Page 19 of Offside Secrets
O’Malley’s Sports Barsits on the corner of Main and Third, squeezed between a vintage clothing shop and a place that sells artisanal soap. It’s the kind of bar that tries hard to be authentic—exposed brick walls, mismatched chairs, and enough hockey memorabilia to start a small museum. The crowd tonight is typical for a Friday: a mix of college kids, locals who’ve been coming here since the Carter administration, and the occasional hockey fan who recognizes us from game programs.
Maxwell fits in better than I expected, though he’s still wearing a button-down shirt that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Owen’s already claimed a high-top table near the bar, and Sawyer’s holding court with a group of guys who keep buying him drinks and asking about his penalty shot technique.
“Your cousin’s really something,” Maxwell says, watching Sawyer demonstrate his wrist shot using a beer bottle and an invisible puck.
“That’s one way to put it.” I take a sip of my beer, scanning the room out of habit. It’s a hockey player thing—always checking exits, reading the crowd, making sure nobody’s looking for trouble.
“Must be nice, having that kind of confidence.”
I glance at Maxwell, hearing something in his voice. “You seem pretty confident to me.”
He shrugs, rolling his beer bottle between his palms. “Different kind of confidence, I guess. Sawyer’s got that natural charisma thing. People just gravitate toward him.”
“You’re not doing too badly yourself.” I nod toward the bar, where two women keep stealing glances in our direction. “Pretty sure they’re not looking at me.”
Maxwell follows my gaze and grins. “Want to go introduce ourselves?”
“I’m good here.” I settle back in my chair, content to watch Sawyer’s performance and nurse my beer. It’s nicer than I thought it would be to be out, be normal, not think about medical bills or scouts or the way a certain woman looked at me in a parking lot not too long ago.
Except now I’m thinking about it again.
It’s been at least a week since the battery incident, and I’ve caught myself checking my phone more often than usual, hoping for another text from her. Which is ridiculous. She thanked me, and that thanking was because I helped her out, end of story. She’s probably already forgotten about it, moved on to whatever crises team owners deal with on a daily basis.
“Earth to Campbell,” Owen says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You look like you’re solving the mysteries of the universe over there.”
I take a swig of my drink before answering him. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing important.”
Sawyer appears at our table, slightly flushed from his impromptu fan meet-and-greet. “Having fun yet?”
“It’s barely been an hour,” I point out.
“An hour’s plenty of time to make memories, cousin.” He signals the bartender for another round. “Besides, the night’s young, and River City’s finest are just getting started.”
He’s not wrong. The bar’s filling up, the music’s getting louder, and there’s that electric feeling in the air that comes with Friday night possibilities. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe.
Maybe Sawyer was right. Maybe I did need this.
“To the Renegades,” Owen says, raising his fresh beer.
“To showing River City what we’re made of,” Sawyer adds.
“To not embarrassing ourselves,” I contribute, which gets a laugh.
“To new teammates and old friends,” Maxwell finishes.
We clink glasses, and for a moment, everything feels simple. Just some guys in a bar, celebrating another week of doing what we love.
If only it could stay that simple.
CHAPTER 9
SUTTON
Ituck the phone against my ear, balancing a glass of wine in one hand while my brother Gavin’s voice crackles faintly through the line. He’s somewhere in South America—or maybe Africa this time?—doing his superhero thing with Doctors Without Borders. Wherever he is, the connection’s garbage, but I don’t care. He’s coming home soon, and the thought makes me grin into my glass. Between the donor gala and Gavin’s visit, it feels like everything might actually line up for once.
