Page 10 of Offside Secrets
Sawyer looks at me like I sprouted horns. “Bro, since when do you orderfruitinstead of the full bacon apocalypse?”
I pull my eyes from the menu. “Feeling light.”
Sawyer leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes serious for once. “Hey, man,” he says in a low voice, “you’ve been real quiet this morning. Is your dad okay? Is everything okay with you?”
I swallow. Let the table go silent for just a second (which with us is rare).
“Yeah,” I manage. “Dad’s…not great. He’s having a flare-up. He woke up this morning and his wrists were so stiff he couldn’t close his fists all the way. His knuckles looked swollen and he felt burning in his joints, even before he stood up. With the stiffness—it takes him forever just to get going in the mornings.”
Ollie gives me a soft look, Owen sets down his mug as though tasting sympathy, and, out of the corner of my eye, I notice Karen pauses wiping a table nearby.
I drop my voice, because I don’t want the pity, just the truth out there. “He’s been on pain meds, doing the therapy, but there’s always the bills piling up. And every flare-up feels like it moves two steps ahead of what we can pay or plan for.”
Sawyer nods. “Man, Campbell. I’m sorry. That sucks.”
Owen leans in. “Anything I can do? I mean, hockey stuff or otherwise.”
I look around at my friends—the guys who make me feel like I could almost believe my dreams are within reach. Almost.
I take a sip of coffee, bitter in that good way, and try to smile as I shake my head. “Thanks. Means a lot.”
My breakfast arrives—eggs are certainly over easy, the hash browns crispy, and the fruit is cold and bright. I pick at the fruit first, because fruit’s easy. The eggs take more thought.
Everything feels heavier now, like I’m carrying two games: one on the ice, one at home.
I eat in small bites. The laughter and the jokes start up again—Sawyer teasing Owen about his smoothie plan, Gerry shouting at the TV about the Leafs, and Karen asking if anyone wants a side of silver dollar pancakes or more bacon.
But inside me the storm’s already gathered. Scouts. NHL shot closer than ever. Dad hurting. Bills looming.
I chew the last piece of cantaloupe, stabbing at a strawberry almost immediately. I need this. Not just for me, but for him.
The weight of it hums in my veins.
And I promise, one way or the other, I’m going to make damn sure it counts.
The arena doesn’t looklike our usual playground right now—it looks like a professional photography studio set up shop on our ice. Someone has stretched a backdrop across one side with the Renegades logo prominently displayed, and lighting equipment is scattered around like a small army of mechanical sentries along with various props that I assume are meant to make us look “dynamic” and “engaged.”
We’re lined up for the annual team photo shoot, the one that generates content for programs, posters, social media, our holiday campaigns, and whatever else our marketing team dreams up. All of us in our jerseys, skates, and varying degrees of enthusiasm for being photographed. Even Trevor, the guy who takes his mascot duties seriously, is on the ice in his beaver costume, striking exaggerated poses that make the photographer groan.
The photographer is busy barking directions like “closer, arms around each other, yes, show me that team unity!” and sounds like he’s trying to wrangle a kindergarten class photo or herd cats, which he kind of is. Sawyer elbows me in the ribs, grinning, and the rest of the guys ham it up, flexing and striking dramatic poses between shots.
Then comes the parade of “special guest” photos. Coaches get pulled in—Ben, of course as head, Elle, Cannon, even Pete, the assistant to our coaching staff. We do the arms-crossed, tough-guys version, then the “family shot” with everyone cheering. It’s chaos, but at least it’s chaos I can hide in.
And then the photographer squints past the group,toward the edge of the boards. “Miss Mahoney, are you still there?”
I look across the ice as Sutton freezes like a deer in headlights. I’d seen her when I arrived; she’s been lingering off to the side with her clipboard, her blazer sharp and heels clicking every time she shifts her weight. At the mention of her name, her eyes widen and in a comical and slow motion fashion, she turns her pointer finger to herself.
The photographer cracks up. “Yes, come on in! Let’s get a few with you, too.”
“Oh, no,” she begins, shaking her head once. It’s subtle, but the photographer is already beckoning her forward. The guys notice, of course, and start to cheer her on.
“Come on, we’re a team!”
“Boss lady,” this one is from Sawyer, “get in here!”
“Please?”
Sutton looks at all of us as if we’ve lost our minds before shaking her head and acquiescing to our cries. A chorus ofoooohsand wolf whistles rises behind me as she steps gingerly onto the matting they’ve rolled across the ice. Her expression could cut steel, but she keeps moving, chin high.
