Page 11 of Offside Secrets
“Perfect,” the photographer says, practically vibrating with excitement. “Let’s put the owner right here in front…yes, next to the captain. Front and center.”
Sutton slides into place beside me, muttering something under her breath that I’m pretty sure isn’t festive. We’re all watching as she takes one careful step forward, but the matting shifts under her heel, making it slide to the side. She wobbles, arms flailing.
There’s a split second here where I freeze before my instinct kicks in, but somehow I catch her at the waist before she can slam into the ice without any safety gear on. She’s a tumble of floral fragrances and fresh clean sheets as she grips my forearm, steadying herself, her frosty blue eyes flashing up at me. For one second, it’s just the two of us, closer thanwe’ve ever been, her perfume cutting through the scent of pine spray and hockey gear.
And of course that’s the moment the photographer nearly explodes. “Yes! Hold it!” The flash goes off, locking us in that frame: my hand at her waist, her laugh just breaking free as the team roars with approval behind us. “That’s perfect—natural, connected, I love it!”
“Can you stand?” I murmur into her ear, because Sutton’s still clenching my arm like I’m her only lifeline before she gets tossed off a cliff.
“No clue,” she mutters back. “I would love to know how Elle can run around here in heels and make it look like she’s in sneakers, for Pete’s sake.”
The corner of my mouth quirks. I probably shouldn’t find that funny, but I do. Way more than I should.
“Oh, yes!” The photographer claps like he’s just discovered electricity, winking at both of us. “This is the money shot. Fabulous, you two. Thanks.”
Sutton groans under her breath, finally releasing my arm. I should probably let go of her waist too, but it takes me a second longer than it should. When I do, the space between us feels colder than the ice beneath my skates.
The guys are eating it up behind us, hooting and hollering like it’s the best entertainment they’ve had all season. Sawyer cups his hands around his mouth. “Calendar cover right there, Cap!”
Sutton straightens, smoothing her blazer like the whole incident never happened. Except her cheeks are a shade pinker than usual, and she’s very carefullynotlooking at me.
I, on the other hand, can’t seem to stop looking at her.
CHAPTER 5
SUTTON
The conference room feels like a tomb after three hours of budget spreadsheets and revenue projections. My eyes burn from staring at numbers, and my neck has that familiar ache from hunching over financial reports. The last board member finally shuffles out, leaving me alone with a stack of papers and the lingering scent of coffee.
My phone dings. No, not to signal a text or an email. It’s not even a phone call. It’s my word of the day app reminding me I haven’t even opened it today. Yes, I am that person who buys a calendar and downloads an app because I love input. It’s a strength, so I lean into it.
I tap my phone and the app comes to life. “Nonpareil” lights up my screen, along with its meaning. “That which has no equal because it is better than any other,” I mumble to myself, letting the words sink in as I take in my surroundings again.
Not only do I love reading my word of the day, but I also like using it in a sentence. Sometimes, I use it when I’m alone just after I’ve read the word of the day and that’s enough. But when it’s a word that I consider a good one, I hold on to itand try to drop it into conversations and see if anyone else picks up on it.
Nonpareil is one I can do both with…use now and call back, I’m certain, when I’m at my next board meeting. For now, I’d use it as, “Sixteen-year-old me would be in awe to see the woman I’ve become at thirty-five—living a life that is truly nonpareil, unmatched in its joy, strength, and purpose.”
I sit in silence and smile at no one, because even for my complaints I am proud of where I’m at, and so far, where I’m headed, too.
Now, if the board was still here I’d probably use it like this: “You know, when I was sixteen, I always hoped I would be sitting at a board table surrounded by nonpareils—and I am, just not quite the kind I pictured.”
Am I being internally petty? A little. I glance at my watch—7:47 p.m. The building feels different at this hour, hollow and echoing. The cleaning crew finished a couple hours ago, and even the die-hard staff have gone home to their families. Just me, an urn of old coffee, and the ghosts of a thousand hockey games.
I gather my papers, shoving them into my leather portfolio with more force than necessary. The numbers aren’t adding up the way I need them to. We’re profitable, sure, but not by enough to feel secure if the new NHL team starts poaching our best talent. And if Campbell or Sawyer get scouted away…
I shake my head, pushing that thought down. One crisis at a time.
As I make my way down to the parking lot, I think about the very real fact we’ll most likely say goodbye to a player, or two, or maybe more once the new team is announced. I know we have players who are being watched, because we have a good team. Would I be sad if they left? Yes, especially for the team, and for River City, but it’s the business of it all. I always want my guys to be their best, no matter where it takes them.
The lot is dimly lit, my heels echoing off concrete as I make my way to my car. The BMW sits under a flickering fluorescent light, and for a moment I feel a stab of gratitude for something reliable in my life. My car, my mechanic, and my hairdresser are the three relationships I’ve had the longest, and I cherish the most.
I slide into the driver’s seat, toss my portfolio onto the passenger side, and turn the key.
Nothing.
Not even the courtesy of a clicking sound or a half-hearted engine turnover. Just...silence.
“Oh no. Come on,” I mutter, trying again. The dashboard lights don’t even flicker. “You have got to be kidding me.”
