Chapter 10
Camille typed the message three times before finally hitting send.
Coffee tomorrow? There's a place called Lavender's. We should talk.
The three dots appeared almost immediately, indicating Lou was typing.
Camille's heart rate spiked in ways that felt disproportionate to a simple text exchange.
She was twenty-eight years old, had navigated high-stakes negotiations and media firestorms and the calculated chaos of professional sports.
A message about coffee shouldn't make her pulse race like she was seventeen again.
But this wasn't really about coffee. This was about the night in the shower and on the balcony, about Lou's distant eyes at the bar and the ache in Camille's chest that hadn't faded in the three days since.
Lou: Sure. Noon?
Camille: Perfect. See you then.
She stared at the screen for longer than necessary, analyzing Lou's response for hidden meaning. Two words. No emotion. No hint of what Lou was thinking or feeling or wanting. It could mean anything—agreement, reluctance, indifference.
Or it could just mean Lou was as confused as Camille was, navigating territory neither of them had maps for.
Lavender's was exactly the kind of coffee shop Camille had learned to avoid in New York—cozy, quirky, the sort of place where regulars knew each other by name and strangers attracted attention.
But Phoenix Ridge wasn't New York. No one here cared enough to photograph her ordering a latte.
The anonymity was still novel, still precious.
She arrived early, claiming a table in the back corner where the afternoon light filtered through curtains painted with abstract flowers.
The smell of fresh coffee and baked goods wrapped around her like a comfort, familiar enough to settle her nerves slightly.
She ordered a vanilla oat milk latte, her actual preference, not the black coffee she'd learned to drink for the cameras, and waited.
The coffee shop was charming in a way that felt almost defiant against the chain stores Camille usually frequented.
Mismatched furniture, local art on the walls, a chalkboard menu that changed daily based on the barista's whims. The owner—a middle-aged woman with grey hair with a lavender streak, who was presumably the shop's namesake—greeted customers by name and remembered their usual orders.
It was intimate. Personal. The kind of place where secrets might be safe.
Or where they might be noticed by the wrong person.
Camille pulled out her phone, pretending to scroll through emails while she actually watched the door with a vigilance that bordered on paranoid.
Every time it opened, her pulse spiked. Every customer who entered was assessed and catalogued: threat level, recognition potential, likelihood of having a camera hidden somewhere on their person.
This was what her life had become. Constant surveillance, even when the cameras weren't actually there.
Twelve minutes. Lou was twelve minutes late.
Camille told herself it didn't matter, that traffic or a last-minute errand could explain the delay. But part of her wondered if Lou was reconsidering, if the text conversation had been enough warning for her to decide this wasn't worth pursuing.
Then the door opened, and Lou walked in, and Camille forgot how to breathe.
Lou was dressed simply—dark jeans, a grey henley that showed the lines of her shoulders, a leather jacket that had clearly seen years of use.
Her hair was still damp, suggesting a recent shower.
She scanned the coffee shop with the automatic alertness of someone used to reading rooms, her gaze landing on Camille with a focus that made everything else fade to background noise.
She was beautiful. Not in any conventional sense, not in ways Camille had been trained to appreciate. But there was something about Lou that drew the eye and held it—a gravity, a presence, a particular kind of magnetism that had nothing to do with polish and everything to do with substance.
Camille's heart jumped. Her palms went damp. Her body responded to Lou's presence before her mind had time to catch up, desire pooling low in her belly with an urgency that surprised her.
This was what she'd wanted to talk about. This feeling. This wanting. The way Lou had changed everything about how Camille understood herself.
Lou ordered at the counter—black coffee, predictable—and exchanged a few words with Lavender herself before making her way to Camille's table.
Apparently Lou was a regular here. Apparently she had a usual order and a usual table and an easy rapport with the owner that spoke to years of quiet, consistent patronage.
