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He adjusts his posture and then lets his gaze drift over me, his eyes traveling from my made-up face to the bare thigh below my skirt. His expression sets and I watch muscles move around his jaw.

He seems to collect his wits and asks, "Where do you need me?"

The event is straightforward — meet the college players, take photos, sign some gear, and talk to kids about what competitive hockey looks like beyond college. Cameron is absurdly good at being a WAG without drawing the limelight.

He stands behind me, smiling at teens and shaking hands with dads. Whenever someone asks him for an autograph, he shakes his head. “Sorry. This event is just for the Uprising. But have you met my gold-medalist girlfriend? She plays for the US national team.”

My undies are soaked, and not from sweat.

After the third time he offers this redirect, I look back at him, swooning. I watch as he glances at his buzzing phone, silences it, and slides it into his pocket.

This cycle seems to repeat. Hype me, then silence calls. I know him well enough to realize the calls are stressing him out—his face tightens, shoulders stiffen. The phone buzzes again during a lull.

"Hey." I catch his arm. "You can answer that. It's okay."

Cameron shakes his head. "It's my family."

"I know. That's why I'm saying it's okay."

He hesitates, and something passes across his face — embarrassment, maybe. "They're fine. Patrick just got a parking ticket and wants advice. My mother is sending me a recipe I didn't ask for. Ian needs to borrow money. Again.” He lists them like he’s praying the rosary. "I don't need to address any of this right now."

"But you feel like you should."

He presses his lips together. “I just wish my family would let me have a few hours when I tell them I’m at an event. With my girlfriend." The word lands between us. "I should be able to set that boundary without feeling like the world will collapse. I'm working on that."

"With Odin?"

"With Odin." He almost smiles.

I pull out my phone. "Come here. Let's take a photo."

"What?"

"A selfie. You and me at the event. Send it to your mom with a note saying you're busy and you'll call tomorrow. Give her something to look at so she stops texting."

Cameron blinks at me like I've proposed something revolutionary. I step close to him, hold up the phone, and lean into his chest. He smells like soap and whatever expensive product he uses after he shaves. His arm wraps around my shoulder — heavy and warm — and I snap the picture.

It's a good photo. I look like someone who wears makeup regularly, and Cameron looks like he forgot to guard himself. His head tilts slightly toward mine. He's almost smiling.

I send it to him, and he forwards it to his mother. The reply arrives in under ten seconds: a string of heart emojis and

IS THIS YOUR YOUNG LADY???

Cameron shows me the screen. "Now she'll call my brothers to discuss you instead of me."

"You're welcome."

He looks at the photo on his phone for another second before putting it away, and I pretend not to notice.

He drives me home after the event. "How's the therapy going?" I ask as we hit the highway. It's easier to talk about hard things in the dark, staring at taillights.

"Odin is ..." Cameron drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "Not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Someone who'd tell me what's wrong with me and hand me a worksheet." He merges onto my exit. "He doesn't do that."

"No," I laugh. "He does not."