Page 12 of Offside Secrets
I lean back against the headrest, staring out into the void. My phone shows three missed calls from Elle, probably checking in about my day. But it’s almost eight o’clock on a Thursday night. I can’t call her now and ask her to come rescue me. I don’t know her coaching schedule, but she probably has an early morning practice.
The rideshare app shows a twenty-minute wait time and surge pricing that makes my accountant’s soul weep. I could call a tow truck, but that means standing in this creepy parking lot for who knows how long.
I’m contemplating my limited options when I hear the sharp scuff of rubber on concrete—for half a second, in my hockey-stimulated mind, it reminds me of skate guards scraping the rink floor.
Campbell appears from the stairwell, almost as if he’s materialized out of thin air using some kind of sorcery. He’s got his hockey bag slung over his shoulder, dark hair still damp from a post-practice shower. He looks surprised to see me, then concerned when he notices I’m sitting in a car that clearly isn’t running.
“Everything okay?” he asks, approaching my window. IfI’m not mistaken, I think those stormy gray eyes of his are flashing with worry.
I push the door open a few inches, trying to look collected instead of someone who is playing the part of ‘woman stranded in a parking lot at night’. “I’m in the middle of having a small disagreement with my car.”
He sets his bag down and leans slightly toward my window. “What’s it doing?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s on strike.”
Campbell grins. “Mind if I take a look?”
I should say no. I should maintain professional boundaries and call AAA like a responsible adult. But something about the way he’s looking at me—not like his boss, just like someone who might need help—makes me nod. Because at this moment, I do need help.
“Pop the hood,” he says.
I pull the release, and he disappears around the front of the car. I hear him moving things around, the soft thud as he sets his phone’s flashlight on the engine block.
“When’s the last time you had your battery checked?” he calls out.
“Um...” I rack my brain. “I honestly don’t know. I just take it in for oil changes when the light comes on.”
He reappears at my window, wiping his hands on a paper towel he must have had in his bag. “Your battery terminals are completely corroded. I’m guessing it’s the original battery?”
I stare at him blankly.
“How old is the car, Sutton?”
“Six years?”
He nods. “Yeah, that’s about right. Battery’s done.” He checks his watch. “Auto parts stores are all closed now, but I can get you started if you’ve got jumper cables.”
“I...” I feel heat creep up my neck. “I don’t think I do.”
Campbell straightens, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, no problem. I’ve got cables in my truck. Let me pull around.”
“Campbell, you don’t have to?—”
“Sutton.” His voice is gentle but firm. “It’s late, you’re stuck, and I’ve got jumper cables. This isn’t rocket science.”
Before I can protest further, he’s walking away, his truck’s engine revving a minute later. He pulls up nose-to-nose with my BMW, and I watch him work through the gaps of my windscreen, connecting red cable to red terminal, black to black, moving with the easy confidence of someone who’s done this before.
“Try it now,” he calls out.
The engine turns over immediately, purring to life like it was never dead at all.
Campbell disconnects the cables and appears at my window again. “You’re good to go, but don’t shut it off until you get home. And get a new battery tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate. “I really appreciate this. You didn’t have to stay.”
He shrugs, shouldering his hockey bag again. “What kind of captain would I be if I left the team owner stranded in a parking lot?”
There’s something in his tone—teasing but not entirely joking—that makes my pulse skip.