Up close, Camille could see the tension in Lou's jaw, the careful neutrality of her expression. She could also see the way Lou's eyes tracked over her face, cataloguing details with the same intensity she brought to reading plays on the ice. Lou was nervous too. The knowledge was oddly comforting.
"Hey." Lou slid into the seat across from her, her leather jacket creaking softly with the movement.
"Hey." Camille wrapped her hands around her latte, needing something to hold. "Thanks for coming."
"Sure." Lou's gaze met hers, then slid away toward the window. "You said we should talk."
"We should." Camille took a breath, organizing thoughts she'd rehearsed a dozen times. "What happened between us—I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."
Lou's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "Me neither."
"I've never—" Camille broke off, the words harder to say out loud than they'd been in her head. "I've never been with a woman before. I've never wanted a woman before. I've never wanted anyone the way I want you."
The confession hung between them, raw and terrifying. Lou was very still, her coffee untouched on the table.
"I don't know what this means for my identity," Camille continued, the words tumbling out faster now.
"I don't know if I'm gay or bisexual or something else entirely.
I don't know how to reconcile who I thought I was with who I apparently am.
But I know I don't want to stop. I know that whatever this is between us—I want to explore it. "
Lou's hands tightened around her coffee mug. "Camille—"
"Wait. Let me finish." Camille leaned forward, needing Lou to understand.
"I know the complications. I know my public profile makes everything harder.
Cameras follow me everywhere, and if someone catches us together—in a way that looks romantic—the tabloids will have a field day.
My family, my sponsors, everyone will have opinions.
It could affect the team, affect your career, affect everything we've both worked for. "
"So what are you proposing?"
"A secret." The word tasted strange on Camille's tongue, too close to the hiding she'd done her whole life.
But this was different. This was chosen.
"Just for now. Just until I figure out what I want, who I am, without the entire world watching.
We keep things private. Careful. No public displays, no suspicious behavior, nothing that could raise questions. "
Lou was quiet for a long moment. The coffee shop hummed around them—the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of other conversations, the particular soundtrack of a place where people came to connect. When Lou finally spoke, her voice was careful.
"You're asking me to hide with you."
"I'm asking for time." Camille reached across the table, stopping just short of touching Lou's hand. "I'm asking you to be patient while I figure out how to be brave. I know that's selfish."
"It's fine."
Camille blinked. "What?"
"It's fine." Lou's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I've been hiding my whole life, Camille.
A few more months isn't going to break me.
And if it means—" She paused, something vulnerable flickering across her features.
"If it means I get to be with you, even in secret, I can handle that. "
Relief flooded through Camille so intensely that tears pricked at her eyes. She'd been so afraid Lou would refuse. So certain that asking for secrecy would feel like an insult, a demand to shrink rather than an invitation to grow.
"Thank you." Her voice came out thick with emotion. "I know it's not what you deserve. But I promise—this isn't forever. I just need time to find solid ground."
"I understand." Lou's hand finally moved, crossing the distance between them to cover Camille's on the table.
The contact was electric, sending sparks up Camille's arm and into her chest. Lou's fingers were warm, slightly rough from years of gripping hockey sticks, and the weight of her palm against Camille's knuckles felt like an anchor.
"You're sure?" Camille's voice cracked slightly. "Because I would understand if you didn't want to—if this was too much to ask—"
"I'm sure." Lou's thumb traced a slow circle against Camille's wrist, and even that small movement sent heat cascading through her body. "I've been invisible my whole life, Camille. Hiding with you, for you, that's different from hiding alone."
The distinction landed somewhere deep in Camille's chest. Not hiding alone. The simple acknowledgment that they would be in this together, navigating the shadows as a team rather than as separate people pretending not to know each other.
"Take whatever time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
The conversation shifted after that, easing into something lighter.
They talked about hockey—the upcoming away games, Mara's latest tactical adjustments, the improvement they'd both noticed in Rowan's positioning.
