Page 18 of Offside Secrets
CHAPTER 8
CAMPBELL
The locker room empties out faster than usual after practice, guys scattering to whatever passes for nightlife in River City. I’m taking my time with my gear, in no particular rush to get home. Dad’s having a good day. He texted me earlier that his hands felt “almost human”—which means he’s probably tinkering in the garage and won’t miss me for a few hours.
What’s left behind is a rare kind of quiet once the last voices fade down the hall. Only the steady rush of the shower breaks the silence, Sawyer’s muffled humming drifting with the steam. Without the usual chaos of twenty guys slamming lockers and tossing chirps, the space feels bigger somehow—echoey, stripped down to concrete, metal, and the hum of tired fluorescent lights. Damp towels slouch on the benches, the air heavy with that distinct mix of soap, sweat, and disinfectant. My footsteps sound too loud as I move between the rows, and for a second, I catch myself listening—to the water, to my own breathing, to the kind of pause that only happens after a game, when everything’s been said and the noise finally runs out.
A few moments later, Sawyer suddenly appears at my side. He’s freshly showered and grinning like he’s about to propose something that’ll get us both in trouble.
“Campbell, my handsome cousin,” he starts, which is never a good sign.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“I know that tone. The answer is still no.”
He drops onto the bench beside me, undeterred. “O’Malley’s. Tonight. You, me, Owen, and the new guy, Maxwell. Ollie threatened to come. Just a few beers, share some wings, show the rookie what River City nightlife has to offer.”
“River City nightlife?” I snort, stuffing my practice jersey into my bag. “That’s like saying ‘Antarctic beach vacation.’”
“Hey now, O’Malley’s has character. Plus, they’ve got that new bartender who doesn’t water down the drinks, and I heard they finally fixed the jukebox.”
“Did someone say O’Malley’s?” Owen appears from around the corner of lockers, already changed into street clothes. “I’m in. I’ve been eating nothing but protein bars and sadness for three days.”
“See?” Sawyer spreads his hands like he’s just proven some cosmic truth. “Owen’s sad, but he’s in. And Maxwell already said yes when I asked him earlier.”
Owen shrugs. “I was being sarcastic. Not really sad.”
“Well, not really funny either,” Sawyer retorts as he slaps his back. “But you can still come, sad or not.”
I look between the pair, both wearing matching expressions of hopeful expectation. “What’s the real reason you want to go out?”
Sawyer’s grin widens. “Can’t a guy just want to spend quality time with his teammates?”
“Not you,” I manage with a chuckle, wagging a finger in the air. I know this guy. “You’ve got an agenda.”
“Fine.” He leans back against the lockers, stretching his arms behind his head. “Maybe I want to remind the good people of River City that their beloved Renegades are still worth getting excited about. Maybe I want to sign a few autographs, take some selfies, spread a little AHL magic around town.”
Owen laughs. “You mean you want to show off.”
“Jog the memories of the people that he’s here,” I add, high-fiving Owen.
“I prefer ‘community outreach.’” Sawyer winks. “Besides, when’s the last time you went anywhere that wasn’t the rink, the grocery store, or your house? You’re becoming a hermit, Campbell.”
As much as I wish he was, he’s not wrong. Since Dad’s diagnosis, my social life has consisted of hockey, home, and the occasional trip to Beavertail Diner. Not exactly the lifestyle of a twenty-something professional athlete.
“Come on,” Owen adds. “One night out won’t kill you. And if Maxwell’s going, someone needs to make sure he doesn’t accidentally insult the locals with his Cape Cod charm.”
“Oh please, Maxwell is just fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. I love how Sawyer has always been like a gossipy old lady. “He’s got that prep school confidence that either wins people over immediately or makes them want to stuff him in a locker.”
“I’m worried about the ‘stuffing in a locker’ part of the equation,” Sawyer mutters.
“What time?” I hear myself asking, which apparently counts as surrender.
“Eight o’clock. Gives us time to grab dinner first if you want.” Sawyer claps me on the shoulder. “This is going to be fun, Cam. Trust me.”
Famous last words.
