Louisa Calder didn't like her. That much was clear from the set of her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes, the almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders. She'dalready decided what kind of player Camille was—what kind of person—and nothing about that decision was flattering.
The realization stung more than it should have. Camille was used to being judged, but she was also used to having the chance to prove herself first. Lou had skipped straight to the verdict, and the unfairness of it made something hot and indignant rise in Camille's chest.
Something unfamiliar twisted in Camille's chest. Something that felt almost like a challenge.
"Calder." Mara's voice carried across the ice. "Come meet your new forward."
Lou skated over with an economy of motion that spoke to years of practice, her blades cutting clean lines in the ice. Up close, she was even more striking—scarred knuckles wrapped around her stick, a face that probably hadn't seen makeup in years, that particular kind of handsome that came from absolute disinterest in conventional beauty standards. Strong jaw. High cheekbones. A mouth set in a line that suggested patience worn thin. The intensity of her presence didn't diminish with proximity. If anything, it grew sharper, more focused, more impossible to ignore.
Camille's pulse quickened. The reaction was unexpected enough to throw her off balance—a physical response that had nothing to do with the cold arena air or the exertion of practice. This was something else entirely. Something that felt dangerously like attraction, though she refused to name it that.
"Camille Laurent-Dubois." Mara's introduction was purely functional. "Lou Calder, team captain."
Camille extended her hand with the smile she'd perfected over a decade of public appearances—warm,confident, designed to charm. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about this team."
Lou's handshake was brief and businesslike, her palm calloused against Camille's skin in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. The calluses were rough, the grip firm without being aggressive, and the contact lasted exactly as long as politeness required—not a second longer. Camille caught the scent of clean sweat and something faintly mineral, like ice itself had seeped into Lou's skin.
"Welcome to Phoenix Ridge." No warmth. No reciprocal pleasure. Just acknowledgment of a fact that couldn't be disputed.
The smile didn't work. Camille had known it wouldn't work—had sensed it the moment Lou's eyes found hers—but the confirmation still stung. She was used to people wanting to impress her, wanting to be close to her, wanting something from her that she could either grant or withhold. This felt different. Lou looked at her like she was a complication to be managed, not a person to be known.
"I'm looking forward to contributing to the team's success," Camille said, adjusting her approach on instinct. Less charm, more professionalism. "I know there's a lot of work ahead to qualify."
"There is." Lou held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary. "Let's hope you're up for it."
The words carried an edge that was impossible to miss.Let's hope.As if Lou had already calculated the odds and found them unfavorable. As if Camille's presence here was a variable in an equation that didn't quite balance.
"I'm always up for a challenge." Camille met her stare with a steady one of her own. Two could play at this game of silent assessment.
Something flickered in Lou's expression—surprise,maybe, at being pushed back. Then it was gone, replaced by that same neutral mask. "We'll see."
She turned and skated back to her teammates without another word, leaving Camille standing beside Mara with a strange heat climbing up her neck that might have been embarrassment or anger or something else entirely.
"Don't take it personally." Mara's voice was dry. "Calder doesn't trust easy. You'll have to earn her respect the old-fashioned way."
"And how do I do that?"
"Prove you're not a distraction." Mara started walking toward the bench. "Prove you're here to work, not just to escape whatever you're running from."
The words landed harder than they should have. Camille followed Mara to the bench, accepting her practice gear with the automatic movements of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Her hands moved through the familiar motions—strapping on pads, lacing skates, adjusting her helmet—while her mind circled back to Lou Calder's dismissive gaze.
Why did it matter? Camille had been underestimated before, dismissed before, written off by people who thought they knew her story from tabloid headlines and paparazzi photos. She'd proven them wrong every time, letting her performance on the ice speak louder than any reputation. This should be no different.
But Lou's assessment hadn't felt like the usual prejudgment. It had felt like something deeper, something that saw past the polished surface to whatever Camille was actually made of—and found it lacking.
The thought burned.
Practice began with warm-up drills, the team flowing through familiar patterns while Camille found her place inthe formation. Another new signing caught her eye—Rowan Pike, according to Mara's earlier briefing, a forward brought in alongside Camille but without any of the fanfare. Rowan moved through the drills with quiet efficiency, blending into the team's rhythms like she'd always been there. No one watched her with suspicion. No one measured her against impossible standards.
Camille envied that ease more than she wanted to admit.
As the drills intensified, she pushed herself harder. The familiar bite of cold air filled her lungs with each breath, the sound of blades on ice creating a symphony she'd loved since childhood. Her skating had always been her strength—fast and precise, capable of maneuvers that made highlight reels and inspired envy. She wove through the defensive line with a series of crossovers that drew whistles from some of the younger players, followed it with a shot that found the top corner of the net with satisfying accuracy. Look at me, the performance said. See what I can do. Respect me.
Lou didn't look impressed.
Camille caught her watching from the defensive position, that steady gaze tracking her movements with the same evaluating intensity. When their eyes met, Lou simply turned away, focusing on her own drills as if Camille's display meant nothing. As if the flash and skill that had made Camille famous were just noise to be tuned out.
The heat in Camille's chest intensified. She pushed harder—faster cuts, trickier stick work, the kind of plays that had won her MVP awards and magazine covers. Her lungs burned with the effort, sweat plastering her jersey to her skin despite the arena's chill. Every move was calculated to impress, to prove, to force Lou Calder to acknowledgethat she was more than the tabloid celebrity everyone expected.