Lou explained the history of Phoenix Ridge's failed qualification attempts, the years of disappointment and near-misses that had hardened the veteran players into cautious optimists at best.
"We've been close before," Lou said, stirring her coffee absently. "Two years ago, we missed by a single game. Lost in overtime to Minnesota, and that was it. Season over. Another year of hoping next time would be different."
"But this time feels different?" Camille asked.
Lou's eyes met hers, steady and sure. "This time we have you. And Rowan. And Mara, even if she is a sadist." A small smile curved her lips. "And we have Astoria's money. Actual resources, actual support. It's the best chance we've ever had."
"No pressure, then."
"None at all." Lou's smile widened, and Camille's heart did a complicated flip in her chest.
They talked about Phoenix Ridge the city—its odd charm, its working-class roots, the way it seemed caught between past and future. Lou pointed out neighborhoods Camille should explore, restaurants that served food worth eating, hidden corners of the city that tourists never found.
Lou's dry humor emerged gradually, like sunshine through clouds.
She made observations about their teammates that made Camille laugh—genuine laughter, not the practiced version she deployed for cameras.
She listened when Camille talked about her career, her ambitions, the constant pressure of being visible, without offering solutions or judgment. Just presence. Just attention.
It felt like a real date. The first real date Camille had been on in years, maybe ever.
With Mario, everything had been calculated for maximum visibility—restaurants where photographers were guaranteed to be waiting, events designed to generate headlines.
Nothing had ever been just for them. Nothing had ever felt as simple and warm as sitting in a quirky coffee shop with someone who made her laugh.
Someone she was allowed to want without pretending otherwise.
At some point, Camille's phone buzzed with a notification. She reached for it without thinking, her elbow knocking the device off the table. It clattered against the floor, and they both bent to retrieve it at the same moment.
Their hands met.
Camille's fingers brushed Lou's knuckles, and the contact sent a jolt through her body that had nothing to do with static electricity.
Lou's skin was warm, her touch grounding in ways that made Camille want to hold on and never let go.
Their eyes met across the narrow space beneath the table, faces suddenly inches apart.
The world shrank to the space between them. The coffee shop noise faded to silence.
"Got it." Lou's voice was rough as she handed back the phone, her fingers lingering against Camille's palm.
"Thanks." Camille straightened, pulse racing. The phone's screen showed a message from her publicist—some question about an interview request—but she couldn't focus on it. All she could focus on was the heat still tingling where Lou had touched her.
"I should go." Lou stood, pulling on her jacket with movements that seemed reluctant. "Practice tomorrow. Early."
"Right." Camille stood too, suddenly aware of how visible they were, even in this quiet corner. "Lou—"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad we talked." Camille met her eyes, letting Lou see everything she was feeling—the want, the hope, the terrifying certainty that this was already more than she'd bargained for. "I'm glad you said yes."
Lou's smile was soft, genuine in ways her careful expressions rarely allowed. "Me too."
She left first, disappearing through the coffee shop door into the bright afternoon outside.
Camille watched her go, tracking the lines of her shoulders and the easy confidence of her stride until she disappeared around a corner.
The space Lou left behind felt colder somehow, as if she'd taken some essential warmth with her.
Camille stayed at the table for a few more minutes, finishing her latte and letting the reality of what they'd agreed to settle into her bones. She was entering a secret relationship. With a woman. With a teammate.
Every rule she'd ever learned about managing her public life said this was dangerous. Every instinct shaped by years of careful image curation screamed that she was making a mistake.
But when she closed her eyes and remembered the feel of Lou's hand on hers, the spark that had shot through her when their fingers brushed—none of those warnings seemed to matter.
A secret relationship. Containment. Control. Safety.
It had seemed like the right answer when she'd scripted this conversation in her head. But standing here now, her skin still tingling from Lou's touch and her heart still racing from the electricity between them, Camille wondered how long any secret could survive what they were building.
And whether containment was even possible for a fire that already felt like it could consume her whole.