Page 39 of Offside Secrets
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Sutton. She’s stopped near the concierge desk, pretending to check her phone, but I can tell she’s watching. Her expression is carefully neutral, but I know her well enough now to read the tension in her shoulders.
I wonder if this is the moment where she sees what dating a player could be like. The fans, the attention, the women who throw themselves at athletes like we’re some kind of prize to be won. This is probably the moment where shedecides it’s not worth the hassle, if she was even considering it anyway.
I sign the jersey, smile for the selfie, exchange pleasantries with the other two fans. The whole interaction takes maybe three minutes, but it feels like an eternity with Sutton watching from across the lobby.
When I finally extract myself from the group—politely declining an invitation to grab drinks later—I expect to find Sutton looking uncomfortable, maybe annoyed, possibly reconsidering everything that happened between us.
Instead, when our eyes meet across the marble expanse, she gives me a small nod. Not dismissive or judgmental. Understanding.
She gets it. Gets that this is part of the job, part of the world I live in. That signing autographs and taking pictures with fans isn’t about ego or attraction—it’s about respect for the people who support the team.
The power in that woman, that with one simple smile, she sends relief flooding through my system. The feeling is so intense it’s almost dizzying.
Sutton pockets her phone and heads toward the elevators without another glance in my direction. She’s not fleeing, not making a scene. She’s just giving me space to do what I need to do, the same way she’d handle any other aspect of team business.
As the elevator doors close behind her, I realize something that hits me harder than any check I’ve ever taken on the ice: Sutton Mahoney doesn’t just understand my world—she respects it.
And that might be the most attractive thing about her yet.
CHAPTER 14
SUTTON
The owner’s box at the Harrisburg Arena has all the amenities—leather seats, catered food, a perfect view of the ice—but I’m barely touching the shrimp cocktail as I watch the Renegades dominate the third period. We’re up, four to one, and Campbell’s having the kind of game that makes scouts not only take notes, but publish a book about them. Two assists, solid defense, and that natural leadership that makes the whole team play better.
I lean back in my seat, letting myself take it all in: the roar of the crowd, the sharp scrape of skates on ice, the way the team moves together like a well-oiled machine. This is what I built. What I fought for. The satisfaction should be enough to fill the hollow spaces, but?—
My gaze drifts across the arena, scanning the crowd out of habit. That’s when I see him.
Victor Lawson.
Three sections over, partially obscured by a concrete pillar, but unmistakably him. That same perfectly tailored coat, the way he holds himself like he owns whatever room—or arena—he’s in. He’s talking to someone I don’t recognize, gesturingtoward the ice with the casual authority of a man who’s used to people listening.
My breath catches. For the love of Zambonis,whatis Victor Lawson doing in Harrisburg?
He’s not looking my way. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have spotted me at all, good for me—but my mind is already racing. This isn’t his territory. His interests run to major markets, established franchises, the kind of deals that make headlines. Harrisburg is nowhere near big enough to warrant his attention unless…
Unless he’s here for a reason that has everything to do with my team.
I force myself to look back at the ice, but I can feel the weight of his presence like a storm cloud rolling in. Victor Lawson doesn’t show up anywhere by accident. He’s here because he wants something, and that something is probably wrapped up in dollar signs and leverage even I don’t have.
My phone buzzes against the glass table beside me, and I welcome the distraction. Anna’s name lights up the screen.
Please tell me you’re not stress-eating all the owner’s box shrimp by yourself.
Despite everything, I smile.
They’re cocktail shrimp. Very sophisticated stress-eating. If I was super stressed, I’d be getting McDonald’s delivered via UberEats.
That’s my girl. How’s the game?
I glance back at the ice, deliberately not looking toward Victor’s section.
Winning 4-1. Campbell’s on fire.
Campbell’s on fire or YOU’RE on fire watching Campbell?
Professionally observing my player and his performance.
