Page 62 of Offside Secrets
And the first person I want to tell isn’t my coach, or my teammates, or even my dad.
It’s Sutton.
I glance up toward the owner’s box, grinning like an idiot and wanting––no, yearning to be rewarded––expecting to see her there, a smile, a wave, anything.
But it’s empty. Just glass, empty seats, the echo of cheers bouncing around like it’s mocking me.
My chest tightens. I feel proud, triumphant, unstoppable—and yet there’s this hollow ache. The victory tastes like nothing without her here to share it.
I let out a slow, frustrated breath, gripping my stick a little too tight. Somewhere underneath my frustration is a stubborn, impossible hope—that maybe, just maybe, she’s watching from somewhere else, and we can ride this out together.
The arena’sback exit is quiet except for the distant hum of the Zamboni and the occasional clatter of equipment beingloaded. I push through the heavy door, ready to head home to my dad, when I spot a familiar figure near the loading dock. In fact, he’s so familiar, I almost break my neck trying to get a second look.
I squint, realizing how I know this guy. He’s the event photographer from the gala who handed us the long-stemmed red rose for the photo. Same expensive camera, same opportunistic smile, same slicked back, greasy hair.
I actually laugh under my breath. Part of me wants to walk over and thank him—if he hadn’t forced that photo, Sutton and I might never have...well, whatever we did or didn’t do, I cannot confirm nor deny at this time.
I’m about to head over when I notice he’s not alone. Victor Lawson emerges from the shadows near the dumpsters, looking every inch the corporate shark in his tailored coat. They’re talking in hushed tones, the photographer nodding eagerly as Victor gestures toward the arena entrance.
I duck behind a maintenance truck, close enough to see Victor pull an envelope from his jacket and hand it to the photographer. Then, I watch as he extracts a serious wad of cash and counts it, stuffing it back in the envelope when he’s done.
Money. Victor is paying the photographer?
It doesn’t take long at all for the pieces to click into place. The “anonymous sources” in the gossip blogs. The perfectly timed photo taken in the parking lot of the pharmacy. All of the sudden influx of rumors and nastiness…Victor’s been orchestrating this whole media circus.
The photographer pockets the envelope and walks away, probably to find his next shot at destroying someone’s privacy. Victor checks his watch, then heads back toward the arena through a side entrance reserved for VIPs and board members.
I wait thirty seconds, then follow.
The VIP corridor is dimly lit, lined with framed photos ofchampionship teams and local sports heroes. It’s supposed to be restricted access—players, coaches, and essential staff only. But there’s Victor, leaning against the wall outside the women’s staff lounge, clearly having had too much of whatever they were serving at the VIP reception upstairs.
Two of our female staff members—Jenny from marketing and Lisa from accounting—are trying to get past him to the elevator. Victor’s positioned himself so they have to squeeze by, and he’s making a show of not moving, his eyes lingering where they shouldn’t.
“Excuse me,” Jenny says firmly, but I can hear the discomfort in her voice.
“Of course, of course,” Victor slurs slightly, stepping aside but not nearly enough. “Just admiring the dedication of the Renegades staff.”
My jaw clenches. This isn’t just inappropriate, it’s harassment. And it’s happening in a space where he has no business being.
I step into the corridor. “Ladies, is everything alright?”
Both women look relieved to see me. “Fine, Campbell,” Jenny says quickly. “We were just heading out.”
I nod toward the elevator. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll make sure you get there safely.”
They hurry past, and I wait until I hear the elevator doors close before turning to Victor.
“Lawson.”
“Stockton.” He straightens his tie, trying to look less drunk than he obviously is. “That was an epic game tonight. Though I suppose you had extra motivation.”
I ignore the bait. “Are you lost?”
“Simply appreciating the facilities. Impressive operation Sutton’s running here.”
“This corridor is restricted access.” I keep my voice level, professional. “Board members and VIPs use the main entrance.”
Victor’s smile turns predatory. “Are you telling me where I can and can’t go?”
