Page 6 of Offside Secrets
I pause without meaning to, long enough to watch her door close and then her taillights flare red. My chest tightens, and I can’t decide if it’s longing or common sense reminding me she’s out of reach.
Probably both.
I shift my duffel higher on my shoulder and unlock my own car, telling myself to stop staring. Sutton Mahoney is my boss. My reality is my dad, my cousin, this team. And yet…
As her car pulls away, I realize I want it all anyway. The NHL, security for my family, a woman like her.
And I hate myself just a little for wanting more than what I already have.
CHAPTER 3
SUTTON
If Hades had fluorescent lighting and stale coffee, it would look exactly like the boardroom for the Renegades. Polished mahogany table stretching longer than common sense, chairs so stiff they could double as medieval torture devices, and walls adorned with awards that screamlook how good we think we are.
I’ve been trapped here for an hour, listening to an endless debate about whether our promotional posters should grab attention or gently persuade. My soul, if it hadn’t already been threatened by deadlines, has now officially wilted under the combined force of corporate pomposity and too-bright lights.
“Now, the next item,” Harold Henderson, a longtime board member, drones as he adjusts his tie like he’s about to reveal breaking news. “The end-of-year gala.”
The board collectively perks up, like someone just whisperedopen bar, but alas it is not. This also isn’t your average end-of-year gala. It’s more of a stakeholder reception—a night where the city’s wealthiest show up in sequins and smug smiles, circling the room to see who’s funding what next season. Corporate sponsors, local investors, and theoccasional politician mingle over champagne while pretending this isn’t just one big networking competition.
“This year’s host will be the Barringtons, at their estate,” Harold continues.
Estate. Right. More like a palace with a guesthouse bigger than my arena. Translation: palatial mansion the size of a small European country, complete with chandeliers worth more than my entire franchise.
“Our current sponsors, and next season’s hopefuls, will be out in full force. Sutton, we’ll need you there, front and center. The image for the Renegades must be perfect.”
There it is. Perfect image. Just the phrase to make my blood pressure spike.
“Of course,” I say, plastering on my best polite “I’m a good girl” smile. “I’ll be there.”
The satisfied nods around the table should’ve been my warning.
“Wonderful.” Harold clears his throat. “And…I assume you’ll want to bring a guest, of course?”
I blink. “A guest?”
He gives a vague little wave, like the worddateis too scandalous to utter in a boardroom. “These functions are…well, it’s always nice to present a complete picture. Sponsors appreciate stability. Warmth.”
“So, basically, you’re suggesting I find a plus-one?” I let out a laugh that’s sharper than I intended, like a paper cut on my sanity. “Maybe download one from an app? ‘Rent-A-Boyfriend: Gala Edition’?”
A cough. A shuffle of papers. The kind of silence so thick it could be cut with a butter knife. The kind of silence that screamswe are deadly serious.
I let my gaze slowly make its way around the table, making eye contact with each person present. They are, indeed, deadly serious.
Before I can deliver a speech about how my worth isn’tdetermined by the presence of a tuxedoed accessory, Marlene, Harold’s wife and another board member, leans forward, her smile sweet but her tone edged. “It would be good for you to have backup, because I have it on very good authority that Victor Lawson will be there.”
My stomach drops.Victor Lawson.Who would have thought that as a thirty-five-year-old woman I would have someone to call my nemesis. An archrival. The man who made college debate finals a personal blood sport and now runs his business like it’s a chess match he always has to win. Of course he’ll be there.
Suddenly, it clicks. This isn’t about optics. It’s about not letting me look like the sad single who somehow runs an AHL dynasty. Not letting me look pathetic, which would in turn make the Renegades look the same, next to Victor and whatever Instagram-ready woman he drags along.
Perfect. Just perfect.
By the time I escape,I’m half a second from stress-eating the entire bag of chocolate chip cookies I keep in one of my office desk drawers. They come from a small bakery down the street, and she bakes them fresh every day. My assistant makes sure I always have my stash topped up. I can taste the sugar on the tip of my tongue now, as my heels click down the hall like tiny hammers of doom until I finally reach my office. It feels so good to slam my door shut behind me and drop into my chair.
I’ve barely started muttering threats at the ceiling when there’s a soft knock.
“Come in,” I call, more growl than invitation. This better be good, because I have a bag of cookies to plow through.
