Page 145 of Cold Feet
"Ready to make history, kids?" Ryan asked, not waiting for an answer before spreading papers across Cam's kitchen island, carefully avoiding the pancake station.
The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of signatures, legal language, and Ryan's excited commentary. The contract was exactly what they'd promised – six million dollars, creative control over Cam's image in the campaign (my suggestion), and a clause that specifically mentioned me as a potential participant in select promotional activities. (I'm still not sure about that one.)
"And here," Ryan said with a flourish, opening the box, "is your first official Redline package."
Inside were two identical pairs of sleek, black sneakers with teal accents – Slashers colors. The right heel of each shoe featured a tiny embroidered "22," while the left heel had a delicate embossed hockey stick.
"They're not launching the Cameron Murphy line for another six months," Ryan explained, "but they wanted you both to have the prototype."
Cam pulled out the larger pair, turning them over in his hands with something like wonder. "They really did it. Every detail we talked about."
"They're really good at listening," Ryan said, glancing between us with a knowing smile. "Especially when it comes to authentic stories. Pure Cameron Murphy, hockey enforcer and devoted romantic."
After Ryan left, promising to meet us at the arena, Cam pulled a bottle of champagne from the fridge. "It's too early to drink, especially on game day," he said, "but I think we need to mark the moment."
He poured just a splash into two flutes, then handed one to me. "To us," he said simply.
"To us," I echoed, clinking my glass against his. "And to the Slashers for the next three years."
Cam's eyes widened slightly. "You heard about the contract terms already?"
I nodded. "Marcus called this morning while you were in the shower. Three years, eight million per year. He wanted me to know before the press release went out at noon."
Cam set his glass down. "And?"
"And what?"
"What do you think? I know Montreal was planning to offer almost twelve per year."
I set my glass down too, then took both his hands in mine. "I think you made the decision that was right for you. For both of us." I squeezed his hands. "I know what it means to you to stay here, with this team. With Zayne and Logan. With me."
His expression softened. "I dunno," he teased gently. "Four million a year is a lot to leave on the table."
"Oh no," I started to freak out. "Are you regretting it already? I mean, it's also not like you'll be struggling to make rent," I pointed out. "Besides, there's no state income tax in Florida. And you don't have to learn French."
He laughed, pulling me into his arms. "I'd have learned French for you."
"Je t'aime," I said, one of the few French phrases I remembered from college.
"I love you too," he murmured against my hair. "More than hockey. More than money. More than anything."
The way he said it – so simple, so certain – made my throat tight with emotion. Cam Murphy, the man who'd been through so many broken homes he'd stopped believing in forever, was promising me exactly that. Forever.
The arena was buzzing with energy when we arrived – separately, because we didn't want to mess with the usual routine. Cam with the team for pre-game preparations, me to handle the media and last-minute PR details. But this time, we shared a steamy kiss next to the stairs before parting ways.
"For luck," he said with a wink.
"You don't need luck, Hitman." I straightened his tie. "But I'll take that kiss anyway."
Inside, Katie was waiting for me with a tablet full of interview requests and a sparkling water.
"You're a goddess," I said, taking the water gratefully.
"You look happy," she observed, falling into step beside me as we headed toward my office.
"I am," I said simply.
"Good. Because you've got seventeen interview requests,Sports Illustratedwants you and Cam for a cover story, andPeopleis still pushing for that exclusive."
