Page 88 of Cold Feet
We walked through the arena corridors hand in hand, nodding to staff members and lingering reporters. The energy between us felt electric, charged with something I couldn't – or wouldn't – name.
Back in the VIP suite, a small celebration was already underway. My parents, the Redline executives, and a few team officials mingled over drinks. My mother beamed when she spotted us, hurrying over to embrace Cam with unabashed enthusiasm.
"Three goals! What a performance!" she exclaimed. "We're so proud of you, Cameron."
I watched as Cam's expression softened, his smile genuine as he accepted her praise. Something gooey tugged at my heart – he wasn't just playing a part anymore. He was soaking in the Decker family warmth like a man who'd been cold for too long. I suddenly realized just how much it meant to him to have my parents there, supporting him. A strange mixture of guilt and tenderness washed over me.
"Couldn't have done it without Frank's advice," he replied, nodding toward my father. "That adjustment made all the difference."
My father clasped Cam's shoulder, his expression pleased. "You implemented it perfectly. Textbook execution."
I watched the interaction with growing awareness. All the things my parents had said about Cam at the beach house were true. He was a generational talent, as my father claimed. He was great with kids, as my mother had observed. He did love fishing with my brother and father. He fit into our family as if he'd always been there.
And my family had fully embraced him, rallying around to support him with the Redline executives. I felt a swell of pride at how easily they'd accepted him, how naturally they treated him as one of our own. This was a Deckerfirst.
James Whitley approached, champagne flute in hand. "Mr. Murphy, spectacular performance tonight. Exactly the kind of presence Redline is looking to associate with."
"Please, call me Cam," he replied easily, his arm sliding around my waist in a gesture that felt both possessive and protective. "And I appreciate your support. I'm looking forward to our meeting on Thursday."
"As are we," Vanessa added, her eyes moving between Cam and me with undisguised interest. "And perhaps Ms. Decker will join us as well?"
I forced a professional smile. "I'll be coordinating the media aspects, of course."
"Of course," she said smoothly. "But we'd also value your perspective as someone... personally invested in Cam's future."
I felt Cam's hand tighten slightly at my waist, “Everything’s better when Lana’s around.”
James agreed, raising his glass. "To tonight's hat trick… and to many more victories ahead."
We all clinked glasses, the moment picture-perfect for our carefully constructed narrative. But as the conversation continued around us, Cam's hand never left my waist, his thumb tracing some unknown pattern against my hip through the fabric of my dress. Each touch sent electricity skittering across my skin, making it increasingly difficult to focus on the business discussion.
My mother sidled up to Cam, linking her arm through his free one and leaning in conspiratorially. "We've got them right where we want them," she whispered, though not quite quietly enough that I couldn't hear.
Cam's surprised laugh was genuine, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he squeezed her hand affectionately. "Diana Decker, master strategist. I'm not surprised."
My mother preened, clearly delighted by his response. "Well, we take care of our own, dear. Always have."
The casual inclusion in "our own" wasn't lost on Cam. I could see it in the way his expression softened, in the subtle straightening of his shoulders. He seemed like he belonged here, with my family, in a way that had nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with who he was.
The realization left me breathless.
After about twenty minutes of obligatory socializing, during which Cam's hand found seemingly endless excuses to touch me – my waist, my lower back, my elbow, even a quick brush of his fingers against mine as he handed me a fresh drink – he smoothly made our excuses.
"I hate to cut this short," he said, the perfect blend of apologetic and exhausted athlete, "but it's been a very long day, and we have an early practice tomorrow."
I hate to cut the night short, I thought to myself,but I can't wait one more second to rip this man's clothes off...
My mother hugged us both goodbye, whispering something in Cam's ear that made him laugh. My father shook his hand firmly, promising to call with more observations from the game. The Redline executives seemed thoroughly charmed by the entire Decker family dynamic and Cam's place within it.
We made our exit, hand in hand, through the main concourse where a few lingering fans and media personnel snapped photos. Perfect optics indeed.
But once we reached his car in the darkness of the executive parking area, something shifted. The air between us crackled with tension as he unlocked my door, his body close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. Our eyes met, and suddenly the last shreds of pretense fell away.
"Lana," he said, my name a low rumble that sent electricity shooting through my body like a downed power line.
Suddenly I was breathless. "Puck Daddy."
He grinned, a slow, predatory smile that made my heart race. He stepped closer, caging me against the car, one hand braced beside my head, the other settling on my hip. His touch was firm, possessive, and sent a jolt of desire through me. "Tell me to stop," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "Tell me this is all just for show."
