Page 8 of Cold Feet
Breakaway was a small hockey bar a few blocks from the arena, popular with staff but rarely frequented by players who preferred more upscale establishments. I chose it deliberately – neutral territory, away from both team oversight and public scrutiny.
The bar smelled of beer and decades of sports celebrations – a comforting, familiar scent that reminded me of my childhood, when my dad would take us to similar placesafter Zayne's juniors games. Old jerseys and memorabilia decorated the walls, including a faded Slashers pennant from their inaugural season.
I arrived first, selecting a booth in the back corner where the lighting was dim enough for privacy. I ordered a glass of pinot grigio to settle my nerves, and was halfway through the glass when Cam slid into the seat across from me.
"You came," he said, as if he'd half-expected me to stand him up.
"I said I would." I pushed the agreement across the table. "These are my terms."
He skimmed the document, expression unreadable in the dim bar lighting. The sound of a hockey game played low on the TV overhead, punctuated by occasional cheers from patrons at the bar. When he reached the end of the agreement, his eyes flicked up to mine.
"Wait. You're saying yes?"
"I'm saying I'll help you," I clarified. "Under these very specific conditions."
Cam signaled the waitress, ordering a beer before returning his attention to me. "Why? I thought for sure after this morning..."
"I thought about what you said," I admitted. "About how I helped create this image problem for you. I feel... responsible."
"Logan talked to you, didn't he?" Surprise flickered across his face.
"Apparently he considers himself your personal publicist now."
Cam's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "What did he say?"
"That you're not actually the player I've made you out to be. That you watch cooking shows and call your mother every Sunday." I paused, studying him. "That she has MS."
His smile faded. "He had no right to – "
"Is it true?" I interrupted.
Cam held my gaze for a long moment. And then…"Yes."
"Then why did you let me build this whole playboy persona around you if it wasn't accurate?" I asked, genuinely confused. "We've worked together for three years, Cam. You've never once objected to the strategy."
He shrugged, but the casualness felt forced. "It seemed to make everyone happy. The fans, the sponsors, the team.You."
"Me?" I echoed.
"You seemed so…excited about it. The whole strategy. Turning me into hockey's most eligible bachelor. It was clearly working for the team, and you were..." He paused, searching for words. "You were good at it. Really good. I didn't want to mess that up for you."
The waitress delivered his beer, and Cam took a long sip, using the moment to collect himself.
"Besides," he continued, setting the glass down, "it was easier than the alternative."
"Which was?"
"Having to actually date. Having expectations. Having people ask why I was single." His voice dropped slightly. "Having to explain why I wasn't interested in…
“In?”
“I really don’t want to talk about this.”
I was stunned into silence. Had I completely misread him all these years? Constructed an entire persona that he'd just... accepted? For what? To avoid awkward conversations?
"I don't understand," I finally said.
"You don't need to." Cam tapped the agreement. "So we're doing this? For real?"
