She wasn't sure if that was true. But it felt like the kind of thing you said when the alternative was admitting that everything had fallen apart and you had no idea how to pick up the pieces.
The fountain kept burbling. The sun kept shining. Somewhere across town, Lou was probably at the arena, going through the motions of practice, pretending that everything was fine. Pretending that she hadn't just shattered Camille's heart with twelve words on a phone screen.
Camille sat alone on a bench in a park she'd never seen before, wondering if love was always this devastating, or if she'd just been unlucky enough to find someone worth losing. Wondering if coming to Phoenix Ridge had been the worst decision of her life, or if meeting Lou—despite everything—had been exactly what she needed.
She didn't have answers. All she had was an injuredknee, a broken heart, and the knowledge that when she finally left this bench, she would have to face whatever came next.
For now, she stayed. Let the fountain burble and the sun shine and the world keep spinning without her. Let the park hold her grief while she figured out how to carry it herself.
For now, it was enough just to breathe.
19
The final buzzer sounded like a death knell, sharp and absolute.
LA Vixens 4, Phoenix Ridge Valkyries 2. Game over.
Lou stood at center ice, her stick hanging limp at her side, and watched the Vixens celebrate their victory. They were hugging each other, pumping fists in the air, skating in those jubilant circles that winners skated while the losers stood frozen in the wreckage of their own failure. Their goalie was on her knees, mask lifted, tears of joy streaming down her face. Their captain was lifting a fist toward their fans, soaking in the adoration.
The crowd noise was deafening—LA fans cheering, the visiting Phoenix Ridge supporters sitting in stunned silence, the particular acoustics of defeat that Lou had learned to recognize over long years of playing. The arena smelled like popcorn and spilled beer and the cold metallic tang of the ice itself.
They'd lost. Again.
She'd played terribly. Every pass had been a fraction tooslow, every defensive read a half-second behind, every physical battle lost to opponents who seemed sharper, hungrier, more present than Lou had been all night. The Vixens had seen the weakness in her and exploited it mercilessly, targeting her side of the ice, forcing her into mistakes she shouldn't have made.
Without Camille, the offense had sputtered and stalled. Without Lou's usual steadiness, the defense had crumbled. The whole team had felt the absence—of their leading scorer, of their captain's focus, of the cohesion that had carried them through the first half of the season.
Lou skated toward the tunnel, her legs heavy, her chest tight with something that felt like shame. The visiting team's locker room waited at the end of a dim corridor, its walls covered in the opponent's banners and championship photos—a gallery of success that mocked the Valkyries' aspirations.
Frankie caught up to her in the tunnel, her scarred face grim.
"Lou—"
"Don't." The word came out sharper than Lou intended. "Just... don't."
The locker room was quiet in that particular way teams got after a bad loss—not the devastated silence of a playoff elimination, but the deflated stillness of accumulating doubt. Players sat at their stalls, pulling off equipment with mechanical movements, nobody meeting anyone's eyes. The air smelled like sweat and defeat and the rubber of hockey tape being peeled away.
Lou sat at her stall and stared at her gloves. They were old gloves, worn soft with years of use, the leather stained with countless games' worth of effort. The palms were cracked from years of gripping sticks, the fingers molded tothe exact shape of her hands. She'd worn these gloves through championships and heartbreaks, through seasons that soared and seasons that crashed. They'd seen her at her best and her worst.
Tonight had been her worst.
She peeled off the gloves slowly, methodically, buying time before she had to face anyone. The tape on her wrists was sweaty and bunched, and she unwound it with fingers that trembled slightly. Around her, the sounds of the locker room continued—equipment hitting the floor, showers turning on, the occasional murmur of conversation that quickly died.
The door banged open and Mara stalked in, her face set in the particular expression of a coach who'd just watched her team collapse.
"Calder. My office. Now."
Lou rose on legs that didn't quite feel like hers and followed Mara down the corridor to the small room the arena had provided for visiting coaches. It was cramped and generic, with a metal desk and two plastic chairs and fluorescent lights that made everyone look exhausted. Mara closed the door behind them with a decisive click.
"What the hell was that?" Mara's voice was low, controlled, but the anger beneath it was unmistakable. "That wasn't hockey. That was a shell of a hockey player wearing your jersey and hoping nobody would notice."
Lou didn't have an answer. She stood there, still in her skates and pads, sweat drying cold on her skin, accepting the criticism because she deserved every word.
"We needed you tonight," Mara continued, her voice cutting like a blade. "The team needed their captain—present, focused, leading by example. Instead I got a zombie in a uniform, going through the motions, making mistakesthat cost us goals. Rowan played better defense than you did, and she's a forward filling in on the blue line because we're short-handed with injuries."
The words stung because they were true. Rowan, who'd only been with the team for weeks, had shown more heart tonight than Lou had managed. That knowledge sat in Lou's stomach like a stone.
"I know." Lou's voice came out hoarse. "I know. I'm sorry."
