Chapter 4 #2
Practice began with warm-up drills, the team flowing through familiar patterns while Camille found her place in the 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 acknowledge that she was more than the tabloid celebrity everyone expected.
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 motivations were 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.