Page 55 of Offside Secrets
I delete Victor’s message without responding and shove my phone into my desk drawer.
Tomorrow night, Campbell will play the most important game of his life. And I’ll be there, smiling professionally from the owner’s box, pretending that watching him succeed doesn’t feel like watching him slip away from me.
Because that’s what good owners do. They put the team first, even when it breaks their hearts.
CHAPTER 19
CAMPBELL
Sutton’s laughing. The kind of laugh that melts something in my chest. We’re on the ice, her cheeks pink, breath curling in the air as she tries to steal the puck from me. The world feels lighter here—like nothing bad could ever touch us.
Then it happens.
A sound that doesn’t fit the dream—too jagged, too real.
A cry, broken and raw, cutting straight through the rink, through her laughter, through me.
I blink, disoriented, heart hammering. The ice vanishes.
“Dad?” My voice catches.
Another sound answers—quieter this time, but soaked in pain.
I’m already out of bed, feet hitting the floor, every nerve lit up with panic. Twenty minutes later, I’m helping him into the passenger seat of my truck, his face gray and drawn, his hands so swollen he can’t grip the door handle. The drive to the hospital feels like it takes forever, every bump in the road making him wince.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I keep saying, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or me. “We’re almost there.”
The emergency room is a blur of forms and waiting and nurses who speak in hushed tones about inflammation markers and pain management. They get him settled into a bed, start an IV, give him something that makes his breathing less shallow.
By the time Sawyer shows up—because of course I called him—it’s nearly 10:00 a.m. We’ve been here for at least five hours if not more, and I’ve missed morning skate entirely.
“How is he?” Sawyer asks, settling into the uncomfortable plastic chair beside me.
“Better. They gave him a steroid shot, adjusted his meds.” I run my hands through my hair, wishing I was able to shower this morning. “Doctor says it’s a bad flare, but not the worst she’s seen.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yeah. Good.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the linoleum floor. “He couldn’t get out of bed, Sawyer. Couldn’t lift his arms. What if I hadn’t been there?”
“But you were there.”
I look up at my cousin, at his earnest face and his Renegades hoodie that he probably threw on without thinking. “What if this happens again? What if it happens when I’m?—”
“When you’re what? Playing hockey? Living your life?” Sawyer’s voice is gentle but firm. “Cam, you can’t think like this. He wouldn’t want that.”
I know he’s right. I know it’s not rational to think I can prevent Dad’s flare-ups by staying close to home. But sitting here in this sterile hospital room, watching my father sleep off pain medication, rational doesn’t seem to matter much.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Ben.
Where are you?
Right. Tonight. The most important game of my career.
I text back:
Family emergency. Dad’s in the hospital. Will be there for warm-ups.
The response comes immediately.
