Chapter 21
The walk to Mara's office felt like walking to an execution.
She'd spent the entire night rehearsing what she was going to say.
Had practiced in front of her bathroom mirror until the words started to sound hollow, had written notes that she'd torn up and rewritten three times before finally giving up on the script entirely.
Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, her hands trembling slightly from too much coffee and not enough food.
The words still felt inadequate—too big, too small, too much and not enough all at once.
But she was done waiting for the perfect moment.
Done hiding behind strategic planning and image management and all the careful calculations that had defined her career.
Elise's words echoed through her mind: a life lived safe is a life lived small.
Today, she was going to be honest. Whatever that cost her.
Mara's office door was closed, a strip of light visible beneath the frame. Camille paused outside, adjusting her grip on the crutches, forcing her breathing to slow. She could hear muffled voices inside—Mara and Astoria, already deep in conversation about whatever crisis the team faced today.
She knocked.
"Come in."
Mara's office was exactly as Camille remembered—whiteboard covered in play diagrams, desk stacked with scouting reports, the faint smell of coffee and dry-erase markers permeating the small space.
A half-eaten protein bar sat abandoned near the phone, evidence of a coach who'd already been working for hours.
Mara sat behind the desk, her greying hair pulled back in its usual practical ponytail, reading glasses perched on her nose, her expression guarded but curious.
Astoria stood by the window, silhouetted against the Phoenix Ridge morning sun, her tailored suit perfect as always despite the early hour.
A gold watch caught the light as she turned, and Camille was struck by the contrast—their composed professionalism against the ragged edges of her own desperation.
Both women turned as Camille entered. Their faces held the particular wariness of people who'd been expecting bad news and weren't sure what form it would take.
"Have a seat," Mara said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk.
Camille sat, her injured leg stretched carefully in front of her. The crutches leaned against the desk, and for a moment she just looked at the two women who held so much power over her career—and, by extension, over her future with Lou.
"Thank you for seeing me," she started.
"You said there was something you needed to tell us." Astoria's voice was crisp, businesslike. "Given everything that's happened this week, I have some guesses about what that might be."
"I'm sure you do." Camille's hands were sweating. She wiped them on her thighs, a gesture she would never have made in a formal meeting before. But this wasn't a formal meeting. This was something else entirely. "I'm done guessing. I'm done hiding. So I'm just going to say it."
She took a deep breath.
"I'm in love with Lou Calder."
The words landed in the room, solid and undeniable. Camille had expected them to feel like an ending—the final collapse of the careful image she'd spent years constructing. Instead, they felt like freedom. Like stepping out of a costume she'd been wearing so long she'd forgotten it wasn't skin.
Mara and Astoria exchanged a glance that was impossible to read.
"We know," Mara said finally. "I've known since the flight back from New York."
"And I've known since I saw the two of you on the ice together," Astoria added. "The way you play together—the chemistry—it's not something teammates have. It's something lovers have."
Camille stared at them both, her carefully rehearsed speech dissolving into confusion. All those nights of panic, all those stolen moments weighted with guilt—and they'd seen through her anyway. "You knew. This whole time, you both knew."
"We gave you space to figure it out yourselves.
" Mara leaned back in her chair, her expression softening slightly.
She removed her reading glasses and set them on the desk—a gesture that somehow made her seem more human, more approachable.
"It wasn't our place to force the conversation. But yes, we knew."
"Then you also know what happened." Camille's voice caught. "Lou ended things. Stepped down as captain. Shut herself away because she thinks she's protecting everyone by disappearing. And the team is falling apart without her."
"All true." Astoria moved from the window to the chair beside Camille, lowering herself with the controlled grace of someone who was used to commanding rooms. "Which is why we're glad you came to us. We were debating how to handle this situation when you called."
"Handle it how?"
"Lou is the heart of this team," Mara said. "Has been for nine years. Losing her as captain—losing her focus and presence—is devastating, regardless of what happens with qualification. We need her back."
"I know." Camille's throat tightened. "That's why I'm here.
I want to bring her back. I want to—" She paused, searching for the right words.
"I want to come out. Publicly. Tell the truth about who I am and how I feel about Lou.
Because I think that's the only way to show her that this is real.
That I'm not ashamed. That I'm willing to fight for us. "
Astoria studied her for a long moment. "You understand what that would mean for your career? The endorsements, the media scrutiny, the public narrative—all of it would change."
"I know."
"Some sponsors will drop you. Others will embrace you. You'll become a symbol whether you want to be or not—for the LGBTQ community, for women's sports, for authenticity in athletics." Astoria's dark eyes were sharp but not unkind. "That's a heavy weight to carry."
"I know," Camille said again. "But I've been carrying a heavier one.
Pretending to be someone I'm not. Dating men for PR while my heart wanted something else.
Building a life on a foundation of lies.
" Her voice steadied with conviction. "I'm done with that.
Whatever comes next—the sponsors, the media, the public scrutiny—at least it will be real. At least it will be me."
Mara leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. "What do you need from us?"
"Your support. When I go public, when the questions come, I need to know that Phoenix Ridge has my back." Camille looked between them. "And I need to know you'll help me bring Lou back. Not just as captain—as herself. As the woman I love."
Another exchanged glance between Mara and Astoria. Something passed between them—a decision reached, a calculation completed.
"You have our full support," Astoria said. "Phoenix Ridge values authenticity. We believe in our players as whole people, not just athletes. When you're ready to make a statement, our PR team will help you craft the messaging."
