Lou's gaze tracked Camille's movement across the ice—the fluid grace of her crossovers, the controlled power in her stride, the way her jersey clung to her shoulders as she decelerated. The morning light caught the blonde of herhair, turning it gold against the arena's institutional grey. Her face was flushed from exertion, and without the careful makeup she'd worn yesterday, her features seemed sharper somehow. More real.
She was beautiful. Lou couldn't pretend otherwise, not even to herself. The kind of beautiful that photographers chased and magazines paid premium rates for, but also something else—something that came through when the polish slipped and raw athleticism took over. The fierce concentration on her face during a shot. The way she pushed herself to accelerate even when her lungs must be burning. The competitive fire that burned in her expression.
Lou had noticed beautiful women before. She'd spent her entire adult life in locker rooms and on ice rinks, surrounded by athletic bodies and fierce spirits. But she'd learned young to keep that noticing locked away, compartmentalized, safely separate from anything that might complicate her career or her position.
This felt different. This felt dangerous.
The realization sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and unwelcome. She didn't need this. She didn't need the distraction of attraction, didn't need the complication of wanting someone who represented everything she'd spent her career avoiding. Camille was tabloid headlines and paparazzi cameras and the kind of visibility that turned private lives into public entertainment. She was exactly the sort of high-profile disaster waiting to happen that Lou had always steered clear of.
And she was skating toward Lou now, blue eyes bright with something that might have been challenge.
"Captain." Camille's voice was slightly breathless from the drill, her cheeks pink from cold and exertion. Up close, Lou could see the fine sheen of sweat on her skin, couldsmell something floral beneath the familiar arena scents of ice and effort. The cold arena air had brought color to her lips, and Lou's gaze dropped to them before she could stop herself.
Wrong. This was all wrong.
"Ready for scrimmage?" Camille asked, and there was something in her tone—a slight breathiness that might have been leftover exertion or might have been something else entirely.
"Always." Lou kept her voice flat, professional. No warmth. No invitation. "Stay in your lane and we won't have problems."
Something flickered in Camille's expression—frustration, maybe, or the sting of being dismissed. Good. Let her feel dismissed. Let her understand that Lou wasn't interested in whatever charm offensive she was mounting, wasn't going to be won over by perfect smiles and strategic friendliness.
"I always stay in my lane," Camille said. "That's how I score."
The words carried an edge that hadn't been there yesterday, a sharpness that suggested Lou's coldness had landed harder than she'd intended. For a moment, their eyes met and held—Lou's green against Camille's blue, neither willing to look away first.
Lou broke the contact, turning toward the scrimmage formation. "We'll see."
The whistle blew, and the rink became controlled chaos.
The sound of blades carving ice filled the arena, punctuated by the crack of sticks and the thud of bodies meeting boards. The smell of fresh sweat and cold air sharpened as players accelerated into their positions.
Scrimmage at Phoenix Ridge had always been physical.With limited roster spots and constant competition for playing time, practices carried the intensity of actual games. But today was different. Today, Lou was acutely aware of every movement Camille made—tracking her across the ice with a focus that had nothing to do with defensive strategy and everything to do with the uncomfortable heat that had settled in her chest since yesterday.
Camille was good. Lou had known she was good, but watching her in real-time competition was something else entirely. She moved through the defensive line like water finding cracks in stone, her stick work precise and her skating deceptively quick. When she received a pass from Rowan, she didn't hesitate—pivoting sharply and accelerating toward the goal with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what her body could do.
Lou stepped into her path.
The collision was inevitable. Lou had positioned herself to cut off Camille's angle, and Camille had committed to the play before she could adjust. They met at speed, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, and for a moment the world narrowed to the point of impact. The crash of padding against padding, the scrape of blades fighting for purchase, the sharp exhale of breath forced from lungs.
They went down together.
Lou hit the ice first, her shoulder taking the impact in a way that would bruise later. The familiar shock of cold cut through her jersey instantly, the bite of frozen surface against her back a sensation she'd experienced hundreds of times before. But this time was different. This time, Camille landed half on top of her, a tangle of limbs and gear that seemed to stretch on longer than physics should allow.
Camille's weight pressed against Lou's chest. Her hand had landed on Lou's shoulder, fingers gripping padding inan automatic attempt to brace herself. Their legs were tangled together, skate blades pointed safely away but thighs pressed close in a way that sent heat rushing through Lou's body despite the cold beneath her.
The world shrank to the small space between their faces. Lou could feel Camille's breath against her skin, warm puffs of air that smelled faintly of mint. Could feel the rapid flutter of Camille's heartbeat—or was that her own pulse, pounding so hard she couldn't tell where her body ended and Camille's began?
For one endless moment, neither of them moved.
Camille's eyes were very blue this close. Lou could see the individual flecks of darker color around her pupils, could count the faint freckles dusted across her nose that no amount of makeup could entirely hide. Her lips were parted slightly, pink from the cold, and Lou's gaze dropped to them before she could stop herself.
Camille's expression changed—surprise flickering across her features, or maybe recognition of whatever was happening in the charged space between them.
Lou scrambled out from underneath and rushed to her feet.
"Watch where you're going." Her voice came out rougher than she'd intended, the words too harsh for what had been a clean check. She extended a hand to help Camille up, because that was what captains did, and tried to ignore the jolt that ran through her when their fingers connected.
Camille's grip was strong, her palm warm despite the arena cold. She let Lou pull her to her feet, then released her hand with a quickness that suggested she'd felt the same uncomfortable electricity.
