I stared at the crumpled paper in Cameron’s hand—my paper, the sketch I’d hidden for three years—and felt my stomach drop.”You kept this?” He didn’t answer. Just looked at me with those impossibly calm eyes while half the school streamed past us in the hallway. “Cameron, why do you still have this?” His jaw tightened. “Because you drew me, Aivera. Not Jackson. Me.” The noise around us faded. Three years of hating him, three years of believing he’d humiliated me, and now he was standing here holding the proof that I’d lied to myself about everything. “That’s not—” “Right-handed,” he said quietly. “The guy in this drawing shoots right. Jackson’s a lefty.” My throat closed. Behind him, Brienne was watching us. Smiling.

PART 3 

Chapter 1

The thing about fake dating Cameron Moss was that he didn’t do anything halfway.

Monday morning, he was waiting at my locker with coffee—iced vanilla latte, no whip, extra shot—which I’d never told him was my order. He handed it to me in front of half the junior class, then slung an arm around my shoulders like we’d been together for months.

“Morning, girlfriend.”

I nearly dropped the cup. “You can’t just—”

“Rule number one,” he said, steering me down the hallway. “You pretend this is real, or the bet doesn’t count. That means I get to be your boyfriend in public.”

“This is insane.”

“You shook on it.”

Jackson was standing by the water fountain. He saw us. His face went carefully blank.

Guilt twisted through my chest.

Cameron’s arm tightened around me. Not possessive. Grounding.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “He’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do. Jackson’s a good guy. That’s the problem.”

I pulled away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cameron stopped walking. The hallway flowed around us—people staring, whispering, pulling out phones.

“It means you’re with him because he’s easy. Because your parents like him. Because he doesn’t make you feel anything complicated.” His voice dropped. “I make you feel complicated, Carter. That’s why you hate me.”

“I hate you because you’re arrogant.”

“Try again.”

“Because you humiliated me.”

“I didn’t. But yeah, sure. What else?”

My hands were shaking. “Because when I’m around you, I can’t think straight. Because you look at me like you can see through every defense I’ve built. Because I spent three years convincing myself you were the enemy, and now you’re standing here telling me it was all a lie, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

The words spilled out before I could stop them.

Cameron went very still.

“There it is,” he said softly.

Behind him, Brienne was watching us again. She didn’t look amused anymore.

She looked furious.

Cameron’s hand found mine. His thumb brushed across my knuckles—once, twice—and then he was leading me away from the stares, away from Jackson and Brienne and everyone who wanted this to be a disaster.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere you can actually breathe.”

He took me to the art room. It was empty, first period still fifteen minutes away. He locked the door behind us.

“Talk,” he said.

“About what?”

“Why you stopped drawing.”

I sat down at one of the worktables. “You know why.”

“I know the story you tell yourself. I want the real reason.”

The real reason.

I traced a finger through the dust on the table. “Because it scared me. How much I wanted to draw you. How many pages I filled with your face before I even understood what that meant.” I looked up. “I was fifteen, Cameron. I didn’t know how to handle feeling that way about someone who barely knew I existed.”

“I knew.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I knew you sat three rows back in calc. I knew you always brought a sketchbook to lunch. I knew you chewed on your pencil when you were thinking, and you only ever smiled—really smiled—when you thought no one was watching.” He crossed the room. “I knew exactly who you were, Aivera. I just didn’t know how to tell you without sounding like a psycho.”

My breath caught.

“So when I found that drawing,” he continued, “and realized you’d been seeing me the same way I saw you—” He shook his head. “I wasn’t gonna let Brienne destroy that. Even if you never talked to me again.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“You should’ve asked.”

“You could’ve—”

“So could you.” He pulled out the chair next to mine. Sat down close enough that our knees touched. “We’ve both been idiots, Carter. Question is, are we done being idiots now?”

The morning light filtered through the high windows, catching the dust motes between us.

“I’m still with Jackson,” I said quietly.

“Are you?”

“Technically.”

“Then break up with him. If you’re gonna do this bet, do it right. Don’t play games with his feelings because you’re scared of yours.”

He was right.

God, I hated that he was right.

“I’ll talk to him today,” I said.

