Page 54 of Offside Secrets
Team owner can’t hide her feelings as Captain Stockton dominates on the ice!
Is this the face of a woman in love?
I delete the message and set the phone aside again, but the damage is done. Now I’m thinking about Campbell on the ice tomorrow night, playing his heart out while scouts evaluate his every move. I’m thinking about how he always glances up at the owner’s box during warm-ups, how his smile gets a little brighter when he spots me there.
I’m thinking about how much I want to be there for him, and how that wanting is exactly the problem.
My computer dings with an email notification. Another sponsor inquiry, probably, or maybe a media request about these rumors. Instead, it’s from our head of marketing, forwarding me a compilation of social media posts about the gossip blog story.
I shouldn’t click on it. I know I shouldn’t.
I click on it anyway.
The comments are a mix of support and speculation, with plenty of both camps getting nasty about it. Some fans think it’s cute and are shipping us with increasingly ridiculous hashtags. Others think I’m a “puck bunny with a trust fund” who’s “taking advantage of her position.”
One comment makes my stomach drop:“Guess we know how Stockton really earned that captain’s C.”
I close the laptop so hard I’m surprised the screen doesn’t crack.
This is what Campbell will be dealing with tomorrow night. Whispers in the stands, questions from reporters, teammates wondering if his performance has anything to do with sleeping with the boss. Even if he plays the game of his life, there will always be people who assume it’s because of favoritism rather than talent.
I’ve ruined this for him. The biggest opportunity of his career, and I’ve turned it into a circus.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Elle.
Saw you didn’t take the back exit. Are you avoiding the rink?
I am avoiding the rink. I’ve been taking the long way to my office, using the administrative entrance instead of walking past the practice facility. I can’t handle seeing Campbell right now, can’t trust myself not to do something stupid like apologize or, worse, kiss him again.
Just busy. Lots to catch up on.
Uh huh. Want to talk about it?
Nothing to talk about.
Sutton.
Elle.
Fine. But you’re being ridiculous.
She’s right, and I hate that she’s right. I’m being ridiculous. I’m a grown woman hiding from my own employeesbecause I can’t handle my feelings. I’m letting Harold and his cronies dictate my behavior, letting gossip blogs control my life.
But knowing I’m being ridiculous doesn’t make it easier to stop.
I look out my office window, down toward the parking lot where Campbell jumped my car battery that night. Where everything started. From here, I can see players heading to their cars after practice, but I’m too high up to make out individual faces. Campbell could be down there right now, and I wouldn’t know.
Three days ago, I was falling asleep thinking about his hands on my face, his reminder that I didn’t have to do things alone anymore. Now I’m actively avoiding him like he’s some kind of contagious disease.
My phone buzzes with another text. For a second, my heart jumps, thinking it’s Campbell again.
It’s not. It’s Victor.
Heard you’ve been under the weather. Hope you’re feeling better.
I stare at the message, a chill running down my spine. Victor texting me now, today. Like I don’t know what he’s trying to do. He’s circling like a vulture, that’s what, waiting to see how much damage this scandal does to my position.
And suddenly, I can see exactly how this plays out. The affiliation deal gets “reconsidered” due to “management concerns.” Campbell gets called up to Alexandria—not because of his talent, but because Victor wants to twist the knife. I end up with a choice between my career and my personal happiness, and no matter what I choose, I lose.
