Page 129 of Cold Feet
Cam stood in the hallway looking like he'd been through a war. He was wearing his post-game black suit and dark gray tie; his duffel bag was dropped carelessly at his feet. His hair still was damp from his post-game shower, curling slightly at his neck the way it did when he didn't bother to style it. A bruise was already blooming along his jaw from the fight, purple-black against his skin. Exhaustion carved lines around his eyes, and he swayed slightly on his feet like staying upright took effort.
But his eyes – those deep, ocean blue eyes that had haunted me for a decade – locked on mine with an intensity that stole my breath.
"Hi," I whispered.
"Hi," he said back, and something in his voice cracked like ice breaking.
That was all it took. I grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket with both hands and pulled him into the room, his bag dragging behind him. The door had barely clicked shut before his arms came around me, crushing me against his chest with a strength that felt cathartic. His face buried in my hair, and I could feel him breathing me in – or maybe that was me. Maybe it was both of us.
"Lana," he whispered against my temple. "I haven't slept for days and all I want to do is climb into bed and hold you."
His breath was warm on my cheek, and the scent of him – soap and hard-fought victory and that uniquely Cam scent underneath – made my knees weak. I could feel his heart hammering against mine, evidence that I wasn't the only one falling apart.
I pulled back just enough to see his face, my hands framed his jaw carefully, avoiding the worst of the bruise. "You're hurt."
"Doesn't matter." His hands tightened on my waist, fingers pressing into me like he was afraid I'd disappear. "You were there. You came to Boston. Saw you on the screen and thought I was hallucinating or something."
"Of course I came. I couldn't stay away." I said, and then his mouth crashed into mine.
This kiss was nothing like our controlled moments during the fake engagement. This was desperation and relief and two days of agony poured into the clash of lips and tongues and shared breath. His hands tangled in my hair, I felt a shiver run down my spine as I pressed closer to him, needing to erase every inch of distance between us. His lips met mine with an intensity that made my heart race, kissing me like a drowning man desperate for air. The world around us faded into a blur as the heat of his body against mine became my sole focus, every touch igniting a spark that made me crave more.
When we finally broke apart, both gasping, he rested his forehead against mine. His hands shook where they held me.
"When I saw you on that screen," he said roughly, "wearing my jersey, the ring still on your finger... Christ, Lana. The whole arena disappeared. There was just you."
"Come sit," I said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed. "You look like you're about to collapse."
He sank onto the mattress like his strings had been cut, pulling me down beside him. Our knees touched, and he immediately laced our fingers together, gripping tight.
"The last two days," he started, then stopped, shaking his head. "I haven't slept more than an hour at a time. Could barely choke down food. Logan said I was a zombie at practice. Coach threatened to bench me if I didn't get my head right."
"Me too," I admitted. "I wrote about fifteen different texts to you and deleted them all. Coco finally told me to stop being an idiot and just come to Boston."
"Remind me to send Coco flowers. Or a car. Maybe a small island."
Despite everything, I laughed. "She'd probably prefer tickets to Paris, honestly."
"Done," he smiled.
"What happened out there tonight?" I asked.
His face darkened suddenly. "When that Boston asshole said – " He cut himself off, jaw clenching hard enough that I worried about his teeth.
"What did he say?" I asked gently.
Cam's eyes went cold as arctic ice. "He made a crude comment about you being available now that your fake engagement was over. Said maybe he'd look you up when they played in Florida. Used some...colorfullanguage about what he'd do."
"Cam – "
"And then he called you a puck bunny," he growled. "Said he'd like to...never mind. I'm not repeating it. I saw red. Nobody talks about you like that. Nobody."
My heart clenched at the protective fury in his voice. "So you tried to punch him through the ice?"
"Would've succeeded if the refs hadn't intervened." A ghost of his usual grin flickered across his face. "Zayne got some solid hits in too."
"I saw."
"Then, when I saw you up on the jumbotron, I couldn't believe you came... and then I realized... you weren't just wearing any jersey. You were wearing mine. Number twenty-two. My name." His voice dropped to a whisper. "My ring still on your finger after everything.
