Page 24 of Offside Secrets
Campbell’s grin widens, slow and victorious, like he’s just scored the game-winning goal.
“Yeah? Yes! This is great,” he says. “It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date,” I fire back instantly.
“Sure, it’s not. Of course,” he says, voice rich with amusement. “Whatever you say.”
Sawyer laughs outright, clapping him on the back. Elle just shakes her head, clearly delighted.
And really, why shouldn’t I say yes to this? Gavin’s not coming back this year, Jimmy’s already had his go at running the team and was booted out, so I’m the one left holding the bag, again. Maybe I’m just tired of playing it safe, of being the one who always colors inside the lines.
I’m just a woman, standing under a canopy of twinkling lights in River City, wondering how I let myself get talked into this.
CHAPTER 10
SUTTON
The zipper on my dress finally gives in with a satisfyingzip, and I exhale like I’ve just scaled the Himalayas while wearing my favorite pair of heels. My normally tidy living room looks like a boutique exploded—shoes tossed across the rug, a half-open lipstick rolling dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table, and two different clutch purses abandoned in the overstuffed armchair because I couldn’t decide which one screamed “competent team owner” louder.
The driver’s due any minute, Campbell’s supposed to be on his way over, and my pulse is already racing like I’m the one about to sing a solo in front of twenty thousand people instead of sipping overpriced champagne under twinkle lights.
The doorbell rings and my stomach flips. I take a moment to double-check my hair and how my dress swings in the hallway mirror before I even dare open it. I’m still mulling over an affirmation or two when I realize the person on the other side is Anna, not Campbell. And she’s standing there with a manila envelope in her hand and her usual knowing smile.
“Delivery,” she says, holding up the envelope. “Owen’scontract, signed, sealed, and delivered. Hot off the presses…or at least ‘damp and outta my sweaty mitts.’”
“Sweaty mitts? That’s a first.” I step aside, grateful for the distraction. “Get in here and please tell me you’re also secretly good at accessories, because I’m losing a battle with this bracelet.”
She drops the envelope on the counter and raises an eyebrow. “Sutton Mahoney, needing help? This is new.”
“Don’t make me beg,” I mutter, holding out my wrist where the delicate silver chain dangles, refusing to cooperate.
Anna takes it with a smirk and fastens the clasp in two seconds flat. “There. Crisis averted.” She studies me for a beat. “You look stunning, by the way. But why are you vibrating like you just drank five shots of espresso?”
I sink onto the edge of the sofa, careful not to wrinkle the dress. “Because tonight has the potential to be huge. The investors for the new NHL franchise are rumored to show. Which means it’s half party, half interview for a job I didn’t apply for. It’s a way for me to get in front of them, and stay in front of them.”
“That is a good thing,” Anna counters. “You like being visible in the hockey community, so staying front of mind is smart. Especially when there is a possible relationship to stoke the fires for. Besides, you’re good at that kind of thing.”
“I’m Southern, talking comes naturally to me. Like whistling.”
“That’s not natural to a lot of people,” Anna says with a laugh.
“I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Help you see whistling is a privilege?”
“Showing me that I’m worrying over silly things, but I’m not. I’m being a bit calmer in my delivery of my anxiety, and not as vociferous as I usually am, so I’m sure it confuses you.”
“What confuses me is that sentence. I can tell you werewanting to throwvociferousin there for kicks,” Anna says as she crosses her arms and eyes me. “Word of the day?”
“Yes, and it’s a good one.” I drag a hand through my hair, careful not to disturb the waves my stylist coaxed into place. “I just…I wish I had a word for the weird feeling I have in my tummy because I’m going with Campbell.”
Anna’s mouth twitches, like she’s trying not to laugh. “You say that like it’s a problem.”
“Itisa problem.” I stand again, pacing across the room, the click of my heels echoing too loudly in the quiet house. My nerves are practically tap dancing, and my feet just decided to join in. “He’s supposed to be this steady, neutral presence, someone I can depend on without…whatever this feeling is that has me—what did you say—acting like I’ve done eight espresso shots.”
“Five,” she says with a nod and a lazy shrug, like she’s on a talk show explaining quantum physics to an audience that tuned in for celebrity gossip. “But eight works.”
I groan, tossing my head back like the ceiling might have answers etched up there in tiny motivational quotes. “I wish I could figure out whatever this is.”
