Page 78 of Cold Feet
As we pulled into the training facility parking lot, I felt an irrational urge to ask him to keep driving – to take us anywhere but here, where we'd have to resume our professional roles and pretend the weekend hadn't changed something fundamental between us.
Cam found a spot near the staff entrance and cut the engine, the sudden silence filling the car. Rain pounded on the roof as we sat there for a moment, neither making a move to get out.
"I'll grab the bags," he said finally.
"You don't have to… "
"I want to," he interrupted, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he pushed open his door and stepped out into the downpour.
I watched as he retrieved my luggage from the trunk, hunching his shoulders against the rain. He was soaked within seconds, his t-shirt clinging to his torso, outlining every muscle, his hair plastered to his forehead. When he opened my door, holding my bags in one hand and offering me the other, I didn't hesitate to take it, letting him pull me from the car into the storm.
We ran for the entrance, laughing despite ourselves as the rain drenched us completely. Inside, we stood dripping on the mat, water pooling around our feet.
"Well," I said, pushing wet hair from my face, "that was refreshing."
Cam grinned, raindrops clinging to his eyelashes. "Nothing like a brisk shower to start the day."
For a moment, we just looked at each other – wet, disheveled, and somehow more honest than we'd been in years. Then the double doors to the training area opened, and Logan appeared, already in his practice gear.
"There you are," he said, eyeing us curiously. "Sully's looking for you, Cam. Team meeting in ten." His gaze traveled from Cam's soaked form to mine, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "Welcome back, lovebirds. Good weekend?"
"The best," Cam replied, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Great," Logan said, already turning back toward the locker room. "Hurry up, Hitman. Sully's in a mood. Something about Montreal's new defensive scheme — it's a modified neutral zone trap with a left wing lock component. He's concerned that it's going to stop our breakouts from the zone if they clog up lanes and intercept passes. It's gonna be carry, dump, and chase."
"I'd better go," Cam said quietly once Logan had disappeared. He set my bag down next to me, hesitating. "Lana… "
"We'll talk later," I promised, though I wasn't sure what there was to say, what came next in this uncharted territory we'd wandered into.
He nodded, then impulsively leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my cheek, his lips warm against my rain-chilled skin. "Later," he agreed, and then he was gone, striding toward the locker room, leaving me standing alone in the lobby, water dripping from my hair and my carefully chosen teal dress clinging to my skin.
I touched my cheek where his lips had been, the warmth of his kiss lingering. For years, I'd maintained careful professional boundaries, kept my heart guarded after that one night in college. But now those walls were crumbling, and I wasn't at all certain I wanted to rebuild them.
Like the storm raging outside, something had shifted between Cam and me – powerful, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore. I'd come back from Siesta Key with more than just sand in my luggage and a fake engagement ring on my finger. I'd returned with the unsteady realization that what had started as pretend was rapidly becoming the most real thing in my life.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
Chapter 14
I spent most of Monday morning pretending to work. In reality, I was staring out my office window at the practice rink below, where the team was running drills for tomorrow's season opener against Montreal. My laptop screen displayed the media release draft I'd been "editing" for the past hour, cursor blinking accusingly at the same spot where I'd stopped typing forty-five minutes ago.
The media notes for tomorrow's game against Montreal sat half-finished beside three page-marked player interview transcripts I needed to approve. The social media content calendar remained woefully incomplete, and I still hadn't confirmed the pregame broadcast schedule with ESPN. I was falling behind, badly, and yet I couldn't tear my eyes away from the ice. FromCam.
The Slashers training facility had been designed with efficiency in mind. My second-floor office overlooked the practice ice, theoretically so I could monitor media presence during practices. Today, however, I was monitoring only one player.
Cam skated with fluid grace, his movements precise and powerful as he ran through Coach Michaels' new offensive zone entries. His jersey, practice gray with the number 22, clung to his broad shoulders as he accelerated, executing a perfect cross-over before cutting sharply between Zayne and Blackwood. He feathered a tape-to-tape pass to Logan at the far post that Montreal's defense would never see coming tomorrow night. Even from this distance, I could see the concentration etched on his face, the complete absorption in the moment that made him so mesmerizing on the ice.
I caught myself absently twirling the sapphire ring on my finger like a super fancy security blanket. The stunning stone caught the fluorescent lighting overhead, sending oceany glitters across the wall where our Stanley Cup team photo hung.
I could take it off. There was no one here to see, no one to convince. The charade wasn't necessary within these walls, where Coach Sully and Coach Rocco knew the truth. And yet...
Below, Cam executed a perfect toe-drag around my brother, earning a good-natured slash across his shin guards from Zayne, before flipping the puck top-shelf past Fosse's glove. As his teammates tapped their sticks against the ice in appreciation, he looked up toward my window, as if he knew I'd been watching all along.
Our eyes met across the distance, and he raised his stick slightly in acknowledgment, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. My heart fluttered traitorously against my ribs, the same way it had on the Skyway Bridge this morning when he'd leaned across the center console, his eyes darkening as they dropped to my lips.
This was out of hand.
With determined effort, I swiveled my chair away from the window and refocused on my laptop. The media release for tomorrow's season opener wasn't going to write itself, and I had a mountain of media requests to sort through before tomorrow afternoon's player availability session.
