Page 13 of Offside Secrets
“Besides,” he adds, his grin turning slightly wicked, “now you owe me one.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling despite myself. “What’s the going rate for jumpstarting a dead battery these days?”
“Dinner,” he says without hesitation.
My heart does a little flip. “Campbell...”
“I’m kidding.” But those gray eyes are dancing now, lit with mischief. I dig through my mental archive—nope, I’ve never met anyone with eyes like this. Hypnotic, the kind thatcould talk you into bad decisions in a heartbeat. I swear I even catch a flicker of blue. “Well. Mostly.”
Do I want to unpack this flirtation? Oh, I do. I do. I do. But, I also cannot. Nope, even if there is a tiny gang riverdancing its way across my belly at this moment, I have to tear my gaze away, forcing my focus back to the steering wheel.Get it together, Sutton. With a quick shake of my head, I put the car in reverse. “Drive safe, Campbell.”
“You too, Sutton. And seriously—get that battery replaced.”
As I pull out of the lot, I catch sight of him in my rearview mirror, standing under that flickering fluorescent light, watching to make sure I make it out okay.
The drive home feels different somehow. Charged. Like the spark that jumped from his truck to my car short-circuited something important, like my common sense.
And, of course, I’m blaming Anna and Elle. I didn’t feel this weird buzz before they started their matchmaking nonsense. Now I’m hyperaware of all things Campbell—his laugh, his stupidly nice forearms, the way his name sounds when someone says it.
Honestly, I should bill them for emotional damages.
When I pull into my driveway twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes with a text from Campbell.
Made it home okay?
I stare at the message for a long moment before typing back.
Yes, thank you again.
I pause before tapping my screen once more.
Like you said. I owe you one.
I’ll think of something.
I’m still smiling at my phone when I unlock my front door, and for the first time in weeks, the empty house doesn’t feel quite so lonely.
CHAPTER 6
CAMPBELL
The app on my phone alerts me to the timer going off in the kitchen. The sound rings out as I’m pulling into the driveway, which means Dad’s probably sitting at the table staring at his pill organizer, waiting for me to get home. Thursday nights are rough—the methotrexate makes him nauseous, and he won’t take it unless I’m there to make sure he eats something first.
I find him exactly where I expected, hunched over the weekly pill container like it’s a puzzle he can’t solve. His hands are swollen today, knuckles puffy and red. On bad days, even opening the little compartments becomes a production.
“Hey, Dad.” I drop my hockey bag by the door and wash my hands at the sink. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” he says, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Driven by someone who backed up and hit me again for good measure.”
I pull leftover soup from the fridge—the kind I batch-cooked on Sunday because it’s easy on his stomach. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Seven. Maybe eight.” He flexes his fingers, wincing. “Wrists are the worst today.”
I heat the soup and grab the good crackers, the ones that actually have some flavor. Dad needs calories when he takes his meds, but everything tastes like cardboard to him lately.
“Rough practice?” he asks, watching me move around our small kitchen.
“Nah, just stayed late to work on some stick-handling drills.” I don’t mention finding Sutton stranded in the parking lot. Don’t mention the way she looked at me when her car started, or how I’ve been thinking about that look since the moment I walked away.
