Page 14 of Offside Secrets
Dad nods, but I can tell he’s not really listening. Pain has a way of stealing focus, shrinking the world until it’s nothing but the ache in front of you. Since his diagnosis, I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to know about chronic conditions—the way they wear down not just the body but the spirit, turning everyday tasks into uphill battles. What stands out most is how relentless it all is. There’s no pause button, no real break, and it’s not easy for anyone living with it—or for the people who love them and can only watch.
I set the soup in front of him, noticing the way he struggles with the spoon for a few seconds before sitting down across from him. We eat in comfortable silence, the kind that comes from years of navigating our days together.
After he takes his pills, a careful choreography of timing and water and hoping his stomach cooperates, I help him get settled into his recliner and grab my laptop.
“What are you working on?” Dad asks, settling back with a small groan of relief.
“Some research.” I pull up the browser, typing “BMW battery replacement cost” into the search bar.
The numbers make my stomach clench. Even at the cheaper auto parts stores, a quality battery for Sutton’s car would costmore than I spend on groceries in a month. Add in installation if she doesn’t want to do it herself—which, let’s be honest, she probably doesn’t—and it’s pushing three hundred dollars.
For her, that’s probably nothing. Pocket change. She probably spends more than that on a single dinner out.
For me? That’s half of Dad’s medication copay this month.
I find myself scrolling through reviews anyway, bookmarking the best-rated batteries, even looking up which BMW dealership would be closest to her house. Like she couldn’t figure this out herself with a five-second Google search and a phone call to her mechanic, or asking her assistant to do it.
Wrinkling my nose, I stare at the screen.Like she needs me to take care of her.
“Campbell?” Dad’s voice cuts through my spiraling thought. “You’re frowning at that computer like it owes you money.”
I close the laptop, running a hand through my hair. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
How do I explain this? That I helped my boss with her car tonight and now I’m sitting here researching batteries for her like some kind of...what? Knight in shining armor? Superhero with a pickup truck and jumper cables?
She drives a BMW that costs more than I make in six months. She owns a professional hockey team. She probably has people who handle things like car maintenance for her.
And here I am, acting like she needs me to solve her problems.
“Work stuff,” I say finally.
Dad studies me with the kind of look that means he knows I’m not telling him everything, but he’s too tired to push. “You know, your mom always said you had a thing about fixing things that weren’t really broken.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sometimes people can handle their own problems, son. Even when you want to help.”
The words hit closer to home than I’d like to admit. I look around our living room—the stack of medical bills on the side table, the pill organizer, the heating pad draped over the arm of Dad’s chair. Maybe I do have a slight obsession about fixing things.
Maybe it’s because there’s so much I can’t fix.
I can’t fix Dad’s arthritis. Can’t make the medications cheaper or the flare-ups less frequent. Can’t turn back time to before we knew words like “rheumatoid” and “inflammation” and “disease progression.”
I can’t fix the fact that an NHL contract would solve half our problems overnight, and the scoutscouldshow up to our games—or not.
I can’t fix the way I felt when Sutton smiled at me tonight, or the fact that these days, thinking about her makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with wanting something I probably can’t have.
But I can research car batteries. I can make sure she doesn’t get ripped off by some mechanic who sees a wealthy woman and thinks “easy mark.”
I can help with the small things, even if the big things are out of my reach.
My phone buzzes with a text, and for a second my heart jumps, thinking it might be her. But it’s just Sawyer, asking if I want to grab breakfast tomorrow before practice.
I type back a quick “sure” and then, before I can second-guess myself, open a new message. I’d already messaged once to make sure she was home, so what’s one more gonna hurt?
Hey, found some good battery options for you. BMW dealer charges $300 installed, but AutoZone has the same battery for $180 and they’ll install it for free. Just thought you might want to know.
