking up at her. "I'm done with the armor. I'm done with the Wall. I'm just a man, Camila. A man who is terrified of losing you."
I held her gaze.
"I love you. I love your mess. I love your loud music. I love that you try to fix things even when they break you. I love you more than I hate losing. And if you tell me right now—honestly—to leave, I will. But you have to look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me."
She looked down at me. Her face was crumpling. The severe mask was gone.
She opened her mouth to speak.
"Security!" Richard Sterling’s voice boomed from the stage. "Remove this man immediately!"
Two large guards started moving toward us.
"No!" Camila screamed.
She stepped in front of me. She blocked the guards.
"Don't touch him!" she yelled. "If you touch him, I swear I will burn this place to the ground!"
The guards hesitated. They looked at Richard Sterling.
Camila turned to her father. She pointed a shaking finger at him.
"You lied to me," she shouted across the room. "You said if I let him go, he would be safe. But he's not safe without me. And I'm not safe without him."
"Camila, step away from him," her father commanded. "He is a failure. He quit."
"He quit for me!" she yelled back. "Do you know what that means? It means he values me more than your money. More than your influence. Which is something you have never done."
She turned back to me. She reached down.
"Get up, Wolf," she whispered.
I stood up.
She grabbed my lapels. She looked at the faint stain of the Blue Hawaiian. She smiled through her tears.
"You kept the suit," she said.
"It's my lucky suit," I said. "It's the one I met you in."
"I love you," she said. "I love you so much it hurts."
"Say it again," I demanded.
"I love you. I love you. I love you."
She kissed me.
It was frantic. It was salty with tears. It was the best kiss of my life.
The crowd erupted into whispers. Some people were actually clapping.
I didn't care. I wrapped my arms around her, lifting her off the ground, spinning her around.
"We're broke," I warned her, setting her down but keeping her close. "I have zero dollars. Miller is going to sue me. My mom is going to kill me."
"I don't care," she beamed. "We'll figure it out. I'm good at math now."
"We'll eat fish from the lake," I reminded her.
"And chocolate," she added.
"Mr. Vance," a voice interrupted.
We turned.
It was Baxter. The Canadiens scout. He was standing near the buffet table, holding a canapé. He must have been a guest of the foundation.
He was looking at me. He wasn't scowling. He looked... amused.
"You quit Zurich?" Baxter asked.
"Yes," I said, holding Camila’s hand tight. "I did."
"To come back here and make a scene in a museum?"
"Yes."
Baxter chewed his canapé thoughtfully.
"That's a lot of passion," he noted. "A lot of... intensity. We thought you were a robot, Vance. We thought you didn't have any fight in you unless it was programmed."
He gestured to Camila.
"Seems we were wrong. You fight for what matters."
He pulled a card from his pocket.
"The draft is next week. We still need a goalie. One who isn't afraid to take a hit."
He handed me the card.
"Call me. Don't bring your mother. Do bring the girl. She seems to have a good defensive strategy."
Baxter winked and walked away.
I stared at the card. Montreal Canadiens.
"Did that just happen?" Camila whispered.
"I think so," I said, stunned.
"Does this mean we're going to Montreal?" she asked.
I looked at her.
"We?"
"Try leaving me behind again, Vance," she warned. "I dare you."
I grinned. I pulled her close again.
"Never," I promised. "You're stuck with me."
Richard Sterling was still fuming on the stage, but no one was listening to him anymore.
"Come on," I said to Camila. "Let's get out of here. I have a rental Corolla waiting."
"Classy," she laughed.
We walked out of the museum, hand in hand.
We walked past the security guards. We walked past her father. We walked past the whispers.
We walked out into the sunlight.
The snow was melting. Spring was coming.
And as we got into the dented Corolla, I knew one thing for sure.
I had made the greatest save of my career.
And I hadn't even needed my pads.
We drove to the cabin. We didn't have keys to the penthouse anymore, and I wasn't ready to face the world yet.
The cabin was freezing when we got there. We built a fire.
We sat on the rug, wrapped in blankets, eating gas station snacks because that's all we could afford.
"So," Camila said, munching on a Dorito. "Montreal."
"Montreal," I agreed. "It's cold."
"I have coats."
"It's French."
"I took French in high school. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?"
I laughed. "That's the only phrase you need."
She crawled into my lap. She rested her head on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For hurting you. For making you think I didn't care."
"I'm sorry for believing it," I said. "I should have known. You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar!" she protested. "I fooled everyone."
"You didn't fool the pond," I said. "The blue heart gave you away."
She smiled. She traced the line of my jaw.
"What about your mom?" she asked quietly. "The debts?"
"The signing bonus from Montreal will cover it," I said. "If I get it. If not... we deal with it. Together."
"Together," she repeated. "I like that word."
"Me too."
I kissed her. It wasn't frantic this time. It was slow. It was a promise.
"You know," I murmured against her lips. "I don't have a contract right now. Which means I'm unemployed. Which means I have a lot of free time."
"Is that so?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah. And I was thinking... maybe I could offer some private tutoring."
"Oh really? What subject?"
"Anatomy," I growled, flipping her onto her back on the rug. "Advanced anatomy."
She laughed, a sound that filled the empty cabin and chased away the shadows.
"Teach me, Professor," she challenged.
And I did.
We spent the next week at the cabin. We talked. We fought about what to name our future dog (she wanted Sparkles III, I wanted Puck). We made love by the fire, in the loft, against the kitchen counter.
We healed.
We were broke. We were exhausted. We were uncertain.
But we were together.
And that was the only stat that mattered.