"And Lou?" Camille asked.
Mara's expression turned thoughtful. "Lou has to make her own choice about coming back. We can't force that. But if you can reach her—if you can break through whatever walls she's built around herself—we'll welcome her home with open arms."
"The captaincy will be waiting for her," Astoria added. "If she wants it back."
Relief flooded through Camille, loosening the knot that had lived in her chest for days.
She hadn't expected this to be easy—had prepared for resistance, for complications, for the careful corporate calculations that usually governed these conversations.
But Mara and Astoria were offering something she hadn't dared hope for: unconditional support.
"Thank you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Both of you. I didn't know if—"
"Camille." Mara cut her off gently. "I gave you a hard time about distractions because I was worried about the team.
But I never wanted you to hide who you are.
And I never wanted Lou to sacrifice her happiness for the game.
The best version of this team includes both of you, whole and honest. That's what I want. That's what we're all fighting for."
Camille wiped her eyes with the back of her hand—a gesture that would have mortified her a month ago but barely registered now. There were more important things than appearances. More important things than image management and strategic positioning.
Things like love. Like truth. Like the woman waiting somewhere across town, alone in her house with the lights on and the door closed.
"I should go," Camille said, reaching for her crutches. "There's someone I need to see."
"Go get her." Mara's smile was small but genuine. "And tell her we miss her. The whole team does."
Camille made it to the door before Astoria's voice stopped her.
"For what it's worth—I think you're very brave. Both of you. The world needs more people willing to be honest about who they love."
The words stayed with her as she made her way back down the corridor, through the arena's lobby, out into the parking lot where the morning sun was already warming the asphalt.
The heat hit her the moment she pushed through the doors—that particular Phoenix Ridge intensity that turned the air itself into something thick and heavy.
Her car waited where she'd left it—a practical sedan that she drove herself because she'd never liked chauffeurs—and she slid behind the wheel with her knee protesting every movement.
The steering wheel was hot beneath her palms. The air conditioning groaned to life, filling the car with a blast of warm air that slowly cooled as she sat there, gathering the courage for what came next.
Lou's house was twenty minutes away near the mountains. Twenty minutes of surface streets and traffic lights and the particular geography of Phoenix Ridge that Camille had started to learn during her time here.
Lou was hiding, retreating, convinced that her love was a liability instead of a gift. That her presence was a burden rather than a blessing.
Camille gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles ached.
She could still turn around. Could still drive back to her apartment, climb into bed, let the grief and the distance and the impossibility of it all swallow her whole.
That's what the old Camille would have done—the strategic, calculated version of herself who'd spent years building walls around her heart.
But she wasn't that woman anymore. Lou had changed her, had cracked open something that had been sealed shut for so long Camille had forgotten it existed.
She was going to change Lou's mind.
The neighborhood was quiet when she arrived—a modest collection of homes with well-tended lawns and basketball hoops in driveways, the kind of place where families raised children and neighbors borrowed cups of sugar.
A woman walking a golden retriever glanced at Camille's car but didn't slow down, absorbed in whatever podcast or music played through her earbuds.
Ordinary life, happening all around while Camille prepared to tear down the last walls standing between her and the woman she loved.
Lou's house sat near the end of the street, its small yard slightly overgrown, the porch light dark despite the morning hour.
The house itself was modest—a single-story ranch with faded blue siding and shutters that had once been white.
This was where Lou had built her life, this quiet corner of Phoenix Ridge. This was home.
Camille parked at the curb and sat there for a moment, gathering her courage.
Through the living room window, she could see movement—a shadow passing behind the curtains, the flicker of a television screen.
Lou was home. Lou was alive and present and probably aware of the unfamiliar car in front of her house.
Time to stop hiding.
Camille grabbed her crutches and made her way up the walk, each step deliberate despite the dull ache in her knee.
The concrete was cracked in places, weathered by Phoenix Ridge summers and winter rains.
A ceramic planter sat by the door, empty and sun-bleached, waiting for flowers that nobody had planted.
She knocked. Three sharp raps against the wood, loud enough to echo in the morning stillness.
Silence. The shadow behind the curtain went still—frozen, like an animal sensing a predator. Camille's pulse thundered so hard she could feel it in her throat. A bird sang somewhere nearby, oblivious to the drama unfolding on this quiet porch.
"Lou." Camille raised her voice, not caring if the neighbors heard. Not caring about anything except the woman on the other side of this door. "I know you're in there. I'm not leaving until you talk to me."
More silence. The seconds stretched, each one an eternity. Camille pressed her palm flat against the door, as if she could reach through the wood and pull Lou toward her by force of will alone. Then footsteps, heavy and reluctant, crossing toward the door.
The lock clicked. The door opened.
And Lou stood there, looking worse than Camille had ever seen her—hair unwashed, dark circles under her green eyes, wearing the same worn Valkyries t-shirt she'd probably been sleeping in for days. Her face was a mask of exhaustion and something that might have been grief.
"You shouldn't be here," Lou said, her voice rough.
"Probably not." Camille leaned on her crutches, meeting Lou's eyes without flinching. "But I am. And I'm not going anywhere until we talk."
Lou stared at her for a long moment—weighing, calculating, probably searching for an excuse to close the door. But something in her expression shifted, cracked, gave way.
She stepped back.
And Camille stepped inside.