It didn't work.
By the time Mara blew the whistle for a water break, Camille's legs were shaking and Lou still hadn't looked at her with anything other than that same neutral assessment. If anything, she seemed less impressed than before—as if Camille's desperation to prove herself had only confirmed whatever assumptions Lou had already made.
"Nice moves." Rowan appeared beside her, offering a water bottle with a friendly smile. "That crossover sequence was sick. Reminded me of this move I tried once in college—totally ate ice. Spent a week with a bruise shaped like Florida on my ass."
"Thanks." Camille accepted the water, surprised into a genuine laugh. "You're settling in well."
Rowan shrugged, her eyes crinkling with self-deprecating humor. "I'm just trying to keep my head down and contribute. No point making waves when you're the new kid. Besides, I learned early—the universe has ways of humbling you if you get too cocky."
The implicit comparison was impossible to miss. Rowan: head down, contributing, no waves. Camille: all flash, trying too hard, creating exactly the kind of disruption Lou had probably predicted.
"Any advice for navigating the team dynamics?" Camille kept her voice light, casual. "You seem to have figured it out faster than me."
"Honestly?" Rowan glanced toward where Lou stood with her friends. "I think the captain just needs to see that you're here for the team, not for yourself. Everything else will follow."
Here for the team, not for herself. As if those motivationswere mutually exclusive. As if wanting to rebuild her career after the mess with Mario somehow disqualified her from also wanting Phoenix Ridge to succeed.
But maybe that was the problem. Maybe Lou saw straight through to the selfish core of Camille's decision, the part that was running from New York rather than running toward something new. Maybe she saw the calculation behind every smile, the strategy behind every word, and found it all as hollow as Camille sometimes feared it was.
The whistle blew again. Practice resumed, and Camille threw herself back into the drills with renewed determination. If Lou wanted to see work, Camille would show her work. If Lou wanted to see commitment, Camille would show her commitment. And if Lou continued to look at her like she was nothing more than a distraction wrapped in expensive gear, Camille would make her see something else.
It wasn't until practice ended, until she stood under the lukewarm spray of the showers and let the water wash away the sweat and frustration of the past two hours, that she let herself acknowledge the truth.
Lou Calder had gotten under her skin. Not just the dismissal, not just the challenge—something else. Something about the way Lou carried herself, the authority she commanded without demanding, the absolute lack of interest in performing for anyone. The way her eyes had cut through every layer of Camille's careful presentation as if none of it mattered.
The water ran cool against her flushed skin, but the heat in her chest refused to fade. She'd met powerful people before. She'd met dismissive people before. She'd met people who saw through her polished exterior and found it wanting.
This was different.
This was Lou's hands, calloused and strong. Lou's jaw, set with quiet determination. Lou's eyes, green and intense and utterly unimpressed by everything Camille had spent years perfecting.
It was unsettling. It was infuriating.
And somewhere beneath both of those feelings, somewhere Camille wasn't quite ready to examine, it was also fascinating.
5
Lou had made a career out of reading players.
She could tell within thirty seconds of watching someone skate whether they'd earned their ice time or inherited it. The way they held their stick, the angle of their shoulders, the minute adjustments in their blade pressure. All of it told a story that statistics and highlight reels couldn't capture. Years of playing defense had trained her to see what people tried to hide: the favored side, the hesitation before a deke, the tiny tells that separated genuine threat from empty flash.
Camille Laurent-Dubois was going to be a problem.
Lou watched from the blue line as Mara ran the forwards through a shooting drill, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression carefully neutral. The morning light filtered through the arena's high windows, casting long shadows across ice that still held the crisp lines of a fresh flood. The familiar smell of cold and rubber and industrial cleaning solution filled her lungs with each breath, grounding her in a space she'd occupied for nearly a decade.
Around her, the defensive line waited their turn,stretching and chatting in the easy rhythms of teammates who'd spent years learning each other's habits. Elise was discussing travel logistics with one of the rookies. Frankie was demonstrating a new tape job on her stick blade, her crooked nose casting shadows as she bent over her work.
Lou wasn't listening. Her attention had narrowed to a single point: the blonde forward executing a wrist shot with textbook precision.
Camille's form was annoyingly perfect. The weight transfer, the follow-through, the way her hips rotated to generate power without sacrificing accuracy—all of it spoke to years of elite coaching and natural athleticism working in concert. The puck hit the back of the net with a satisfying whisper of rubber against mesh, and Lou caught herself cataloguing the technique despite her best efforts not to.
Talent wasn't the issue. She'd known from the first moment she'd seen Camille's stats that talent wouldn't be the issue.
The problem was everything else.
The way Camille moved through the drill like she was performing for cameras that weren't there. The careful arrangement of her ponytail, somehow still perfect after an hour of practice. The designer gear that probably cost more than Lou's monthly rent, worn with the casual ease of someone who'd never had to choose between new skates and groceries. Everything about Camille Laurent-Dubois screamed polish, performance, the kind of calculated image-making that Lou had learned to distrust years ago.
And yet.
