Page 48 of Offside Secrets
“To remind me that he exists, mostly. To make it clear he’ll be as involved as he can be in any future dealings between our organizations.”
Campbell’s expression darkens and I watch his hands clench the steering wheel a little tighter. “He threatened you?”
“Not directly. Victor’s too smart for that. He just likes to make sure people know he has influence.”
“Sutton.” Campbell reaches over and touches my hand, his fingers warm against my cold skin. “You know people like him love to hear themselves talk. My dad used to say ‘give the talkers a noose, they’ll hang themselves eventually.’”
I look down at our joined hands, at the way his thumb is brushing softly across my knuckles. “Guess I could’ve asked my assistant to throw him out?”
“Or never let him darken your office doorway again. Do I need to come up there and play security guard?”
I’m about to respond when Campbell shifts closer, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek. “You’re running yourself into the ground,” he murmurs. “When’s the last time someone took care of you?”
What a simple question that is also so loaded. When was the last time someone took care of me…when I was little and my parents were still alive? No, but I did have to get my appendix taken out in my early twenties, so when I was in the hospital people took care of me. I’m not the kind of gal who asks for help; I used to see it as weakness or letting go of control, but I’m quickly learning that I should be.
“I take care of me,” I say. “I always find a way to make it work.”
“Everyone needs someone else to take care of them sometimes.”
His thumb traces along my cheekbone, and I find myself leaning into his touch despite every rational thought screaming that we’re out in public where anyone could see us.
“Campbell,” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“This is a little dangerous, don’t you think?” I look out the window at the very open parking lot. “Not a good idea to sit here in broad daylight with you stroking my cheek, is it?”
“Probably not.” But he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans closer, until I can feel his breath against my lips. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t care about you.”
The confession breaks something loose in my chest, and before I can stop myself, I’m reaching for him. My hands fist in his hoodie, pulling him closer as his arms wrap around me. It’s not quite a kiss—more like a desperate embrace, two people clinging to each other in the middle of a storm.
I bury my face against his neck, breathing in the scent of his soap and something that’s just him. For a moment, the headache recedes, the stress of the day fades, and there’s nothing but Campbell’s arms around me and the steady beat of his heart against my cheek.
“I care about you, too,” I whisper against his skin.
His arms tighten around me, and I feel him press a soft kiss to the top of my head.
That’s when I see it.
Over Campbell’s shoulder, through the driver’s side window, a figure with a camera. The lens is pointed directly at us, and I watch in horror as the flash goes off.
I jerk back from Campbell so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
“What—” Campbell starts, then follows my gaze. His expression shifts from confusion to recognition to something that looks like dread. “Oh, no.”
“You know him?”
“Local sports blogger. He follows the team around sometimes, looking for stories.” Campbell runs a hand through his hair. “His name’s Marcus Webb. He’s persistent.”
I watch as the man with the camera lowers it and starts walking toward a beat-up sedan parked three spaces away. My migraine roars back to life with a vengeance.
“This is bad,” I breathe.
“Sutton—”
“This is really, really bad.” I can already see the headline:Team Owner Caught in Compromising Position with Player. My phone is going to be ringing off the hook. The board is going to lose their minds. Victor is going to know he was right about professional boundaries.
“Hey.” Campbell’s voice is gentle but urgent. “Look at me.”
