Page 36 of Pucked On Camera

"Keep it going, boys," I yell, leading the charge of making noise until Amelia comes out to see what the racket is. "We've got a teammate to win back."

I watch the rinks’ doors until one swings open with a creak that echoes off the walls. Amelia steps out. She's wearing the Blade’s staff polo style shirt, but she might as well be armor-clad for all the protection she's thrown around herself these past weeks.

"Amelia Brooks," I start, voice steady even if my pulse isn't. "On behalf of the Chicago Blades, we want to present you with this." I hold out the jersey to her, our gazes locked.

Her eyes widen, a flicker of raw emotion crossing her face before she changes it into a neutral expression. The guys shuffle behind me.

"We're not just asking you to forgive us for being assholes," I continue. "We're asking you to join us—as an official part of this team."

"Riley, I..." Her voice trails off, a hand coming up to touch the fabric delicately, tracing the stitching that spells out her name.

"Look, I know actions speak louder than words, right?" I say, my own hands surprisingly steady as I offer the jersey to her. "But here’s the thing: you've been behind the scenes, making things happen without any glory. You’re invaluable to us, Amelia."

"Promotion's not just a title," I add, glancing at the guys who nod in agreement. "It's our way of saying you're a Blade through and through. We wouldn’t be able to do what we do, if you didn’t get all of our stuff ready each and every day.”

Her arms unfold, reaching out instead to accept the jersey. A smile—a real one—breaks across her face.

"I'm part of the team now, huh?" The words are soft but filled with unspoken promises.

"Damn straight," I reply, the corners of my mouth lifting in response. "Welcome to the Blades."

The team erupts into cheers, sticks banging against the boards in salute. The distance between us narrows until she’s in my arms, right where she belongs.

Chapter 21

Amelia

The chatter of relatives and clinking glasses fades as I escape to the balcony of my parent’s house, leaning against the railing with a sigh. My fingers twitch for the phone in my purse, yearning for the thrill of the connection I felt when streaming to my OnlyFans audience. They knew the real me, the one without filters or fears. Now, that outlet is just a memory, another closed chapter.

"Princess, you okay?" Riley's voice breaks through the night air. I don't have to turn around to know he's watching me with those intense blue eyes that seem to see right through me.

"Fine," I lie, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Just needed some fresh air."

"Miss your channel, huh?" he asks, stepping beside me.

Last week I clicked the 'Deactivate' button, and it's like I've unplugged myself from a world that once thrived on my every curve and whispered secret. No more dark green wigs and the alter ego who danced beneath its strands. My bank account won't be gasping for air anymore, now that the Chicago Blades gave me a promotion to be their equipment manager, but damn, there's an ache where the thrill of being my uncensored self used to pulse.

"Is it that obvious?" I chuckle weakly, my heart aching a little for the lost part of myself.

"Only to someone who pays attention," Riley says, nudging my shoulder gently. "I never got the chance to tell you that I used to be obsessed with your channel before I even knew it was you."

“What?” I say, my mouth gaping open.

“Yeah, and you put out the best content out there. That morning after we had fun,” he winks, “on your couch, when I went to your bathroom, I saw the green wig through your cracked door.”

“Dear Lord, Riley,” I gasp and cover my mouth, not knowing whether to be happy or mad at his admission.

“Yeah, like I said, obsessed. I was probably one of your biggest fans,” Riley admits.

I manage a smile, grateful for his support. "Thanks, Riley. That means a lot."

Laughter spills from inside the house, and we both glance back through the French doors. My brother, usually the life of the party, stands with a beer in hand, sharing a joke with some cousins. His gaze shifts to us, and I hold my breath, ready for the rivalry to spark. But tonight, something’s different. There's no scowl, no biting remark—just a nod of acknowledgment before he turns away.

"Look at that," I murmur, more to myself than Riley. "He didn’t even start a brawl."

"Guess miracles do happen," Riley quips, and we laugh.

"New beginnings all around, then?" I offer tentatively, daring to hope.

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