Page 2 of Offside Secrets
“And then there is Campbell…” Anna fans herself dramatically. “Let’s just say that man was born to be kissed.”
“Will Ollie have something to say about it?” I’m referring to our defenseman, Ollie Decker, who Anna’s been friends with for years but has been dating for almost a year now.
Elle laughs. “Maxwell’s the one you marry. He’s the dependable minivan in a sea of flashy sports cars. Sawyer you kill—sorry, but dealing with his little outbursts for the rest of my life would make me nuts. I do not see how his girlfriends can handle it…”
“They’re usually pop stars,” Anna interrupts with a laugh. “They probably sing their way out of a room so they don’t have to listen to him.”
“But,” Elle continues nonplussed, “Campbell you definitely kiss. And it’s good, too. Possibly twice.”
“Are you both done now?” I ask, arching a brow. “I’m sure both Ollie and Dixon would love to hear this conversation. Adore. With bells!”
“Not even close to being done,” Anna says sweetly. “Ollie, as my boyfriend, would support me in this. He loves to play this game. I pick out strangers on the street and make him play with me. Come on, Sutton. Who would you pick?”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t play this game.”
“That’s exactly what someone with a very secret answer would say,” Elle quips.
“What would Dixon say to you?” I ask, hoping to slow her roll.
“He’d wonder why I didn’t pick him for all three.” She laughs. “But he’d be really curious to know who you’d pick.”
“She doesn’t want to agree with us that she thinks her captain is kissable, too.” Anna smirks. “Admit it. You think Campbell’s hot.”
“He’s a player,” I reply crisply.
Campbell’s face flashes in my mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore. The man is unfairly good-looking. Like, “walks through the airport in slow motion” good-looking or the kind of guy who can talk a woman into sharing her passwords kind of good-looking. Since the first day I met him, I noticed the cut of his jaw—sharp enough to make bad decisions over. Strong. Sexy. Dangerous in all the right ways.
“On the ice or off?” Elle deadpans.
Anna nearly falls off the desk laughing.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “HR is going to have an aneurysm if they ever get ahold of this conversation.”
“Relax,” Elle says, suddenly slipping into her best faux Southern accent, which she does to make fun of me, and drawing out each word as much as she can, which is as much as time allows. “We’ll just keep it a secret. You can stay picture-perfect, my sweet, Southern Belle they call Sutton Mahoney.”
That earns herthelook—the one that can silence an entire boardroom. However, not my girl. She just smiles wider.
The truth? Iamthe golden-girl owner. Perfect wardrobe. Perfect hair. The media darling who runs the Renegades and has turned them into the team everyone’s suddenly talking about. On paper, I have it all.
Except when the arena lights go out and I’m just the verysinglegolden-girl owner. The one with an empty dinner reservation waiting. Party of one? Yes, please.
The door bangs open. Speak of the devil, or devils as it were. Sawyer barrels in, all six-foot-two of hockey attitude,dragging his cousin Campbell along like a reluctant bodyguard.
“I’m not apologizing,” Sawyer declares, pointing a finger at me like I’m Judge Judy.
“Good evening to you, too,” I say. “Love what you’ve done with your temper tantrum.”
Campbell leans against the wall, arms folded, eyes glinting with amusement. Of course he looks unfairly good doing absolutely nothing. My shoes probably cost more than his entire outfit, but here he is—broad shoulders, hair that falls just right, smile that should be illegal—smirking like this circus is my problem, not his.
Spoiler: it is.
Sawyer crosses his arms like a sulky teenager who happens to be built like a Viking. “I’m not sorry,” he repeats, louder this time, as if volume will make it true.
Elle cough-laughs. “Great strategy. Yell until everyone agrees with you. Works every time.”
I hold up a hand before it devolves into WrestleMania in my office. “Sawyer, you shoved a ref. The league doesn’t care if you call it shaking hands or patriotism or interpretive dance—they care that the Renegades don’t look like a bunch of clowns exiting a small car.”
“Wewonthe game,” Sawyer argues.
