Page 61 of Offside Secrets
CAMPBELL
Game days always feel different. The air’s sharper, the ice hums louder under my skates, and every muscle in my body buzzes like it’s had three Red Bulls before puck drop. But tonight? Tonight isn’t just a game.
I can feel it before I even see them. The energy in the arena is different—charged, like the whole place is holding its breath. The crowd’s bigger than usual, louder, too; a sea of jerseys and foam fingers and kids pressing their palms against the glass. Every time my blades cut into the ice, the sound ricochets back at me, echoing in a way that makes my heart hammer harder.
Then I glance up and spot them. Third row, dead center. Sharp suits, clipboards balanced on their knees, eyes trained on every stride I take. Watching me like I might be the answer to their team’s prayers.
And I want to look higher—to the owner’s box, to where I know Sutton’s sitting. I want that one second of connection, to see her looking back at me, to steal a hit of calm before the chaos starts. But I don’t. If I see her, I’ll think about her instead of the game, and I can’t afford that. Not tonight. So Ikeep my eyes forward, pretending the ice is all that matters, even when I know she’s up there.
No pressure.
The ref blows the whistle, the puck drops, and it’s like flipping a switch. Instinct takes over. My stick connects, clean, the puck sliding into possession, and the crowd erupts. The sound hits me like a wave—cheers, stomps, the low rumble of drums from the fan section. It’s chaos, but it’smychaos, the kind I know how to skate through.
I’m dialed in. Every pass is tape-to-tape, every check rattles through my shoulders and back like electricity. My legs burn, lungs scream, but it feels good—earned. Every drill, every 5:00 a.m. skate, every bruise from years of grinding it out funnels into this moment. I’m a machine out here, and nothing else exists except ice, puck, and motion.
By the second period, I can feel the momentum shift. We’re pushing harder, faster. The puck slides toward me on defense, and I block the shot, ricocheting it back up the ice like a bullet. My teammates’ shouts echo in my ears, sticks banging against the boards, the crowd roaring like it’s trying to shake the building apart. My chest tightens, adrenaline coursing, sweat stinging my eyes.
I steal a glance at the scouts during a line change. Heads bent, pens scribbling notes, murmured conversation. I try to act casual—like I’m not analyzing their every movement—but my pulse jumps anyway. They’re watching. Every second, every decision.
And, still, I fight the urge to look up. Just once. Find her in the box, see if she’s watching me. I can almost feel it—the pull, like gravity knows her name.
Don’t do it.
I shift my weight, jaw tight.
Just one look.
No. Focus.
If I see her now, I’ll forget the play, forget the game, forgeteverything but her. And I can’t—not yet. So I keep my eyes locked on the ice, pretending it’s the only thing that matters.
Third period, final minutes. We’re up by one, and the other team’s pressing hard. My body’s screaming, my legs feel like lead, but adrenaline drowns out the pain. I dig deep, intercept a pass, fire it down the ice to clear, heart hammering. The buzzer sounds. The arena explodes. We’ve won.
I’m drenched in sweat, helmet crooked, grinning like an idiot as my teammates slam me on the back. I can barely catch my breath, but I’ve never felt more alive. Victory tastes like frozen air and exhaustion and pure sweetness.
That’s when I see them—two scouts breaking from the crowd, moving with purpose toward me. My stomach flips, fingers twitching as I tug off my gloves.
“Campbell,” one says, extending a hand. “Man, that was an excellent game. We’d like to sit down with you.”
My heart stops. A sit-down. Not just a look, not just a maybe. A sit-down.
I swear, the ice beneath my skates feels smaller than it ever has—like the whole arena has shrunk to the size of this single, heartbeat-shattering moment.
The second scout grins. “We’ve been watching your tape for a while, but seeing you in person tonight? You’ve got poise under pressure. You read the ice well. And that block in the second period? That’s the kind of awareness we want in our system.”
My throat goes dry. “Thank you, sir.” My voice cracks halfway through, and I clear it, trying to sound like I’ve done this before. Like my entire life doesn’t hinge on these guys liking me.
They chuckle, like they’ve seen a thousand players stumble over these words. “We’ll be in touch with your coach to set something up,” the first scout says. “But consider this your official notice—we’re interested. Really interested.”
My heart’s doing slapshots inside my chest.
“You’ve put in the work,” the second scout adds. “Keep playing like this, keep your head straight, and you’re exactly the kind of player we want moving up.” He claps me on the shoulder, solid and reassuring. “Enjoy this win tonight. You earned it.”
And then, they’re gone, weaving through the crowd, leaving me rooted to the spot with my gloves dangling from my hand.
The rink noise fades into background static. The cheers, the stick taps, even my teammates’ shouts blur into one thought, sharp and undeniable.
This is it. Everything I’ve been killing myself for. Everything I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid with a stick and a cracked driveway net.
