Page 60 of Offside Secrets
The third call is to my doctor, asking for referrals to the best rheumatologists in the area. Because Campbell’s father deserves better than whatever overworked hospital physician he’s been seeing.
I’m in the middle of coordinating everything when my phone buzzes with a notification. Against my better judgment, I glance at it.
Another article. This one from a different gossip site, with a headline that makes my stomach drop: “Cougar on the Prowl: How Renegades Owner Sutton Mahoney Bags Her Young Captain.”
I shouldn’t read it. I know I shouldn’t.
I read it anyway.
The article is vicious in a way that feels personal, analyzing everything from our “significant age gap” (which is five years—I’m thirty-five, he’s just about to turn thirty) to my family’s money to Campbell’s “obvious ambition.” It speculates about what I’m offering him in exchange for his attention, suggests that I’m using my position to manipulate a younger, financially vulnerable player.
“Sources close to the team suggest Mahoney has been targeting Stockton since he joined the roster, using her authority to create situations where he felt obligated to spend time with her. The gala photos show a young man clearly uncomfortable with his boss’s advances, while the recent parking lot images capture what appears to be Mahoney initiating unwanted physical contact.”
I feel sick. Actually, physically sick. I would have thought some of this would start dying down by now, that they’d move on to a new story, a new scandal of some sort. But no, it feels like things are escalating. They’re making me sound like a predator, like some desperate older woman throwing money and power at a man who doesn’t want me. Five years. Five years is apparently a “significant age gap” that makes me a cougar.
The worst part? A tiny, poisonous voice in my head whispers that maybe they’re right.
My phone rings, startling me out of the spiral. Margaret.
“The grocery service is en route, and an assistant from the nursing care service touched base, too. Said the aide you’ve asked for will arrive at 5:00 p.m. and can stay as long as needed. Is there anything else?”
I look back at my phone screen, at the cruel article painting me as a villain in my own life story. For a moment, I consider canceling everything. Pulling back, letting Campbell handle his family crisis alone so no one can accuse me of using it to manipulate him.
Then I think about Sawyer’s words:He needs to know his dad’s taken care of so he can focus.
This isn’t about me. It’s about Campbell having one less thing to worry about on the most important night of his career.
“No,” I tell Margaret. “That’s everything. And Margaret? This stays between us.”
“Of course.”
I delete the article notification without sharing it, withoutscreenshotting it to dissect with Elle and Anna later. Some toxins are better not spread around.
Two hours before game time, I get a text from the nursing service confirming the aide is in place. Twenty minutes later, Margaret sends photos of the groceries being delivered and stored. Campbell’s father will have everything he needs, and Campbell can play hockey without wondering if his dad can reach the phone in an emergency.
I lean back in my desk chair, staring at the ceiling tiles that have become my confidants over the past few days. In a few hours, Campbell will take the ice in front of a packed arena, carrying the weight of his dreams, his father’s medical bills, and whatever complicated feelings he has about me.
At least now he’ll know that no matter how messy everything else is, his father is safe and cared for.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from a number I recognize:
Thank you. Whatever happens tonight, thank you.
I stare at the message until my vision blurs. He knows. Somehow, Campbell figured out that I was behind the help, and instead of being angry about my interference, he’s grateful.
I don’t text back. Can’t text back, because what would I say? That I care about him enough to make sure his father is safe, but not enough to risk my reputation by admitting it publicly?
Instead, I close my phone and make a last-minute decision that could help me or hurt me. I get up from behind my desk and grab my bag and jacket, making my way back out to the elevators. Spoiler alert: I’m not walking toward the owner’s box, where I would love to spend the next two hours watching the man I’m falling for play the game of hislife while pretending we’re nothing more than owner and player.
I’m going home.
I’m not running away, per se, but rather taking yet another stressor out of Campbell’s equation. He doesn’t need me here tonight to add to the pile on, and as much as I’d like to be close so I can cheer him on, I don’t want to be a distraction of any kind. Not for the team, not for the stupid board, but mostly not for him.
At least this way, I can breathe a little easier knowing that whatever happens on the ice, I helped him get there with one less burden on his shoulders. One less thing weighing on the shoulders of someone who carries enough already.
Even if the world thinks I’m the predator for caring.
CHAPTER 21
