"My parents don't know." Camille's voice was small. "About me. About this. They think I'm straight. Everyone thinks I'm straight."
"Does that bother you?"
"It didn't used to." Camille shifted, pressing closer against Lou's side. "Now it feels like another lie I'm telling. Another mask I'm wearing. And I'm so tired of masks."
Lou kissed her forehead, holding her close. "We don't have to figure it all out tonight."
"I know." Camille looked up at her, blue eyes luminous in the city light. "But Lou—I want you to know something."
"What?"
"This isn't casual for me." Camille's voice was steady, certain. "Whatever this is between us—it's not just physical. It's not just convenience or curiosity. I'm in this. Really in this."
Lou's chest tightened. She'd spent so long protecting herself from exactly this—from feeling too much, wanting too much, hoping for things she couldn't have.
But looking at Camille now, she couldn't find the will to pull away.
"Me too," Lou whispered. "I'm in this too."
Camille's smile was sunrise after a long night.
"Good," she said, and kissed her again.
Outside, New York kept moving—taxis and late-night pedestrians and the constant electric hum of a city that never stopped. But inside this hotel room, wrapped in Camille's arms with the taste of her still on Lou's lips, the world had narrowed to something simple and terrifying.
Lou had spent her whole life being careful. Being invisible. Protecting herself from wanting too much.
But lying here now, with Camille's heartbeat steady against her chest and the promise of something real humming between them, she couldn't remember why she'd ever thought safety was worth the loneliness.
12
The press room smelled like coffee and ambition: burnt Folgers from the hospitality table and the particular hunger of reporters who'd been waiting hours for their soundbites.
Camille sat behind the long table, microphone positioned three inches from her chin, and tried to remember how to breathe. The Valkyries had beaten the New York Panthers 4-2, a decisive victory that should have been the only story. But this was New York. Her city, her history, her carefully constructed public identity. All of it waiting in the questions that hadn't been asked yet.
Lou sat beside her, close enough that their thighs touched beneath the table's protective edge. The contact was small, hidden, but it anchored Camille to something solid while the cameras flashed and the reporters jostled for position.
"Camille, great game tonight," a voice called from the middle of the press pack. "How does it feel to be back in New York?"
The question was innocuous. The subtext wasn't.
"It feels good to play well," Camille said, deploying the polished media voice she'd spent years perfecting. "New York will always be special to me, but my focus is on Phoenix Ridge now. The team's been working hard, and tonight showed what we're capable of."
Another flash. Another question.
"Sources say you've been spending a lot of time with certain teammates off the ice. Care to comment?"
Camille's stomach clenched. Beside her, Lou's thigh pressed more firmly against her own—a warning or a reassurance, she couldn't tell. The warmth of the contact spread through her body, distracting in ways she couldn't afford right now.
"I spend time with all my teammates," Camille said evenly. "That's how you build chemistry. The kind we showed tonight."
The reporter wasn't deterred. "There have been rumors about your personal life since the breakup with Mario King. Any truth to speculation you're dating someone new?"
Mario's name landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through the room. Camille could feel the attention sharpen—cameras focusing, pens poised, the particular predatory stillness of journalists who smelled blood.
"I'm here to talk about hockey." Her voice came out harder than she intended. "If you have questions about the game, I'm happy to answer them."
"People are curious, Camille. You and Mario were together for two years. The breakup was very public. Fans want to know?—"
