“I want you to squirt in my mouth,” Lou said, her eyes never moving from Camille’s.
Camille felt her eyes widen, but she could only nod as Lou pulled her down onto the floor of the balcony.
Lou lay back on the floor pulling Camille’s hips until Camille straddled her face.
“Fuck my face,” Lou whispered. “Ride your own pleasure out on my mouth.”
Camille felt her heart rate thundering as she found her body obeying Lou’s command. She looked down into Lou’s eyes as she carefully lowered herself until her pussy met Lou’s mouth and she moaned in happiness. It felt amazing in every way. Lou began making out with her pussy as though it were her mouth. She felt Lou’s tongue and mouth everywhere, through her soaking wet folds, suckling herclitoris, finding the tight ring of muscle that was her anus and licking teasingly there.
Oh my god.
Camille felt herself relaxing into it, closing her eyes and beginning to ride Lou’s face, her orgasm building deep inside her.
When she finally came once more it was an explosion of hot liquid into Lou’s mouth, Camille’s own moan was loud into the sky.
She heard Lou swallowing loudly and then licking - at first eagerly, then as Camille’s body began to relax, the licking was slower, taking Camille back down gently and Camille never ever wanted her to stop.
9
The ice looked different on game day.
Lou had played hundreds of games in this arena, knew every scuff on the boards and every dead spot in the ice surface. But something about the energy was transformed when the stands held actual spectators instead of empty seats, when the lights burned brighter and the air crackled with anticipation. The familiar became charged, significant in ways that practice never quite achieved.
She stretched against the boards during warm-up, working through the pre-game routine that had carried her through fifteen years of competitive hockey. Leg swings, hip circles, the careful loosening of muscles that would be pushed to their limits in the next two hours. The smell of fresh ice filled her lungs—clean and cold, underlaid with the rubber scent of fresh pucks and the faint chemical tang of the resurface. Above her, the arena lights hummed their constant note, casting everything in the particular bright clarity that meant competition was coming. Around her, the Valkyries moved through their own rituals—Frankie tapingand re-taping her stick, Elise muttering what might have been prayers or affirmations, the younger players bouncing with nervous energy that experience would eventually teach them to channel.
Camille skated past, blonde ponytail streaming behind her, and Lou's carefully constructed focus shattered.
Last night replayed in vivid fragments: the steam of the shower, the softness of Camille's skin, the sounds she'd made when Lou touched her. They'd gone back to Camille's temporary apartment in one of Phoenix Ridge's nicest neighborhoods—the sex on the balcony.
Oh, the sex on the balcony.
If it never happened again it would be the most incredible sex of Lou’s life. Feeling Camille come apart completely for her was something she would never forget.
Then, they had talked until exhaustion finally claimed them both. Talked about hockey and ambition and the ways they'd learned to hide themselves. Talked about everything except what had happened in that shower, on that balcony, the earthquake that had shifted something fundamental between them.
Lou had left before dawn, slipping out while Camille was still sleeping. She'd stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the early light catch the gold of Camille's hair against the pillow, feeling something twist in her chest that was too complicated to name. Then she'd walked away, because walking away was what she did. Because staying meant admitting she wanted to stay. Because wanting anything that much had always felt dangerous.
Cowardice, maybe. Or self-preservation. She couldn't tell the difference anymore.
Now Camille caught her eye across the rink, and Lou saw the question there—the hurt that Lou's early departurehad caused, the uncertainty about what came next. She looked away before she could respond, focusing on the puck she was passing back and forth with Frankie.
"You okay?" Frankie's voice was casual, but her eyes were sharp.
"Fine."
"Uh-huh." Frankie caught the pass, held it for a beat too long. "You look like you didn't sleep."
"Pre-game nerves."
"Since when do you get pre-game nerves?" Frankie sent the puck back with more force than necessary. "Lou. Whatever's going on?—"
"Not now." Lou's voice came out harder than she intended. "After the game. I promise."
Frankie's expression said she was filing that promise for later collection. But she let it drop, because that's what seven years of friendship taught you—when to push and when to wait. Lou had been there when Frankie's marriage fell apart, when she'd shown up to practice with red-rimmed eyes and pretended she was fine. They'd learned each other's rhythms, each other's tells, each other's silences. Frankie would wait.
She returned to the easy rhythm of their warm-up routine while Lou tried to wrestle her scattered thoughts into something resembling focus.
This game mattered. The Valkyries needed wins to qualify for the PWHL, and every loss pushed that goal further out of reach. Lou couldn't afford to be distracted—not by Camille's presence on the ice, not by the memory of her body, not by the terrifying possibility of what they might be starting.
