Page 78 of Married As Puck
My eyes are fixed on Cameron in the rink. Every time he darts past, I scream like an idiot and it’s ridiculous because this isn’t supposed to be anything. It’s just supposed to be an arrangement but try telling that to my heart, because it’s gone traitor on me. Collins had given me a pep talk on the way here, but my current actions aren’t because of that. I’m genuinely rooting for Cameron. He has put in so much into preparing for this game and their team deserves to win.
“Go, Cameron!” I yell, my voice disappearing in the crowd. I keep cheering and wishing he’d look over at me.
The whistle is blown and it’s time for the first intermission. That should probably last for fifteen minutes as I was told. The score is still zero-zero. The players disappear toward the locker rooms with fans cheering enthusiastically. This is my chance. I push through the crowd and make my way to them. I check my phone to see if Keith has responded to my message. I don’t want Cameron to spot me down there because he’s going to sense that something’s up and I don’t want to upset him.
Keith comes out as I get there, a towel over his shoulder. “Hey, Brie. What’s up? Make it quick, please. There’s no time left.”
“It’s Jack. He’s planning to ruin Cameron for good. He tried to make a deal with me, but I rejected it.”
Keith freezes, towel halfway to his face. His smile, always half there, is gone now. “What exactly did he say to you?”
“That he knows the marriage is fake and he’d use it to wreck Cameron’s image. What’s the problem with him? What did Cameron ever do to him?”
“Cameron hasn’t told you?”
I shake my head.
“Five minutes left!” I hear the Coach shout from inside.
Keith glances towards the locker room, then back, “Okay, thanks for not telling Cameron. He needs to stay focused in the remaining periods of the game. I’ll handle it.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and head back to my seat.
The game resumes and Cameron is racing through the ice like he was born on it.
Midway through the second period, I notice that his posture is tense.
“What—” I mutter following his line of vision. There’s a man just sitting there, calmly among the fans, not cheering, not moving. The hair and jawline bear a striking resemblance to…
I gasp as my mind fully processes the thought. “What in the world?!”
29
The air is electric with the boisterous chants of the fans, spurring us on. The puck hits the ice, my skates dig in, and I press forward like everything depends on this one game because it does. Championship night. The game I’ve worked my ass off for.
It’s still a tie for now and that’s mostly because we’ve been able to hold the fort down. There’s been no casualty either and I’m grateful for that.
As the game continues, I feel a weird, prickling sensation at the back of my head. It’s that type of feeling that comes when someone is watching you, which is ridiculous, because over twenty thousand people are literally watching me right now.
I ignore the feeling, and I push harder, chasing the puck, but my mind won’t let it go. I scan the stands mid-play, like an idiot risking a turnover just to figure it out and then I freeze.
My chest locks up and my throat goes dry.
What the hell is he doing here? How did he even…
Mr. Gray. My father. The man I promised myself never to be like.
He’s seated up there like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He’s wearing a black Italian suit, hair the same color as mine, his arms folded. There’s also that blank expression I’ve seen a thousand times in my nightmares.
For a second I feel my stomach churn and bile rises to my throat. I’m convinced I might actually puke inside my helmet. My vision blurs and my hands tighten on my stick until my knuckles ache. He’s here, watching me as if there’s nothing off about his presence here on such an important occasion. He’s probably here to prove to me that I’m a nobody just like he always told me when I was growing up. How bold of him to reappear after all this time. After this game, I’ll go right up to him and give him a piece of my mind, the press be damned.
“Cam! Move it!” Keith’s muffled voice cuts through the haze. The puck is back in play and I’m just standing here like an idiot. I jerk back into motion, shoving down the nausea clawing up my throat.
Shit. Focus, Cameron, Focus.
I lift my head and somewhere across the rink, Jack catches my eye. He’s grinning like a devil.
Sonofabitch!