Cameron nodded. Stood. “Good. Because tonight, I’m taking you somewhere. Wear something warm.”

“Cameron—”

“Rule number two.” He unlocked the door. “You let me show you who I am. No filters. No defenses. Just us.”

“That’s terrifying.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “Yeah. But you shook on it.”

Chapter 2

Breaking up with Jackson was harder than I expected.

He took it quietly, standing in the parking lot after school with his hands in his pockets and that patient, understanding expression that made me feel like the worst person alive.

“It’s Cameron, isn’t it,” he said.

“Jackson—”

“It’s okay.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I always kind of knew. You never looked at me the way you look at him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You can’t help who you—” He stopped. Shook his head. “Just be careful, okay? Cameron’s got a lot going on that you don’t know about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ask him about his parents. About why he’s really doing this recruitment thing.” Jackson squeezed my shoulder. “You deserve someone who’s all in, Aivera. Make sure he is before you fall too hard.”

He walked away before I could respond.

I stood there, keys in hand, and felt my phone buzz.

Cameron: Done?

Me: How did you know I was talking to him right now?

Cameron: Lucky guess. Meet me at the warehouse. 7pm. Don’t be late.

He’d transformed the place again.

Candles lined the makeshift rink. More string lights overhead. A folding table in the center with takeout containers and two mismatched chairs.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Date number one. Real version.” Cameron pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

“You made dinner?”

“I bought dinner. Don’t get crazy.” He opened the containers—Thai food, my favorite dishes, which I’d also never told him. “But I figured we should do this right. The whole dating thing. See what happens when we’re not at each other’s throats.”

I sat. “Cameron, what did Jackson mean about your parents?”

His expression shuttered. “We’re not talking about them tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because tonight’s about us. Not them. Not expectations. Not the future. Just—” He gestured between us. “This. Whatever this is.”

“A bet.”

“It stopped being a bet the second you walked into this warehouse on Saturday.”

My heart kicked against my ribs.

Cameron pushed a container toward me. “Eat. Then I’m teaching you to skate.”

“I already know how to skate.”

“Not like this.”

An hour later, I was wearing borrowed hockey skates and wobbling across the taped-out rink while Cameron glided backward in front of me, hands out, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

“You’re terrible at this,” he said.

“I’m a figure skater. This is different.”

“Excuses.”

I tried to stop. Lost my balance. He caught me, arms around my waist, steadying me against his chest.

We both went still.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi.”

This close, I could see the scar above his left eyebrow. The slight crook in his nose from a break that hadn’t set right. The way his eyes weren’t quite blue, more gray-green in the candlelight.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” Cameron said. “Unless you tell me not to.”

I should’ve told him to wait. Should’ve said it was too fast, too much, too real.

Instead, I tilted my face up.

His mouth met mine soft and certain, like he’d been thinking about this for years. His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and I stopped thinking about bets and mistakes and what any of this meant.

I just kissed him back.

When we broke apart, his forehead rested against mine.

“Still hate me?” he murmured.

“Ask me again in six days.”

His laugh was low and rough. “Fair enough.”

But his arms stayed around me, and I didn’t pull away, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew Jackson had been right.

I was already falling too hard.

Chapter 3

Tuesday, Cameron picked me up before school and drove us to a diner forty minutes outside town.

“Why are we here?” I asked.

“Because in our school, we’re Cameron and Aivera—hockey star and honor student, the bet everyone’s talking about. Out here, we’re nobody. Just two people having breakfast.”

He slid into a booth by the window. Ordered pancakes and coffee for both of us without asking what I wanted—and somehow got it exactly right.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?”

“Know things about me I never told you.”

Cameron leaned back. “I pay attention. You get the same lunch every day. You only drink iced coffee, never hot. You bite your thumbnail when you’re anxious. You—”

“Okay, that’s borderline creepy.”

“It’s observant. There’s a difference.” He grinned. “Besides, you know things about me too. You just don’t think about it that way.”

“Like what?”

“Like how I only wear my jersey inside out on game days. Or how I always tape my stick exactly forty-five minutes before puck drop. Or—” He paused. “How I stop talking when my dad calls. You noticed that last week. In the hallway before chem.”

I had noticed that.

