Page 45 of Script
“Skate first, heart things after,” he announced, and then shoved me.
If I’d been expecting it, then maybe I could have stayed on my skates, as it was, I sprawled on the ice and stared up at Phillipe, who laughed.
Who was I kidding—even if I had been expecting the push, I would still have ended up on my ass.
He helped me up and bro-hugged me, then set me away from him and pointed at my knees. “Bend them!” he ordered. I rolled my eyes at him, and for a second, he gave me a death glare, and I waited for a torrent of French-Canadian abuse. Instead, he snorted another laugh and pulled me back for another hug. “Skate!”
So, we skated, we circled the rink, we shoved at each other, we shot at goal, and he told me to bend my knees twenty-three times—I know because I counted, and it broke Cam’s record of seventeen.
Then, we stopped. I was exhausted—gassed, to use the official term—and followed Phillipe down the tunnel to the locker rooms. Were we going to talk now? No, it seemed, because Phillipe stripped down and headed for the showers, with me close after.
When I was toweling my hair, he stared at me, and I wondered who was going to start this heart talk he seemed to be so desperate for.
“Don’t break Cameron’s heart,” he warned out of nowhere. “He’s a good man. A fine man with a heart that feels…” He paused, searching for a word. “Big things.”
“What are you’re talking about,” I prevaricated. Had Cam told Phillipe about us? Had he told the whole team? Did everyone out there on Instagram know about what we were doing?
“He said nothing,” Phillipe interrupted my stupid-ass imagination. “But we see things.”
“‘We’?” I asked weakly.
“The team. Cam’ron is our…” Again, he was searching. “Grand gâteau.” He frowned. “Non. Ce n’est pas un gâteau; c’est un grand cœur. Ummm, au milieu de l’équipe. Giant sweetheart for Storm.”
I nodded because I assumed he’d just summarized in accented English what he’d said in French. I could read between the lines—Cameron was the heart of the team, a big part, and his friend was worried I was going to hurt him.
I wouldn’t do that.
I missed him.
I wanted to be with him—I wanted to meet his family and earn their friendship. I wanted everyone to see how I felt about him.
“He could have anyone,” Phillipe murmured, and I leaned forward to hear him better. “But I see things, and I can see he could love you. Take care of him. Oui?”
Phillipe was up and gone before I could process what he’d said. Cam could love me. Was it outside the realm of possibility that maybe he felt the same way about me as I did him? Could I have fallen in love in just a few weeks? Or was it the freedom of allowing myself to have this with him? Was I drunk on the possibilities?
What would I be like if he wasn’t in my life anymore?
Would I be okay with that?
No. I wanted more; I wanted Cam for as long as I could imagine.
So maybe this was the start of love, the seed of something more.
After all, why not? When the time is right, the heart knows.
This new love was an enormous pressure in my chest that made me want to tell the world I was with Cameron Chavkin, and to do it now.
Yeah.
Love.
What about my part inThe Cup? What about my career? What about not being hired for parts because of who I slept with? What about Cameron and his testosterone-laced team?
The what-abouts were killing me.
The car servicetook me from the rink directly to the studio, and once dropped off I headed up to the labyrinth of rooms on the fifth floor. From the window, the entirety of Hollywood lay out in all directions, a community of story tellers that loved their work. I was at home here. I belonged here.
I loved Cam.
