No. Too ominous. Too much like what it actually was.
I've been thinking about what Mara said.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. The words she needed to say were impossible to speak aloud—she'd proven that tonight, running from Camille's apartment like a coward instead of saying them face to face.
It wasn’t until days later lying restless in bed, body still aching from the brutal game, that Lou finally sent the text.
Camille. I can't do this anymore.
Lou stared at the words. They looked wrong. They felt wrong. She kept typing. Everything about this moment was wrong, but she couldn't see another way forward. Not withthe team's future hanging in the balance. Not with Mara's warning echoing in her ears. Not with the terror of being seen, being known, being vulnerable in ways she'd spent her whole life avoiding.
Her thumb found the send button.
She pressed it before she could change her mind.
18
The text arrived at 7:47 AM, while Camille was mid-rep on the leg press.
Her phone buzzed against the gym's rubber floor, the screen lighting up with Lou's name. Camille's heart jumped the way it always did when Lou reached out—that particular flutter of anticipation that had become as familiar as her own heartbeat over the past weeks.
She finished her set, wiped her hands on her towel, and picked up the phone.
I can't do this anymore. It's messing with my head and Mara's right—we need to focus on the team. I'm sorry.
Camille read the words three times. Four. Five.
They didn't change.
The leg press machine felt suddenly cold beneath her, the padded seat that had been comfortable seconds ago now hard and unforgiving. The gym's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, casting everything in harsh clinical white. Her knee throbbed beneath the brace—a dullreminder of everything that had already gone wrong this week.
I can't do this anymore.
The words blurred as tears pricked at her eyes. She blinked them back, forced herself to breathe, but her chest had gone tight in ways that had nothing to do with the workout. Around her, the gym hummed with the usual sounds of morning training—weights clanking, machines whirring, the distant thud of someone running on a treadmill—but it all felt muffled now, like she was hearing it through water.
Elise was two machines over, working through her own rehab routine. She glanced up, her dark eyes sharp with concern.
"Camille? You okay?"
"Fine." The word came out rough, unconvincing. Camille shoved the phone into her hoodie pocket and took a deep breath ready for another light rehab set on her bad leg. "Just tired."
She pushed through another set, her injured knee screaming in protest, but the physical pain was almost welcome. It gave her something to focus on besides the way her heart felt like it was cracking open. The way Lou's words kept playing through her mind on an endless loop:I can't do this anymore.
The gym smelled like rubber and sweat and the particular chemical tang of cleaning products. Someone had left the windows cracked, and a hot breeze drifted in from outside, carrying with it the distant sound of traffic and the bright Phoenix Ridge morning. Camille tried to anchor herself in these details—the texture of the padded handlesbeneath her palms, the rhythm of her breathing, the steady beep of the heart rate monitor on the machine beside her. Anything to keep from drowning in the text message burning a hole in her pocket.
Three days ago they'd been tangled together on her couch, Lou's mouth between her thighs, pleasure so intense it had blocked out everything else. Three days ago Lou had held her like she mattered, like they mattered, like whatever was growing between them was worth protecting.
And now this. A text. Not even a phone call.
Camille finished her set and sat there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling while tears tracked silently down her cheeks. She wiped them away before Elise could notice, but her hands were shaking. Her whole body was shaking.
Elise appeared at her shoulder, a water bottle in hand. "Hey." Her voice was gentle in ways that made Camille's throat tighten. "Whatever's going on, you don't have to pretend with me."
"I'm not—" Camille's voice cracked. She cleared her throat, tried again. "I'm fine. Really."
Elise didn't push. Just handed her the water bottle and sat down on the bench of the adjacent machine, her presence solid and patient. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—it was the silence of someone who understood that sometimes you needed a witness more than you needed advice.
