"Coach Mara Ellison starts Monday. She doesn't coddle stars, and she doesn't accept excuses. Your reputation won't protect you from her expectations." Astoria glanced back over her shoulder. "I'm told you're accustomed to a certain level of accommodation. That ends here. Phoenix Ridge succeeds together or fails together. There are no special cases."
The words should have stung. Instead, Camille felt something loosen in her chest again, that same strange relief she'd noticed on the plane, the sensation of shackles unlocking one by one.
No special cases. No pedestals. No expectations except the ones that mattered: play well, win games, prove herself on ice instead of in magazines.
"I understand," she said. "When do I start?"
"Tomorrow, 2pm afternoon practice. You’ll have the morning to settle into your accommodation. Don't be late."
Astoria walked her through the rest of the facility: lockerrooms that smelled like old equipment and industrial cleaner, the particular mustiness of spaces that had been sweated in for decades. The benches were worn smooth, names carved into wood in places, the kind of territorial marking that spoke to history and belonging. A weight room with machines that looked older than Camille's career, cables fraying at the edges, mirrors spotted with age. And finally, the rink itself: ice gleaming under fluorescent lights that buzzed and flickered, boards scarred from a thousand impacts, seats that could hold maybe two thousand fans if they squeezed.
It was nothing like the luxury she'd grown accustomed to. No corporate logos, no state-of-the-art training equipment, no press boxes designed for media coverage. Just ice and boards and the faint echo of every game that had ever been played here.
Maybe that was the point.
When the tour ended, Camille stood alone in the parking lot, watching Astoria's car disappear around a corner. The February wind cut through her designer coat, the one that had cost more than some of these players probably made in a month, and she pulled it tighter against the chill. The air smelled different here than in New York: cleaner, sharper, with an edge of something industrial from the nearby factories. She was suddenly aware of how visible she was, standing there in her expensive clothes with her expensive luggage, blonde hair catching what remained of the afternoon light, everything about her marking her as exactly what she was: an outsider with money and fame and nothing that actually mattered.
Somewhere inside that building, her new teammates were practicing without her. Learning to trust each other,building chemistry, doing the work she'd need to prove she could join.
Camille looked up at the grey sky, so different from Manhattan's familiar slice of heaven between skyscrapers, and let herself feel the weight of what she'd chosen.
No safety net. No carefully managed image. Just hockey, and whatever she could make of this chance she'd seized with both hands.
For the first time in longer than she could remember, the future felt terrifying and possible in equal measure.
She picked up her bags, the leather handles cold against her palms, the weight of them grounding her in her body, and walked toward her new beginning.
Tomorrow, she would meet her teammates. Tomorrow, she would have to prove she wasn't the distraction they probably expected her to be. Tomorrow, everything would start to become real.
But for now, in this empty parking lot in a city that didn't know her yet, Camille simply breathed.
3
Mara Ellison didn't believe in introductions.
Lou learned this at five forty-five in the morning, standing on ice that smelled of fresh flood and ammonia, watching their new coach stride across the rink without breaking eye contact or slowing her pace. Mara wore black: black jacket, black pants, black boots that clicked against the rubber matting like a metronome counting down to something Lou wasn't ready for.
"You've had two days to rest since the announcement." Mara's voice echoed off the boards, flat and carrying. "That's more than enough. Starting now, we train like a team that expects to qualify. Anyone who can't handle that pace should leave immediately. I don't have time to coddle, and I won't pretend otherwise."
No one moved. Eighteen players lined up along the blue line, breath clouding in the arena cold, gear already damp with the anticipation of what was coming. Lou stood near the centre, Frankie on her left and Elise on her right, her people, her anchors, positioned by instinct rather than instruction.
"Good." Mara checked her clipboard, then set it aside on the boards. "Suicides. Full rink. Thirty seconds rest between sets. We go until I'm satisfied."
The whistle cut the silence like a blade.
Lou launched herself forward, skates biting ice with the familiar dig and push that had defined her movements for two decades. Behind her, the team followed—some keeping pace, others already falling back as the first goal line approached and they pivoted hard, legs screaming against the sudden stop and acceleration.
Back to the blue line. Turn. Push. Back to the goal line. Turn. Push.
Mara watched from the boards, expression carved from granite, saying nothing as they ran the pattern again and again. Lou's lungs burned by the third set, her thighs cramping by the fifth. Sweat dripped down her temples and froze against her skin, that particular winter sting she'd never grown numb to despite years of exposure. The ice beneath her blades grew rough where dozens of skates had carved the same path, small ridges forming that caught and stuttered if she let her focus slip even slightly.
"Calder." Mara's voice sliced through the sound of ragged breathing. "You're supposed to be leading. Act like it."
Lou's jaw clenched, but she pushed harder—driving her legs past the point where muscle began to feel like concrete, past the comfortable exhaustion she'd trained in for years. This was something else. This was Mara Ellison's legendary brutality, the thing players whispered about in locker rooms across the league: the ice baths that felt like punishment, the four AM practices, the relentless demand for perfection that had broken better athletes than Lou and rebuilt them into champions.
Or just broken them. The stories varied depending on who told them.
Set six. Set seven. Lou lost count somewhere around eight, her world narrowing to the simple physics of motion: push, glide, stop, turn, push. Her vision tunnelled, sweat stinging her eyes despite the cold. Somewhere behind her, someone retched—the wet, ugly sound of breakfast coming up on ice. Mara didn't pause. The whistle kept coming, thirty seconds of rest that felt like three, and then they were moving again.