His phone had rung, he’d looked at the screen, and something had shifted in his expression—something dark and tired that didn’t belong on his face.

“What does your dad want?” I asked carefully.

Cameron’s jaw tightened. “For me to stop wasting my time on a dead-end sport and commit to the future he’s been planning since I was six.”

“Which is?”

“Business school. Finance internship. Partnership track at his firm.” He stared at his coffee. “He’s got the next twenty years mapped out. Hockey isn’t part of it.”

“But you have scouts coming to the qualifier.”

“Yeah. And if they offer me a development contract, I’m taking it. Even if it means—” He stopped.

“Means what?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Cameron—”

“Drop it, Carter.”

It wasn’t a request.

The waitress brought our food. We ate in silence for a while, the easy intimacy from last night replaced by something heavier.

Finally, Cameron spoke again.

“My dad thinks hockey players are glorified frat boys. He thinks I’m throwing away my potential. And if I sign with a team instead of going to his alma mater—” He looked out the window. “He’ll cut me off. Fully. No tuition money, no trust fund, no safety net.”

My stomach sank. “Cameron, that’s—”

“It’s fine. I don’t need his money. I just need to be good enough on Friday.” His eyes met mine. “That’s why this week matters. Not because of some stupid bet. Because after Friday, everything changes. And I needed—”

He stopped again.

“Needed what?”

“To know if this thing between us was real. Before I blow up my entire life.”

The weight of that hit me square in the chest.

“You’re using the bet to test me,” I said slowly.

“No. I’m using the bet to make you stop lying to yourself long enough to see what’s been in front of you for three years.” He reached across the table. Laced his fingers through mine. “I’m all in, Aivera. Question is, are you?”

I looked at our joined hands.

At the boy who’d kept my drawing for three years.

At the future he was willing to sacrifice for a dream everyone else called foolish.

“I’m scared,” I whispered.

“Yeah. Me too.” His thumb traced circles on my palm. “But I’d rather be scared with you than safe with someone else.”

We skipped first period. Drove to the lake instead and sat on the hood of his brother’s truck, watching the water and not talking about the clock ticking down toward Friday.

“Tell me about the scouts,” I said eventually.

Cameron tilted his head back. “There’s three coming. Two junior league teams, one from a college program I’d actually want. If any of them make an offer, I have seventy-two hours to decide before it goes to the next guy on their list.”

“That’s fast.”

“That’s hockey.” He glanced at me. “My dad’s already threatening to block it. He’s got lawyers. Connections. He thinks if he makes it hard enough, I’ll give up and fall in line.”

“Will you?”

“Would you? If your parents told you to stop drawing forever, would you listen?”

I thought about the sketchbook under my bed. The pages I filled late at night when the house was quiet and no one could see. The way my hands ached when I went too long without putting pencil to paper.

“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then you get it.” Cameron hopped off the hood. Held out his hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

He led me down to the water’s edge. Pulled a Sharpie from his pocket and handed it to me.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Draw on me.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Pick a spot. Draw whatever you want. I want to be able to look down and remember today.”

“Cameron, that’s—”

“Permanent until it fades. Yeah. That’s the point.”

I stared at him. At the absolute certainty in his expression.

Then I took his hand, pushed up his sleeve, and started sketching on his forearm.

A hockey stick. A pencil crossed behind it. Our initials tangled in the negative space.

When I finished, Cameron studied it for a long moment.

“Perfect,” he said quietly.

And when he kissed me this time, it felt like a promise neither of us knew how to keep.

Chapter 4

Wednesday, everything started to unravel.

It began with Brienne cornering me in the locker room after gym.

“You know he’s just using you, right?” she said, blocking the door.

“Excuse me?”

“Cameron. This whole bet thing. He’s doing it to piss off his parents. You’re a rebellion, Aivera. Not a relationship.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” She smiled. “I’ve known him a lot longer than you have. And trust me, Cameron Moss doesn’t do commitment. He does conquests. Once he wins, he’ll move on.”

“Like he moved on from you?” I shot back.

Her expression hardened. “Careful.”

“No. You’re the one who needs to be careful. You’re the one who destroyed my drawing. Who spent three years making me think Cameron was the bad guy because he rejected you.” I stepped closer. “You’re the reason we wasted all this time. So if anyone here is using people, Brienne, it’s you.”

