Page 50 of Offside Secrets
Owen skates closer, reading over Sawyer’s shoulder. “Says here they’ve been ‘carrying on a clandestine affair for weeks.’ Has quotes from ‘anonymous sources close to the team.’”
Anonymous sources. My jaw clenches. It’s not Marcus, so I can only come up with exactly one person who might have cried ‘anonymous sources’ and given some reporter a reason to use them.
“Cam?” Sawyer’s voice is quieter now, concerned, using my family nickname probably to ground me, because he knows I’m about to spin out. “This is real, isn’t it?”
I look around at my teammates—guys who’ve had my back on the ice for months, who trust me to lead them into games, who are all staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“It’s a lot to unpack,” I say finally.
“Unpack? How?” Maxwell asks. He’s holding his own phone, scrolling through what looks like a different blog. “Because according to this one, you two were ‘practically undressing each other at the gala’ and the parking lot thing was just ‘the latest in a series of secret rendezvous.’”
“They’re making it sound way more—” I stop, because how do I explain this without making it worse? That yes, I have feelings for Sutton, and yes, she feels something, too, butwe’ve been trying to handle it professionally? That the gala photo was taken when we had no clue all of this would happen? That Tuesday night she was sick and I was worried about her?
“Does Ben know?” Owen asks.
Before I can answer, Ben’s voice booms across the ice. “What’s all this about? You guys are in a circle exchanging, what, protein drink recipes and we’ve got a game tomorrow!”
The guys scatter like roaches when they hear his voice, but not fast enough. Ben skates over, his expression already shifting from annoyance to concern when he sees our faces.
“Someone want to tell me what’s going on, why you’re all standing in a circle and chatting away like you have all the time in the world?”
Sawyer hands over his phone without a word. I watch Ben’s face as he scrolls through the article, his expression growing darker with each sentence.
“Office. Now.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it, just turns and skates toward the tunnel.
The arena suddenly shrinks down and feels like a tomb as I make my way off the ice. I know behind me the guys are trying to act normal, but I can feel them watching me, whispering when they think I’m not listening. By tomorrow, this story will have spread through the entire AHL. By Thursday, when the guys from Alexandria show up, it’ll be the only thing anyone’s talking about.
I will my feet to slow down; I feel like I’m a dead man walking or some other kind of analogy. The team leader, falling from his spot right before his big break. Go me.
Ben is waiting for me in his office, the door already closed. The gossip blog is pulled up on his computer screen, but instead of the anger I expected, his expression looks more concerned than frustrated.
“Close the door and sit down, son.”
I do as I’m told, taking my place in front of him and bracing for the lecture.
“So,” he begins, hiking a thumb over his shoulder at the screen, “is it true?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I could lie, claim it’s all blown out of proportion, that we’re just friends and the photos make it look like more than it is. I could even try to blame AI, and an opposing team making fake images in an effort to make us look bad.
But looking at those pictures, even I can see there’s no way to spin this as platonic.
“Some of it,” I say quietly.
Ben nods slowly. “Want to tell me about it?”
The gentleness in his voice catches me off guard. I was prepared for anger, for disappointment, not...understanding.
“The gala photos are what they are. One taken who knows when, maybe on the red carpet? The other, with the rose, was taken right after a photographer asked us to get together for a photo opp. Honestly, not a big deal.”
“And,” Ben continues, looking me square in the eye, “the other one?”
I clear my throat. “The other one...” I run a hand through my hair. “She was sick. I drove her home, stopped to get her medicine. It wasn’t supposed to be anything public.”
“But,” he continues, keeping his line of sight on me, “there is something between you two.”
“Yes.” The admission feels like jumping off a cliff. “I think there is.”
Ben leans back in his chair, and I can see him processing this information. But instead of calculating risks or consequences, he just looks thoughtful.
