Chapter 2 #2
"I prefer to make things efficient." Astoria turned and began walking, clearly expecting Camille to follow.
Her heels clicked against the concrete floor.
The building was still more warehouse than arena, industrial rather than polished.
"I've arranged for your things to be delivered to your temporary housing.
We can discuss permanent arrangements once you've had time to assess your preferences. "
"Of course."
They passed through a corridor lined with photos Camille didn't recognize, past players presumably, from the years before Astoria's acquisition. The frames looked old, the images faded. History that didn't belong to her.
"Your introduction to the team will be tomorrow morning," Astoria continued. "I wanted to brief you privately first. There are... dynamics you should understand."
Camille's attention sharpened. "Dynamics?"
"Phoenix Ridge has been a semi-professional team for fifteen years.
The players who've stayed have done so out of loyalty, not opportunity.
Many of them work second jobs to afford the privilege of playing here.
" Astoria's voice carried no judgment, only data.
"They may not welcome a high-profile signing with open arms."
"I didn't expect a parade."
"Good." Astoria stopped walking and turned to face her.
Up close, her eyes were darker than they'd seemed on video calls, assessing, calculating, seeing more than Camille was comfortable sharing.
"I hired you because you're the best forward available at any price.
I don't care about your personal life, your publicity problems, or whatever narrative the tabloids are constructing this week.
What I care about is whether you can help this team qualify for the PWHL. "
Camille held her gaze. "I can."
"Then we understand each other." Astoria resumed walking.
"The team captain is Louisa Calder. She's been with Phoenix Ridge for nine years and has earned considerable loyalty from the roster.
I suggest you earn her respect quickly. She's foundational to my plans, and if she decides you're a distraction, your life will become significantly harder. "
Louisa Calder. Camille filed the name away for research later. "What else should I know?"
"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: locker rooms 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.