She went very still.

“You really think he’s going to choose you over his future?” she said quietly. “Over his family’s money, his safety net, everything his father’s offering? He’s going to sign that contract, realize what he’s giving up, and blame you for it. That’s who Cameron is. He’s selfish. And you’re the collateral damage.”

She walked out.

I stood there, hands shaking, and hated that her words had found every insecure corner of my mind.

Cameron knew something was wrong the second he saw me.

“What happened?” he asked, meeting me at my locker during lunch.

“Nothing.”

“Carter—”

“Brienne said you’re using me. That this is all about rebelling against your dad, and once you get what you want, you’ll bail.”

His face went dark. “And you believe her.”

“I don’t know what to believe. You’ve spent three years barely talking to me, and now suddenly you’re all in? It’s—” I struggled for words. “It’s a lot, Cameron. And Friday’s coming, and you’re about to make this huge decision, and what if she’s right? What if I’m just the convenient excuse you need to justify blowing up your life?”

“Is that really what you think?”

“I think you scare me. I think this scares me.”

Cameron stared at me for a long moment. Then he pulled out his phone, typed something, and handed it to me.

It was a text thread with his father. Dated two months ago—long before the bet.

Dad: We need to discuss your future. This hockey obsession ends now.

Cameron: It’s not an obsession. It’s my career.

Dad: You don’t have a career. You have a childish fantasy. I’ve arranged an interview at Princeton for November. You’ll attend.

Cameron: I’m not going to Princeton.

Dad: Then you’re not my son.

I scrolled up. The thread went back months. Years, even. Fight after fight, threat after threat. And in the middle of it all, one message from Cameron:

Cameron: I met someone. I don’t know if she’ll ever feel the same way, but if she does, I’m not letting your bullshit ruin it.

That message was dated three months ago.

“Still think this is about rebellion?” Cameron asked quietly.

I couldn’t speak.

He took the phone back. “I’ve been watching you for years, Aivera. I’ve been trying to figure out how to get you to see me—really see me—since sophomore year. This bet was just the first time you gave me an opening. So no. You’re not collateral damage. You’re the whole damn point.”

Tears burned behind my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Don’t be sorry. Be sure.” He cupped my face. “Because Friday’s coming, and after that, I need to know if you’re with me or not. I can handle losing my family. I can handle starting over with nothing. But I can’t handle losing you because you’re too scared to believe this is real.”

“I believe you.”

“Then stop listening to Brienne. Stop looking for reasons this won’t work.” His forehead touched mine. “And start trusting that maybe—just maybe—we both finally got something right.”

I kissed him.

Right there in the hallway, with half the school watching, I kissed him like he was the only solid thing in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.

When we broke apart, he was smiling.

“Four more days,” he murmured.

“Four more days.”

Chapter 5

Thursday afternoon, Cameron’s parents showed up at the school.

I was in the library when I got the text.

Cameron: Don’t come to the parking lot. I mean it.

I went to the parking lot.

Cameron was standing between his truck and a sleek black Mercedes, facing a man in an expensive suit and a woman with perfect posture and cold eyes.

“—throwing your life away for what?” his father was saying. “A ten-year career if you’re lucky? And then what?”

“Then I figure it out. Like everyone else.”

“You are not everyone else. You’re a Moss. That comes with responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities you decided for me. I never agreed to any of this.”

His mother finally spoke. “Cameron, please. Be reasonable. We’re not asking you to give up hockey entirely. Just—prioritize your education. Get your degree. If you still want to play afterward—”

“The scouts are coming tomorrow, Mom. If I don’t take this shot now, there won’t be an afterward.”

“Then you’re making a choice,” his father said flatly. “Hockey or family. You can’t have both.”

“Then I choose hockey.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

His father’s expression didn’t change. “Then don’t come home. Don’t call. Don’t expect a single cent from us ever again.”

“Fine.”

“Cameron—” his mother started.

“I said fine.” He looked at her. “I’ve spent eighteen years trying to be what you wanted. I’m done. If you can’t support me doing the one thing I actually care about, then we don’t have anything left to say to each other.”

