Page 4 of Offside Secrets
Two seconds later, Elle’s phone dings. She glances down, grins.
“Let me guess, Dixon checking in?”
She shrugs, a little flush creeping over her cheeks. “We’ve got a FaceTime date later tonight.”
Ever since he was called up to Washington D.C., I’ve marveled at how he and Elle have juggled their relationshipand made things work. The distance isn’t impossible. They take turns visiting one another, alternating as much as they can so one person doesn’t feel the weight of it all. I think it helps that it only takes about two and half hours by car to drive there, too. But with their schedules, we all knew there would be hurdles.
“He play tonight?” I ask as she nods.
“He did, they won, and he is happy. But, Ben wants to huddle with me before I leave for home.” She gathers her laptop, shoving it into her bag. “Try not to spiral about the whole ref thing…too much.”
“I’m not spiraling,” I lie. I am indeed spiraling. I’m triggered and activated—what could be better?
Elle just smirks, sliding out with a wave.
And then it’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind that presses in around you when the lights outside your office dim and the party downstairs keeps roaring without you.
I smooth the edge of my skirt, glance at the folder in front of me, and force my attention back to it.
Because this is who I am: Sutton Mahoney, golden-girl owner. Focused. Polished. In control—but also, a party of one.
CHAPTER 2
CAMPBELL
To me, the Renegades locker room always smells like either victory or dirty water and armpits. Tonight, even though we’re celebrating a win, it’s leaning heavily toward the latter. Sweat, disinfectant, and the faint tang of someone’s forgotten protein shake bottle—that’s our cologne.
I yank my jersey off and toss it into my bag, grinning when Sawyer flops onto the bench beside me with a groan loud enough to make it sound like he just climbed Everest instead of skating for sixty minutes, managing one awesome game, and screaming at the ref.
“Somebody get Grandpa here an oxygen tank,” I say, and the guys snort.
“Grandpa?” Sawyer squints at me. “I barely have ten months on you.”
“Exactly,” I shoot back, loud enough for the rest of the room. “That’s ten months of wear and tear. Your knees sound like popcorn when you bend down to tie your skates.”
The chirps fly around—old man jokes, retirement home references, one guy starts hummingThe Golden Girlstheme—and Sawyer flips us all off with the grace of a man who knows his limits and doesn’t care. Laughter bounces off thewalls, filling the space in that post-game buzz where we’re too hyped to be tired yet.
This is my element. The locker-room banter king. Court jester with a mouthguard.
But even the greatest of kings sneak off to make sure their castle’s still standing.
I grab my phone like I’m checking the game highlights and duck toward the back alcove.
The noise fades to a dull roar as I hit Dad’s number.
He picks up on the third ring. “You done winning yet?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice softer than it was two seconds ago. “Did you take your meds?”
A pause. “Don’t start.”
“Dad—”
“I took ‘em.”
I breathe out. “Okay. And the flare-up? Any better?”
“Some. Rheumatologist knows his stuff, I’ll give him that.”
