Page 87 of Cold Feet
I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Around me, staff members exchanged curious glances, looking in my direction with speculative expressions. I kept my face carefully neutral, but inside, emotions crashed like the waves against our seawall.
On the monitor, I saw Zayne approach Cam as the interviews concluded. They stood on the ice, now nearly empty except for a few lingering staff members. The camera caught them in profile from behind: Zayne's intense expression, Cam's earnest response. I couldn't hear what they were saying over the noise in the corridor, but the serious set of both their faces suggested it was significant.
Their conversation appeared deep and meaningful, Cam's hand gesturing occasionally to emphasize a point while Zayne listened intently. After a moment, Zayne's posture seemed to relax slightly. The camera captured them exchanging what appeared to be a meaningful fist bump followed by the typical hockey guy half-hug, both men's expressions hidden from view. Whatever had passed between them clearly held significance.
Before I could ponder it further, my phone buzzed with a text from Cam.
CAM: Still need to hit the shower. Wait for me? We should leave together – good optics for Redline.
I hesitated, then replied:
ME: I'll meet you in the box. Don't rush. Told my parents we'd join them for a quick celebration drink with the Redline people. Great game tonight.
I paused, then added:
ME: Seriously impressive. Hat tricks look good on you.
His response came quickly:
CAM: Just wait till you see what else looks good on me. Or off me.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks and quickly locked my phone screen as a staff member approached with questions about tomorrow's media availability.Professional.I needed to be professional. But the undercurrent of anticipation flowing through me felt anything but.
Forty-five minutes later, I sat at my desk, reviewing post-game media coverage while trying not to obsessively check the time. I'd changed from my formal blazer into a more casual sweater I kept in my office for late nights, smoothed my hair, and touched up my makeup – all while telling myself these actions were unrelated to Cam's imminent arrival.
A soft knock on my door made my pulse jump.
"Come in," I called, feigning absorption in my computer screen.
Cam entered, freshly showered and changed into a tailored smoke gray suit that fit perfectly across his broad shoulders, and everywhere else for that matter. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and his face glowed with the lingering effects of athletic triumph. He carried his practice bag over his shoulder, usual sneakers replaced with dress shoes.
"Hey," he said, his voice low and warm. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
I looked up, trying to project casual professionalism. "No problem. Congratulations on the hat trick."
"Thanks." He set his bag down and leaned against my desk, close enough that I could feel the heat of exertion still radiating off of him. "Did the Redline people seem happy?"
"Ecstatic," I confirmed, swiveling slightly in my chair to put minimal distance between us before my body betrayed me. "Your performance tonight couldn't have been better timed. The fight defending Zayne was particularly appreciated: shows your loyalty and team-first mentality."
His expression shifted subtly. "That wasn't for Redline."
Our eyes locked, and the atmosphere in the office seemed to thicken. I swallowed hard.
"Well, it made an impression regardless," I said lightly, breaking eye contact to gather my things. "Ready to go? My parents and the Redline execs are waiting for us."
"Of course." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Your mom already texted me. Twice."
I groaned. "IswearI did not give her your number. She has her ways. I'm sorry. She's a bit...enthusiasticabout all this."
"I like it," he said simply. "Makes me feel like I belong somewhere."
The candid admission caught me off guard. Before I could respond, he straightened and offered me his hand.
"Shall we, Cupcake Queen? Best to give the lingering media what they want."
I took his hand, trying to ignore how perfectly our fingers interlaced. "Right. For the optics."
His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Right. The optics."