His father turned. Saw me standing there.

“This is about her, isn’t it,” he said. Not a question.

Cameron glanced back. His jaw tightened. “Leave her out of this.”

“She’s the reason you’re throwing away everything we’ve built—”

“No. You’re the reason. You and your control and your obsession with legacy.” Cameron stepped forward. “Aivera’s the only person who’s ever looked at me and seen what I could be instead of what you want me to be. So yeah. If you need someone to blame, blame me. Not her.”

His father looked at me with open contempt.

“I hope you understand what you’ve done, young lady. You’ve convinced my son to destroy his future for a teenage infatuation that won’t last six months.”

“Sir—” I started.

“How much?” he cut me off.

I blinked. “What?”

“How much will it take for you to walk away? Fifty thousand? A hundred?”

Cameron moved between us. “Don’t.”

“She’s using you, son. Girls like her always do. Let me pay her off and end this before—”

“Get the hell away from us. Both of you.”

His mother flinched. His father just stared, expression unreadable.

Then they got in the Mercedes and left.

Cameron stood there, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists.

I walked over slowly. “Cameron—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine, Carter.” He wouldn’t look at me. “Go home. I need to—I need to be alone right now.”

“Cameron, please—”

“Go. Home.”

The rawness in his voice stopped me.

I wanted to argue. Wanted to stay. But I could see the walls going up, the defenses snapping back into place, and I knew pushing would only make it worse.

So I left.

And I hated myself for it.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept seeing his father’s face. The contempt. The casual cruelty of offering me money like I was a problem to be solved instead of a person.

At two in the morning, I gave up and grabbed my sketchbook.

I drew Cameron.

Not the arrogant hockey star everyone else saw, but the boy who’d kept my drawing for three years. The boy who was willing to lose everything for a dream. The boy who looked at me like I was worth the fight.

When I finished, I took a photo and texted it to him.

Me: You’re not alone. Even when you think you are.

He didn’t respond.

But at 3:17 AM, I got a notification.

Cameron: liked your message.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough.

Chapter 6

Friday arrived cold and bright, the kind of morning that felt like a beginning and an ending all at once.

I wore Cameron’s jersey to school. Number 17, his name across my shoulders, and I didn’t care who saw or what they thought.

He found me before first period, looking exhausted but steady.

“You came,” he said.

“I told you I would.”

He pulled me into an empty classroom. Kissed me hard and desperate, like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.

“Tonight,” he murmured against my lips. “After the game. Win or lose, scouts or no scouts, I need you there.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

The Regional Qualifier was packed.

Three hundred people in the stands, college banners on the walls, scouts with clipboards sitting front row. The air smelled like ice and sweat and anticipation.

I sat with Cameron’s teammates’ girlfriends, wearing his jersey, hands shaking.

When Cameron skated onto the ice, he looked up. Found me.

I pressed my hand to my heart.

He mirrored the gesture.

Then the puck dropped, and everything else disappeared.

Cameron played like his life depended on it.

Every shift, every shot, every block—he was everywhere, relentless and brilliant and utterly in control. By the end of the second period, we were up 3-1, and all three goals belonged to him.

The scouts were leaning forward now, writing furiously.

In the third period, the other team came back hard. 3-2. Then 3-3 with six minutes left.

Cameron won the face-off. Carried the puck up ice, weaving through defenders like they weren’t even there. He passed to his winger, got it back on the return, and snapped a shot top shelf.

Goal.

The buzzer sounded. 4-3. We won.

The arena exploded.

Cameron’s team mobbed him on the ice, and when they finally let him up, he yanked off his helmet and looked straight at me.

He pointed.

The crowd followed his gaze.

And then, impossibly, he was skating over to the boards, climbing up, and kissing me in front of everyone.

The arena lost its mind.

When he pulled back, he was grinning. “I’m all in, Carter. You?”

I was crying. “Yeah. I’m all in.”

After the game, the scouts approached him in the hallway.

I hung back, giving them space, watching Cameron’s face cycle through disbelief and hope and carefully controlled excitement.

Ten minutes later, he walked over, paperwork in hand.

“They offered me a development contract. Two years, with an option for a third. It’s—” His voice cracked. “It’s everything.”

