Page 28 of Offside Secrets
“Exactly.” She gestures to the crowd, her confidence radiating like the stage lights. “But remember our secret sign—two taps on the glass if you get stuck in a conversation.”
“Right. Don’t leave me hanging,” I reply, the playful banter loosening the knot of formality in my chest. She’s got that effect on me—turning even a corporate schmooze-fest into something that feels like a private joke.
As she glides away, I adjust my tie, feeling the comforting weight of the suit across my shoulders. It’s tailored, precise, a uniform as much as any jersey I’ve ever worn—a reminder that I belong here, even if I’m not the star of the show.
I dive into the crowd, weaving between clusters of guests, exchanging smiles, firm handshakes, and polite laughter at jokes I’ll never remember. The air smells faintly of champagne and polished wood, and the low hum of conversation rises and falls like a crowd before a face-off.
A few minutes in, I catch Sutton’s eye from across the room. She’s deep in conversation with a group of guests, her laughter ringing out like music—bright, clear, and just for me, even though I know it isn’t. That’s the thing about Sutton: she has a way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room, even when she’s lighting up an entire corner of it.
I lift my glass and give it two taps, the crystal singing a quiet note under my fingers. She turns at once, her head tilting in playful acknowledgment, eyes sparking with mischief. Her lips curl into a smirk, and I can’t help but return the grin like an idiot who’s just been caught sneaking cookies before dinner.
She leans slightly away from her group, raising her glass in a mock toast. “Don’t get too cozy, Campbell! I’ll need you back here soon!”
I chuckle, the sound coming from somewhere low and warm, like a secret. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I call back, feelinga rush of connection across the room—an invisible thread, pulling taut between us despite the crowd pressing in around us.
I barely get a sip of champagne before a voice cuts in from my left. “You’re Campbell, right? Defenseman for the Renegades?”
I turn to find a man in a perfectly tailored suit, smile sharp enough to slice paper. He looks polished, too polished—like he practices his expressions in the mirror until they’re just the right amount of charming.
“That’s me,” I say, shifting my glass to my other hand and offering a polite nod.
“You are a superstar,” he says smoothly. He doesn’t bother with a handshake, or an introduction, he simply launches right in. “Big night for the organization. How are you feeling about the direction of the team under Miss Mahoney’s leadership?”
The way he says her name pricks at me, but I keep my tone even. “She’s a strong leader. Gets the best out of us.”
“That’s…good to hear.” The man’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something oily underneath it. “And with the NHL expansion coming? Must be exciting. Lots of opportunities for the right people to step up, make their mark.”
“Sure,” I say, wary now. He’s too interested, too invested for someone I’ve never seen around the rink. These kinds of questions are usually coming from reporters, not some Joe-blow at a party.
“But with the Renegades,” he presses, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “don’t you ever wonder if things could be…better? A little more support, a little less—what’s the word—risk?”
There it is. The slide of his words, casual on the surface but bait underneath. My gut tightens, the same instinct that tells me when a forward’s about to fake left and cut right. I don’t like him. At all.
I give him a smile that’s polite but thin. “The Renegades are my team. Always have been. Always will be.”
“Of course. Loyalty. Admirable quality.” For a fraction of a second, his smirk slips, then it’s back, smooth as ever. “I guess…I’m looking at things holistically. You’re on a team that over a year ago lost one owner because his family ousted him from his position and now the sister is in charge, new blood to be fair behind the wheel, as a huge opportunity comes to our neck of the woods.”
It’s not lost on me that this guy is dredging up the fact that Jimmy, Sutton’s brother, had to be pushed out of his seat steering the team, but it wasn’t done for kicks and giggles. Jimmy had, and was, making a giant mess of the Renegades and everyone—including the board, our shareholders, the team—wanted Sutton to be in charge.
“Well, as a team we’ve had no complaints or issues since Sutton took over, in fact we’re thriving. And as the captain of the Renegades, you can quote me on that.”
The man looks me up and down as if he’s some kind of soothsayer, like he wants to tell me secrets only his ears have heard, but instead, he claps me lightly on the shoulder, the gesture too familiar, too staged.
“That’s good to hear,” he replies as someone nearby waves and catches his attention. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to say hello to someone, but it was nice talking to you, Campbell.”
He melts back into the crowd before I can form a reply, leaving behind the faint stink of smugness and questions I don’t want to consider.
Before I can follow that thread, a booming voice cuts through the hum of conversation.
“Campbell Stockton? Oh wow, it’s really you!”
A man in a suit that’s a little too tight clasps my shoulder like we’re old pals. He’s flushed with excitement—or maybe just the open bar—but his grin is wide and earnest. “Biggest fan, man. Watched you play all through juniors. That playoffgoal against the Admirals? Unreal. You saved us that season.”
I shake his hand, offering a practiced smile. I’ve learned not to deflect compliments—they mean something to the people giving them—but it still feels odd. “Appreciate that. It was a good run.”
Before I can catch my breath, another couple drifts over. The woman is already pulling out her phone, gushing about “how her son has your jersey and would lose his mind over a photo.”
So I smile, I pose, I sign a napkin when someone digs one out of a pocket. The small talk blurs—where I’m from, what I think of the town, whether I like Sutton as a captain. I answer graciously, but my gaze keeps flicking past their shoulders, scanning the crowd.
