Or: Crazy Camille, throwing away everything for a team that didn't matter.
None of them would guess the truth, which was simultaneously simpler and more complicated than any headlinecould capture. Camille Laurent-Dubois wasn't running from Mario King. She was running from the version of herself she'd become in his orbit: polished, perfect, and so desperately hollow that some mornings she couldn't remember why any of it had seemed worth wanting.
The jet banked left, and sunlight caught her champagne glass, fracturing into tiny rainbows across her tray table. Pretty. Meaningless. Like most things she'd surrounded herself with.
Phoenix Ridge had a women's hockey team that no one watched and a billionaire owner with plans no one believed in. The contract Astoria Shepry had offered was generous but not obscene, a step down from what Camille was worth on paper, a step up from what any other team at that level could afford. The terms were clear: one season to qualify for the PWHL or walk away with nothing but the experience.
It was quite possibly the most reckless decision Camille had ever made.
It felt like the only honest thing she'd done in years.
Her phone buzzed again. This time she checked: her publicist, with a link to a Twitter thread about her private jet and a single question mark. Camille typed back that she was fine, that she'd be unavailable for comment, that Phoenix Ridge would be releasing their own press statement, please coordinate with Astoria Shepry's people.
Then she turned off her phone entirely and finished her champagne in three long swallows.
The descent into Phoenix Ridge Regional Airport was unremarkable: brown hills giving way to suburban sprawl, a city that looked like a hundred other medium-sized American cities, nothing to suggest it held any particular magic or meaning. Camille watched it approach with the detachedcuriosity of someone who'd stopped expecting landscapes to feel significant.
A car was waiting on the tarmac. Black, expensive, discreet. Astoria Shepry's doing, no doubt. Camille had only spoken to the woman twice, once during negotiations and once to finalize details, and she'd recognized something in Astoria's voice that reminded her of herself: the careful control, the strategic calculation, the absolute refusal to reveal anything that wasn't intended for public consumption.
It should have been unsettling. Instead, it felt almost like relief.
The drive from the airport took twenty minutes, passing through neighborhoods that ranged from affluent to working-class to commercial, the kind of varied landscape that suggested a city without a clear identity. Phoenix Ridge seemed like a place in search of itself, caught between what it had been and what it might become.
Camille could relate.
The Valkyries' facility materialized on the edge of an industrial district: a boxy building with the team logo painted on the side, smaller than any arena she'd played in since college. Through tinted windows, she could see players entering through a side door, gear bags slung over their shoulders, the comfortable casualness of people who belonged.
She didn't belong. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if this experiment failed the way everyone expected it to.
The car stopped at a private entrance, and Camille gathered herself the way she always did before public appearances: shoulders back, spine straight, expression balanced between confidence and approachability. The armor settling into place, familiar as breathing.
Astoria Shepry was waiting in the lobby.
"Ms. Laurent-Dubois." Astoria extended a hand, her grip firm and businesslike. "Welcome to Phoenix Ridge. I trust your flight was comfortable."
"Very." Camille matched her tone: professional, pleasant, revealing nothing. "Thank you for the arrangements."
"I prefer to make things efficient." Astoria turned and began walking, clearly expecting Camille to follow. Her heels clicked against the concrete floor. The building was still more warehouse than arena, industrial rather than polished. "I've arranged for your things to be delivered to your temporary housing. We can discuss permanent arrangements once you've had time to assess your preferences."
"Of course."
They passed through a corridor lined with photos Camille didn't recognize, past players presumably, from the years before Astoria's acquisition. The frames looked old, the images faded. History that didn't belong to her.
"Your introduction to the team will be tomorrow morning," Astoria continued. "I wanted to brief you privately first. There are... dynamics you should understand."
Camille's attention sharpened. "Dynamics?"
"Phoenix Ridge has been a semi-professional team for fifteen years. The players who've stayed have done so out of loyalty, not opportunity. Many of them work second jobs to afford the privilege of playing here." Astoria's voice carried no judgment, only data. "They may not welcome a high-profile signing with open arms."
"I didn't expect a parade."
"Good." Astoria stopped walking and turned to face her. Up close, her eyes were darker than they'd seemed on video calls, assessing, calculating, seeing more than Camille wascomfortable sharing. "I hired you because you're the best forward available at any price. I don't care about your personal life, your publicity problems, or whatever narrative the tabloids are constructing this week. What I care about is whether you can help this team qualify for the PWHL."
Camille held her gaze. "I can."
"Then we understand each other." Astoria resumed walking. "The team captain is Louisa Calder. She's been with Phoenix Ridge for nine years and has earned considerable loyalty from the roster. I suggest you earn her respect quickly. She's foundational to my plans, and if she decides you're a distraction, your life will become significantly harder."
Louisa Calder. Camille filed the name away for research later. "What else should I know?"
