Page 30 of Offside Secrets
The words land like a quiet punch to the chest—unexpected, direct, and maybe the best thing I’ve heard all night.
Sitting here, in this crowded room, with this gorgeous woman who is spilling her guts to me has to be the most intimate experience I’ve had in years. A woman like this, telling me about her insecurities, giving me the tiniest of glimpses into who she is makes me feel seen, and I’m not the kind of guy who would even like to ever admit that out loud.
I’m about to ask Sutton another question, mostly because I simply want to keep her talking, when a server appears beside me and the first course is served—a delicate salad with vibrant colors. I glance around the table, noting the other guests engaging in small talk, but my focus stays on Sutton. The tension of her story hangs in the air, mingling with the scent of the food.
I lean in, trying to lighten the mood. “So, what’s the planfor tonight? Charm the socks off the sponsors and then maybe a dramatic exit?”
“Dramatic exit?” She raises an eyebrow, her fork poised above her plate. “I hope not. It’s not game night.”
“Touché. But I’m happy to play the role of the charming sidekick tonight,” I say, lifting my glass for a toast. “To us, and to keeping each other sane.”
“To us,” she echoes, clinking her glass against mine, her laughter ringing out and brightening the room.
As dinner progresses, the conversation drifts easily, laughter threading through the clink of silverware and low hum of the room. Our table companions are cordial, and the group leans in to chat and be social at opportune moments. Between bites, I see a chance to get a little one-on-one time with Sutton, a bit of small-talk downtime to re-energize before launching back into work mode, so I lean closer and launch into a story about one of training camp’s greatest hits—our annual prank war.
“So,” I say, voice low like I’m letting her in on a state secret, “rookie year, the vets decided to haze me by filling my car with packing peanuts. And I don’t mean a couple bags. I mean wall-to-wall, open the door and it looked like a snow globe exploded inside. Took me three hours to dig it all out.”
Sutton laughs, head tipping back just enough to catch the glow of the chandelier, her golden hair catching the light. “Three hours? You didn’t just drive around with it like that? I would’ve rolled the windows down and called it confetti service.”
“Of course you would have, that mind of yours probably works overtime,” I say. “But mine is simple and likes to focus on pucks and sticks…so, I wasn’t thinking. Every time I opened the window, the peanuts flew out like I was littering on purpose. Not the best look when your coach is parked beside you.”
She shakes her head, her smile tugging wider. “Rookies never win, do they?”
“Not a chance.” I grin, pausing to sip my drink. “But don’t worry, I got even the next year. Let’s just say a certain goalie’s gear didn’t smell quite right after I swapped his shampoo for blue cheese dressing.”
“Was it Dixon?” she asks, her eyes going wide, hands flying to cover her mouth as she dissolves into laughter when I nod. “Campbell! That’s evil. Genius, but evil.”
“Ruthless efficiency. It’s a gift,” I say, deadpan, though I can’t help the twitch of a smile. “Pretty sure Ollie tried to dip a hot wing in Dixon’s hair not long after.”
She’s still giggling when she sets down her fork, leaning toward me conspiratorially. “Okay, fine. I’ll match you. My first week at Sterling Media, I was trying so hard to look like I belonged. Power suit, fresh notebook, whole nine yards. They call me into this big pitch meeting. I walk in with my fancy coffee and”—she stops for dramatic effect, her eyes sparkling—“trip right over the conference room rug. The entire latte goes flying. Lands directly in the lap of the senior VP of accounts.”
I wince. “Ouch. Did you run, or…?”
“Oh no,” she says, mock-serious. “I did what any self-respecting Southern woman would do. I apologized profusely, tried to mop it up with an armful of napkins, and prayed he’d find it charming.”
“And did he?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She sighs, though the corners of her mouth twitch with amusement. “Let’s just say I didn’t get fired and he still sends me Starbucks gift cards every Christmas. Probably to remind me of my finest moment.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “So you started your career by making a lasting impression. Bold strategy.”
She raises her glass with a mock toast. “Better than being remembered as the girl with the permanent nope.”
“Sounds like you have a knack for making impressions,” I tease, grinning.
Our playful banter continues, but I can sense her tension when we overhear Victor’s name mentioned again, only in passing, by someone at our table.
Sutton turns her body so she faces me fully. “You know, I just want to sum up my issue with that man. It’s not just about him, it’s about me. I want to prove I’m here on my own merit,” she says, her voice and gaze steady.
“You are,” I assure her. “And if Victor can’t see that, nor anyone else, it’s their loss.”
As dessert arrives—decadent chocolate mousse—I take a moment to savor the scene. The laughter, the conversation, the way she leans in closer when she talks; it all feels effortlessly intimate.
“So, Sutton,” one of the other guests at our table pipes up, “what do you think about the new NHL team coming to Alexandria, The Dominion? Exciting news, right?”
Sutton brightens, her previous tension melting away. “Absolutely! I can’t wait to meet the new owners and see how our teams can collaborate. The Renegades are set to have a good relationship with them, especially since we’ll be feeding players through their system.”
“Do you know who the owners are yet?” another guest inquires.