“Cameron, that’s amazing.”

“I have to sign by Monday.”

“So sign.”

“My dad’s going to fight this. He’s going to make it as hard as possible.”

“Let him.” I took his hand. “You’re not doing this alone anymore.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he pulled me close, buried his face in my hair, and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For seeing me.”

The team voted him MVP. They made him give a speech.

He stood there, trophy in hand, and said:

“I used to think hockey was about proving something. To my parents, to scouts, to anyone who doubted me. But this season taught me it’s not about proving anything. It’s about showing up for the people who show up for you. So—” He looked at me. “This one’s for the girl who kept my drawing. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

The crowd cheered.

I covered my face with my hands, laughing and crying at the same time.

And when they finally let him leave the ice, he came straight to me, lifted me off my feet, and kissed me like we had all the time in the world.

“One week,” he murmured. “You made it one week.”

“You won the bet.”

“No. We both won.”

Behind him, Brienne was leaving the arena. She didn’t look back.

Jackson caught my eye from across the concourse. He smiled—a real one this time—and nodded.

Cameron’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his expression went carefully blank.

“Your dad?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” He silenced the phone. Took my hand. “Come on. I want to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

He drove us back to the warehouse.

Inside, he’d set up one final surprise: a blank canvas on an easel, a full set of oil paints, and a handwritten note.

For every drawing you didn’t make because you were scared. Start now.

I turned. He was watching me, hands in his pockets, nervous in a way I’d never seen before.

“Cameron—”

“You gave up something you loved because of a lie someone told about me. I can’t fix the three years we lost. But I can give you a reason to start again.” He stepped closer. “So paint. Draw. Whatever you want. And if it’s me, that’s fine. If it’s not, that’s fine too. Just—don’t stop creating because you’re scared. Not anymore.”

I kissed him.

Slow and soft and full of every unsaid thing I didn’t have words for yet.

When we finally broke apart, I picked up a brush.

“Stay,” I said.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

So he sat on the couch, and I painted, and for the first time in three years, I didn’t feel like I was hiding.

I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Chapter 7

Monday morning, Cameron signed the contract.

His parents didn’t show. Didn’t call. The only people in the office were Cameron, his brother as witness, the team’s representative, and me.

When he put pen to paper, his hand was steady.

Afterward, we walked out into the parking lot, and he stopped, staring at the sky like he was seeing it for the first time.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I just signed away the next two years of my life to chase a dream most people think is stupid.”

“Yeah.”

“And my family’s never going to forgive me.”

“Probably not.”

He looked at me. “And I don’t regret a single second of it.”

I took his hand. “Good. Because I didn’t spend a week fake-dating you just to watch you back out now.”

He laughed. “It stopped being fake on day two.”

“Day one.”

“You’re telling me you knew on day one?”

“I knew three years ago. I just needed you to prove I wasn’t wrong.”

Cameron pulled me close, right there in the parking lot, and kissed me until I forgot what we were arguing about.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. “So what now?”

“Now you play hockey. I go to art school. We figure it out as we go.”

“That’s a terrible plan.”

“You have a better one?”

“Not even a little bit.” He laced our fingers together. “But I’m all in, Carter. Long as you are.”

I looked at the boy who’d kept my drawing for three years.

The boy who’d chosen his dream over his family’s money.

The boy who looked at me like I was the best thing he’d ever fought for.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m all in.”

Six months later, I got a text.

Cameron: Check your email.

I opened my laptop.

It was a photo. Cameron on the ice, mid-game, number 17 visible. And in the crowd behind him, barely visible but unmistakable—a girl in his jersey, sketching in a notebook.

The caption read: Some things are worth the fight.

I smiled.

Typed back: All of them are. When it’s the right person.

Cameron: Come to the game tonight. I want you in the stands when we win.

Me: Confident.

Cameron: Realistic. I play better when you’re watching.

Me: That’s not how hockey works.

Cameron: That’s exactly how hockey works. See you at seven, Carter. Wear the jersey.

I wore the jersey.

We won.

And when Cameron pointed at me from the ice, I knew—win or lose, scouts or no scouts, family approval or disownment—we’d made the right choice.

Both of us.

Together.