"I love you," Camille murmured against Lou's shoulder.
"I love you too." Lou's arms tightened around her. "And tomorrow, we're going to win. Together."
They stayed in the bath until the water grew cold, then dried each other off with the soft hotel towels and stumbled to the king bed. The sheets were crisp and cool against their flushed skin, and they curled together in the center of the mattress—legs tangled, arms wrapped tight, breath mingling in the darkness.
"Do you really believe we can beat them?" Camille asked,her voice drowsy. "The Wildcats have the best record in the league."
"I believe in this team." Lou pressed a kiss to Camille's forehead. "I believe in Rowan and Frankie and Elise. I believe in Mara's strategy. And I believe in us—you and me, together on the ice, playing like we were meant to play."
Camille closed her eyes, Lou's certainty seeping into her bones like warmth from a fire. Tomorrow would bring the biggest challenge of their season. Tomorrow would determine whether the Phoenix Ridge Valkyries reached the PWHL or watched their dreams die on the ice. But tonight, wrapped in Lou's arms, surrounded by warmth and love and the particular peace of belonging—tonight, everything was possible.
"We're going to win," Camille said, and for the first time, the words tasted like truth rather than hope.
Lou's breathing deepened, her body relaxing into sleep. The hotel room held them like a cocoon—quiet and warm, separate from the pressures of tomorrow. Camille followed moments later, her dreams filled with ice and victory and the woman beside her.
Tomorrow, they would fight.
Tonight, they would rest.
And in the morning, they would rise together to meet their destiny.
25
The ice was a war zone.
Lou's lungs burned with every breath, her legs screaming from two periods of relentless pressure. Sweat dripped down her temple beneath her helmet, stinging her eyes, and her stick felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. The boards were smeared with snow and spray from two periods of desperate skating, and the arena lights blazed down like interrogation lamps, harsh and unforgiving. The Wildcats were everything the analysts had promised—fast, physical, ruthless in their pursuit of the puck. Every shift felt like running through sand, every collision like hitting a brick wall. The scoreboard glowed its cruel verdict overhead: Wildcats 3, Valkyries 2.
Twelve minutes left in the third period. Twelve minutes to save their season. Twelve minutes that would determine whether five years of work meant anything at all.
The crowd noise was deafening—home fans desperate for a miracle drowning out Wildcats supporters already tasting victory. The arena smelled like ice and sweat and theparticular desperation of teams fighting for survival. Lou's mouth guard tasted like copper, blood from where she'd bitten her cheek during a particularly brutal hit in the second period.
Mara called a timeout, and Lou skated to the bench on legs that felt made of lead. Her teammates clustered around, their faces grim beneath sweat-soaked hair and the bruises already forming from two periods of combat.
"Listen up." Mara's voice was sharp, cutting through the crowd noise. "We knew this was going to be hard. We knew they were going to throw everything at us. But we're still standing. We're still in this. Twelve minutes, ladies. That's all that stands between us and the PWHL."
Rowan was breathing hard beside Lou, her young face set with determination. Elise's gear was dripping with sweat, but her eyes were steady. Frankie?—
Lou's stomach dropped as she scanned the bench. Frankie wasn't there.
"Where's Frankie?" The words came out rough, panicked.
"Medical room." Mara's expression tightened. "That hit in the second period—possible concussion. She's out for the rest of the game."
The news landed like a physical blow. Frankie was Lou's partner on the blue line, her best friend, the steady presence that had anchored their defense all season. For seven years, they'd shared that space—reading each other's movements, covering each other's weaknesses, building a partnership that went beyond words. Without her, they were exposed. Vulnerable. Incomplete.
Lou's throat tightened. She wanted to check on Frankie, wanted to sit with her in the medical room and make sureshe was okay. But there was no time for that. No time for grief. No time for fear.
"We adapt." Lou's voice came out stronger than she expected. "We cover for each other. We don't let them see us panic."
The whistle blew, calling them back to the ice. Lou skated to her position, her body protesting every movement, her mind focused on one singular goal: survive. Survive these twelve minutes. Give everything.
The Wildcats came at them like sharks smelling blood in the water. They'd seen Frankie go down, had calculated the gap in the Valkyries' defense, and they pressed their advantage with brutal efficiency. Shot after shot rained on the Valkyries net, and they turned them away with increasingly desperate saves.
Lou threw her body into every block, every clear, every physical confrontation. Her shoulder screamed from an earlier hit, her ribs ached where a Wildcats forward had cross-checked her behind the ref's back, but the pain was distant—a problem for future Lou to deal with.
Eight minutes left. Still trailing by one. The Wildcats were playing keep-away now, controlling the puck with maddening efficiency, forcing the Valkyries to chase and expend precious energy.
A Wildcats winger broke through the defensive zone, bearing down on goal with nothing but open ice ahead of her. The crowd gasped—a collective intake of breath from thousands of throats. Lou dug deep and found speed she didn't know she had left, catching the attacker at the last moment and sweeping the puck away with a desperate poke check. The collision sent both players into the boards, but Lou was up first, pushing the puck toward Rowan at center ice.
