Hope was a dangerous thing. She'd learned that earlyand often, learned to crush it before it could take root and make the inevitable disappointment worse.
But standing in that quiet room, looking down at the ice that had been her whole world for almost a decade, Lou let it stay.
Not yet.
2
The private jet was a mistake.
Camille realized it the moment the photographer's lens caught sunlight on the tarmac, that familiar flash she'd learned to spot from peripheral vision years ago. She'd requested the charter specifically to avoid the commercial terminal, the crowds, the inevitable phone cameras documenting her walk of shame away from everything she'd built in New York. Instead, she'd handed the tabloids a gift: "Camille Laurent-Dubois Flees to Private Jet After Mario Breakup."
She could already write the headlines. She'd written enough of them herself, in her head, before the publicists got involved.
The leather seat molded to her body as the plane lifted off, soft and expensive against her cashmere sweater. The Manhattan skyline tilted away beneath clouds that looked like cotton batting against February grey, the Chrysler Building catching one last glint of morning sun before the clouds swallowed it. Camille pressed her forehead to the cool window glass and watched the city shrink, all thosebuildings she'd learned to navigate, all those restaurants where she'd smiled for paparazzi while Mario's hand rested on her lower back like a brand, all those memories she was running from with the graceless desperation of someone who'd finally run out of better options.
Good riddance.
The thought surprised her with its vehemence. She was supposed to be heartbroken. That was the narrative: star athlete mourns end of fairy-tale relationship, retreats to rebuild herself. Her publicist had prepared statements, suggested timelines for recovery, recommended a "soft re-emergence" that would maximize sympathy while maintaining her brand appeal.
Camille had smiled and nodded and signed the Phoenix Ridge contract three hours later.
She pulled her phone from her bag, designer because everything she owned had become designer somewhere along the way, part of the costume she'd assembled piece by piece, and scrolled through the notifications she'd been ignoring. Fifty-seven texts from numbers she'd have to block. Fourteen voicemails she'd never listen to. Her agent, her publicist, her mother, three different brand managers, and buried somewhere in the noise, the single name that made her stomach clench.
Mario.
She deleted his message without reading it. Whatever he wanted to say, whatever justification or manipulation or perfectly crafted apology his people had written for him, she didn't need to hear. Two years of her life spent building a relationship that looked perfect from every angle, and in the end she'd discovered it was exactly that: all angles, no depth. A partnership of mutual advancement disguised as romance.
The worst part wasn't that Mario had cheated. The worst part was that Camille had known for six months and kept smiling anyway, because the alternative meant admitting she'd built her public identity on a foundation of lies.
So here she was. Thirty thousand feet above Pennsylvania, probably, heading toward a city she'd never visited to play for a team she'd barely researched, and for the first time in years, something in her chest felt like it might be loosening.
Phoenix Ridge.
She'd said the name to her agent and watched his face cycle through confusion, concern, and finally the diplomatic blankness that meant he thought she'd lost her mind. Phoenix Ridge was semi-professional. Phoenix Ridge had never qualified for the PWHL. Phoenix Ridge was so far beneath her current level that taking this contract was, objectively, career suicide.
Camille had signed it anyway.
She heard Phoenix Ridge was a feminist city and she wanted a part of that.
She turned away from the window and caught her reflection in the blank screen of the seat-back television: hair still perfect from this morning's airport look, makeup still precisely applied despite the lack of audience. The armor she put on every day without thinking, so practiced now that she couldn't remember what her face looked like without it.
What did people even do when no one was watching? She'd stopped knowing years ago.
The flight attendant appeared with champagne, because apparently private jets came with the assumption that passengers wanted to celebrate their escape from reality. Camille accepted it with the smile she'd perfected atfourteen, warm but not too warm, appreciative but not effusive, the exact calibration of friendliness that read as genuine without inviting conversation.
"First time in Phoenix Ridge?" The attendant was young, bright-eyed, probably excited to be working a celebrity charter.
"Yes." Camille took a sip of champagne that tasted like expensive nothing. "New beginning."
The words felt strange in her mouth. She'd said them before, in interviews, always meaning them as future projections rather than present reality. This was different. This was actually running away, actually starting over, actually admitting that the life she'd constructed so carefully had become a prison of her own design.
The attendant retreated, and Camille let herself sink into the seat, closing her eyes against the persistent drone of the engines. Behind her lids, she could see the morning's press photos: Camille Laurent-Dubois looking composed and fashionable, designer sunglasses hiding whatever her eyes might have given away, walking toward freedom with her chin up and her heart lodged somewhere in her throat.
What would they write about her now? The narrative had been clear for two years: golden couple, athletic royalty, the kind of relationship that sold magazines and sparked envy. Now she'd shattered that story, and in its absence, the vultures would circle.
Poor Camille, abandoned by her famous boyfriend.
Or: Ambitious Camille, trading up or down or sideways in pursuit of something no one understood.
