Chapter 12
The press room smelled like coffee and ambition: burnt Folgers from the hospitality table and the particular hunger of reporters who'd been waiting hours for their soundbites.
Lou sat beside her, close enough that their thighs touched beneath the table's protective edge. The contact was small, hidden, but it anchored Camille to something solid while the cameras flashed and the reporters jostled for position.
"Camille, great game tonight," a voice called from the middle of the press pack. "How does it feel to be back in New York?"
The question was innocuous. The subtext wasn't.
"It feels good to play well," Camille said, deploying the polished media voice she'd spent years perfecting. "New York will always be special to me, but my focus is on Phoenix Ridge now. The team's been working hard, and tonight showed what we're capable of."
Another flash. Another question.
"Sources say you've been spending a lot of time with certain teammates off the ice. Care to comment?"
Camille's stomach clenched. Beside her, Lou's thigh pressed more firmly against her own—a warning or a reassurance, she couldn't tell. The warmth of the contact spread through her body, distracting in ways she couldn't afford right now.
"I spend time with all my teammates," Camille said evenly. "That's how you build chemistry. The kind we showed tonight."
The reporter wasn't deterred. "There have been rumors about your personal life since the breakup with Mario King. Any truth to speculation you're dating someone new?"
Mario's name landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through the room. Camille could feel the attention sharpen—cameras focusing, pens poised, the particular predatory stillness of journalists who smelled blood.
"I'm here to talk about hockey." Her voice came out harder than she intended. "If you have questions about the game, I'm happy to answer them."
"People are curious, Camille. You and Mario were together for two years. The breakup was very public. Fans want to know—"
"What fans want," Lou interrupted, her voice cutting through the noise with quiet authority, "is to see great hockey. And that's what they got tonight. Camille scored two goals, including the game-winner. Phoenix Ridge is three points closer to PWHL qualification. That's the story."
Camille's heart stuttered. Lou defending her—publicly, professionally, without hesitation—made something warm bloom in her chest despite the fluorescent chill of the press room.
The reporter pivoted. "Captain Calder, how do you feel about the team's chances going forward?"
Lou leaned into her microphone, and Camille let herself breathe. Let herself study Lou's profile while the questions shifted away from her personal life—the strong line of her jaw, the calm intelligence in her green eyes, the way she commanded attention without demanding it.
"We've built something solid this season," Lou said. "New ownership, new coaching staff, new energy. Tonight proved we can compete with anyone. We've got a few games left to secure qualification, and we're taking them one at a time."
More questions followed—about strategy, about Mara's coaching methods, about Rowan's emerging role as a defensive anchor. Lou handled them with the ease of someone who'd spent years learning to deflect attention while still giving reporters enough to file their stories.
Camille watched her work, and the wanting that lived beneath her skin grew teeth.
Last night in that hotel room had changed something.
Not just the sex—though God, the sex—but the conversation after.
Lou talking about her family with that particular combination of love and distance.
The way her voice had cracked when she admitted that hiding was lonely.
The hope Camille had seen in her eyes when she'd promised this wasn't casual.
Now, sitting beside Lou while strangers asked questions designed to peel back layers of protection, Camille understood the fear in a new way.
Coming out would mean losing the armor she'd spent her whole life building.
It would mean being seen—really seen—by millions of people who felt entitled to opinions about her choices.
The thought made her palms slick with sweat.
But hiding meant something too. It meant pretending Lou was just a teammate when she was already so much more. It meant lying every time someone asked about her romantic life. It meant living in a cage she'd built herself, just like she'd told Lou last night.
"One more question," the moderator announced.
A woman in the front row raised her hand. "Camille, there's been social media speculation about photos of you and Lou Calder leaving a restaurant together. The lighting looks intimate. Any comment?"
The room held its breath.
Camille's mind went blank. Restaurant, weeks ago, before the secret had felt this heavy. Someone had been watching. Someone had taken pictures. Someone had posted them online while Camille slept, unaware that her careful containment was already leaking.
Lou's hand found hers beneath the table. Squeezed once, firm and grounding.
"Teammates get food together," Camille said. Her voice didn't shake—a small miracle. "It's not news."
"But the photos—"
"Show two hockey players having a conversation.
" Camille met the reporter's gaze directly, channeling every press training session she'd ever endured.
"I understand you need content, but I'm not going to manufacture drama where none exists.
We're here because we won a hockey game. Let's focus on that."
The moderator stepped in, ending the press conference with practiced efficiency. Camille stood on autopilot, her body moving through the motions of departure while her mind raced through implications and contingencies.
Photos. Someone had taken photos. The thought looped through her mind like a broken record, each repetition sharper than the last.
The hallway outside the press room was quieter but not private—staff and team personnel moving past, equipment cases being wheeled toward exits, cables coiled over shoulders, the organized chaos of post-game operations echoing off the concrete walls.
Lou walked beside her, close but not touching, professional distance maintained for the cameras that might still be watching.
They didn't speak until they reached the elevator. The doors closed, sealing them into temporary privacy, and Camille's composure cracked.
"Photos." The word came out strangled. "Lou, there are photos."
"I know." Lou's voice was steady. "I saw them this morning. Didn't want to mention it before the game."
"You knew? You knew and you didn't tell me?"
"Would it have helped you play better?" Lou's steady gaze held hers, no judgment, just the practical clarity that defined everything she did. "You needed to focus. We both did. The game mattered."
Camille wanted to argue. Wanted to rage against the unfairness of it—the constant surveillance, the assumption that her private life was public property, the reality that even careful containment couldn't protect them from someone with a long lens and a social media account.
Instead, she sagged against the elevator wall.
"I'm not ready." Her voice cracked on the admission. "I know we talked about it, I know I said I wanted time, but—Lou, I'm not ready. If this gets out before I'm ready—"
"It won't." Lou stepped closer, blocking her from the elevator's security camera. "The photos don't show anything. Two women at a table in a restaurant. That's it. People can speculate, but speculation isn't proof."
"Speculation is enough for some people."
"Then we give them nothing else to speculate about." Lou's hand came up to cup Camille's face, a brief, dangerous touch that lasted only a heartbeat. "We're careful in public. We don't change anything. And when you're ready—if you're ever ready—it happens on your terms. Not theirs."