Page 85 of Cold Feet
"Wonderful to meet you," my mother said warmly, extending her hand with the elegance of a woman who'd spent decades in hockey's social circles. "We're so excited about Cameron's opportunity. He was just telling us about it at our beach house last weekend."
Two seconds, and my mom had already inserted herself into the mix.
I managed not to wince as Vanessa's eyebrows raised slightly. "Cam spent the weekend with the Deckers, did he? How lovely."
"Frank Decker," my father said, extending his hand. "Former Minnesota North Stars, now just a retired old man who likes to give unsolicited advice to his kids."
"Frank Decker?" James Whitley's expression shifted from polite interest to genuine excitement. "TheFrank Decker? Stanley Cup winner, Hall of Fame inductee? What an honor!"
"That's ancient history," my father demurred, though I knew he was always pleased by the recognition.
"Hardly! Your defensive strategies revolutionized the game. And now your son, following in your footsteps. That's quite a legacy."
"Both my sons," my father corrected. "Drake's an assistant coach for San Jose. And my daughter here is making her own mark in hockey, just in a different arena."
I felt a rush of warmth at my father's pride, even as the conversation shifted to the upcoming game. Throughout it all, part of my attention remained fixed on the ice below, where Cam was preparing to take center stage.
My parents were hockey royalty – Frank Decker, Hall of Fame player and coach, and Diana, longtime presence in hockey charity circles. Their embrace of Cam as a future in-law would only strengthen his new image.
At the same time, a wave of guilt washed over me. I'd dragged my family into this charade. If the truth ever came out, it wouldn't just be my reputation on the line, but theirs as well. The Decker name had always stood for integrity in hockey. What would happen to that legacy if the world discovered their only daughter had orchestrated a fake engagement for a sponsorship deal?
How would they feel when they found out I'd lied to them?
The guilt was squeezing me like a vice.
The opening face-off set the tone immediately: fast, physical, and fierce. Montreal came out aggressive, challenging the Slashers at every turn. Ten minutes in, they drew first blood with a slick wrist shot that sailed past our goaltender Fosse's glove.
The crowd tensed collectively, but I felt a strange calm. This was when Cam was at his best: when challenged, when pushed. I'd seen it enough times to know what was coming.
Sure enough, with just under two minutes left in the first period, Cam intercepted a sloppy pass at center ice. What happened next was pure artistry. He accelerated past one defender, deked around a second, and then – employing the exact correction my father had suggested – cut back sharply to evade the third. The Montreal goalie didn't stand a chance as Cam flicked the puck top shelf, lighting the lamp and bringing the crowd to their feet.
"That's my boy!" my mother shouted, clapping wildly. "Go Cameron!"
I cheered loudly and exchanged a meaningful glance with my father. "Looks like you were right about that adjustment."
My father nodded, clearly impressed. "Quick study. He's implemented it perfectly."
The Redline executives exchanged pleased glances. I maintained my professional composure, but inside, a fierce pride bloomed. The sapphire on my finger caught the light as I applauded, and I noticed Vanessa Cheng's eyes tracking it with interest.
"Quite a stunning ring," she commented during a lull in play. "Unique. Like your relationship, I imagine."
I smiled, running my thumb over the ring's band. "Cam has always had excellent taste."
Next to me, Coco suppressed a smirk. "Lana looks at that ring at least fifty times a day," she added helpfully. "I caught her admiring it in the ladies' room mirror earlier."
I shot her a warning look, but the Redline executives seemed charmed by this particular insight into our relationship.
The second period began with renewed intensity. Montreal, stung by the late equalizer, came out hitting harder, playing with an edge that bordered on dirty. Midway through, their defenseman delivered a vicious cross-check to Zayne's back, sending my brother crashing face-first into the boards.
My mother inhaled sharply, and the crowd roared in outrage as Zayne lay motionless for a heart-stopping moment. I tensed, half-rising from my seat, my professional detachment momentarily forgotten as fear clutched my heart. My mother gripped my father's arm, her knuckles white.
Suddenly Cam was there, dropping his gloves, spinning the Montreal player around to face him. The fight was controlled, precise – not the wild brawl typical of hockey enforcers, but the measured response of a protector. Four quick punches, and it was over. Cam stood over the fallen player, said something only the ice-level mics could pick up, then skated to the penalty box with dignified fury.
"Now that's a gentleman's fight," my father commented approvingly.
"That's why they call him 'The Hitman,'" James remarked. "Precise. Effective." He glanced at me. "Loyal."
I nodded, watching with relief as Zayne slowly got to his feet, waving off the trainer. My brother skated past the penalty box, exchanging a nod with Cam. An acknowledgment between warriors.
