Page 49 of Offside Secrets
I force myself to meet his eyes, even though panic is clawing at my throat.
“Marcus isn’t a bad guy. He snapped a pic, it’s his livelihood,” he explains, his voice firm. “The way this works, I’ll call him and ask him to not post it, and then I’ll tease something else he can use instead.”
“I’m impressed.” I can’t help but look at him with admiration. “You’ve already got a strategy in place.”
“The first thing I was taught when I came to the Renegades, was how to play nice with all the media. Even the local bloggers and influencers, especially them, because they have the power to suddenly go viral on TikTok with a post.”
“So you’ll talk to Marcus?” I ask, my pulse slowing somewhat, but still revving.
“Yes. I’ll make sure to talk to him tonight,” he says, his tone much sweeter, softer now. “I’ll handle it. For us.”
Us. The word should be comforting, but all I can think about is Victor’s smug smile and the way he could use this to undermine everything I’ve worked for.
Campbell’s career. My reputation. The affiliation deal. Everything could come crashing down and all because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself in a parking lot.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I whisper.
Campbell immediately shifts back into caretaker mode, reaching for the door handle. “Stop it. I’ll be back in a minute. Medicine first, crisis management second.”
But as he gets out of the car, I can’t shake the feeling that the crisis just became too big for any amount of damage control.
CHAPTER 17
CAMPBELL
The puck hits my stick wrong for the third time in ten minutes, skittering away toward the boards like it’s allergic to me. Ben blows his whistle, and I know without looking that he’s wearing his “What the hell is wrong with you?” expression.
“Stockton! Where’s your head today?”
I skate over to retrieve the puck, trying to shake off the fog that’s been following me around since Tuesday night. Since I found Sutton struggling in that parking lot, since Marcus caught us in what should have been a private moment, since everything went sideways.
She’s been out sick—migraine turned into something worse, according to Elle. I’ve texted twice, called once. Radio silence. When I messaged her to reiterate I’d spoken to Marcus and not only got him to hold off on sharing the picture, but promised him another exclusive of some kind, she still didn’t respond. Either she’s too sick to answer, or she’s avoiding me because of the mess I helped create.
Probably both.
“Again!” Ben shouts, and we line up for another powerplay drill. Tomorrow night’s game against Rochester is important—it’s the one where the scouts will be right here, in River City, watching—but right now I can barely remember which end of the rink I’m supposed to be defending.
The drill starts, and I manage to make a decent pass to Sawyer before Owen’s sharp whistle cuts through the air. Not Ben’s whistle, but Owen’s. It’s loud and commands attention, the kind of sound that makes you, and herds of cattle, stop in your tracks. The kind he uses when he spots something interesting off the ice.
“Yo, Campbell!” Owen calls from the goal. “You might want to see this.”
Several of the guys are already pulling out their phones, skating toward center ice like they’ve been called for a team meeting. My stomach drops. Nothing good ever starts with teammates gathering around their phones.
Sawyer reaches me first, his expression somewhere between amused and concerned. “Bro, you need to look at this.”
He holds out his phone, and my blood turns to ice water.
The screen shows a few images from some gossip blog calledPuck Bunny Central. On the left is a photo from the donor gala—me with my arm around Sutton, both of us looking at each other like we’re the only two people in the room. It’s a good photo, actually. Professional. The kind that could have been taken at any charity event. There’s another one, from the same night, and it’s one I remember being taken: we’re sitting at our table, I’m kissing her cheek, and she’s laughing, waving a red rose in the air, just as the photographer instructed. Harmless.
But there’s another image. This one is Tuesday night. Sutton and me in her car, her hands fisted in my hoodie, my arms around her, both of us clearly lost in the moment. It’s grainy, obviously taken through a window with a long lens, and it’s not a picture Marcus would have taken, not from thatangle. Let’s not forget Marcus also doesn’t call his blogPuck Bunny Central—his is calledOffside Opinions.
Whoever got this shot was nearby, and not in our line of sight. But, one glance at this image and there’s no mistaking what’s happening. At all.
The headline reads: “RENEGADES OWNER’S SECRET ROMANCE? Team captain Campbell Stockton and owner Sutton Mahoney caught in intimate moments—is this why the Renegades are suddenly winning?”
My hands start shaking.
“Holy…man,” Ollie says, looking between his phone and me. “Is this real?”
