Camille won the draw, swept the puck back to Frankie on defense. Started her sprint up ice, anticipating the outlet pass that would give her a chance at the offensive zone. The crowd was loud, the lights were bright, and somewhere in her peripheral vision she could see Lou moving into position to support the attack.
She didn't see the hit coming.
The Titans' defenseman caught her from the blind side—a clean hit, technically legal, but timed with malicious precision to catch Camille at her most vulnerable. Shoulder met shoulder, and for a moment Camille was airborne, her body rotating in ways physics shouldn't allow.
Then she hit the ice.
Her knee bent wrong. She registered the sickening twist of ligaments before the pain arrived—a half-second of terrible wrongness, her body telling her something had happened that couldn't be undone. And then the pain hit, and everything else ceased to exist.
Camille screamed.
She couldn't help it. The sound tore from her throat as white-hot agony exploded through her knee, radiating up her thigh and down her shin until her entire leg felt like it was on fire. She curled around the injury instinctively,hands clutching at her knee through the padding, trying to understand what had just broken inside her.
The whistle blew. Shouts surrounded her—teammates, officials, the roar of the crowd shifting from excitement to concern. Camille couldn't focus on any of it. Could only focus on the pain and the terrible certainty that something was very, very wrong.
"Camille." Frankie's voice, close and urgent. "Camille, don't move. Help's coming."
"My knee—" The words came out strangled, barely audible even to herself. "Frankie, my knee?—"
"I know. Just stay still. Medical's on the way."
Hands were on her now—gentle, professional, the medical team that lived for moments like this. Camille forced her eyes open, forced herself to look at the faces hovering above her. Dr. Hamilton, the team physician, was already running through assessment questions. How did it happen? What did you feel? Can you move your toes?
She answered on autopilot, her brain providing information while her heart screamed.
Not now. Not like this. Not when they were so close.
"We need to get you off the ice," Dr. Hamilton said, her voice calm in ways that didn't match the concern in her eyes. "Can you put any weight on it?"
Camille tried. The attempt sent fresh agony spiking through her knee, and she collapsed back against the ice with a sob.
"Stretcher," Hamilton ordered. "Let's get her to the treatment room."
The next few minutes blurred into a haze of movement and pain. Strong hands lifted her onto the stretcher, strapped her down, wheeled her across the ice toward the tunnel. The crowd applauded—that particular sound offans showing support for an injured player—but Camille couldn't acknowledge it. Could only stare at the arena lights passing overhead and try to breathe through waves of nausea.
She caught a glimpse of Lou as they carried her past the bench. Just a flash—green eyes wide with something that might have been fear, hands gripping the boards hard enough to turn knuckles white. Then the tunnel swallowed her, and Lou was gone.
The treatment room was bright and sterile, smelling of antiseptic and the particular cold of medical spaces. They transferred her to the examination table, cut away her protective gear with practiced efficiency, and began the process of assessing the damage.
Camille stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry.
"The good news," Dr. Hamilton said after what felt like hours of prodding and testing, "is that it doesn't appear to be your ACL. The joint is stable. I'm thinking MCL sprain, possibly a meniscus issue. We won't know for sure until you get an MRI."
"How long?" The question scraped her throat raw. "How long will I be out?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The scan will tell us more."
"How long?" Camille pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the fresh spike of pain. "The qualification games. We have four left. Will I be able to play?"
Hamilton hesitated. That hesitation told Camille everything she needed to know.
"It depends on what the MRI shows," she said finally. "Best case, a few weeks of rehab. Worst case..." She trailed off, but Camille heard the unspoken words: worst case, your season is over.
The tears she'd been fighting finally broke through.
She'd worked so hard to get here. Had sacrificed so much—New York, her relationship with Mario (such as it was), her carefully constructed public image. She'd come to Phoenix Ridge to prove she could be more than a celebrity athlete, more than Mario King's famous girlfriend. She'd found something real here. Something worth fighting for.
And now her body was betraying her at the worst possible moment.
