Page 8 of Offside Secrets
You’re not helping.
I am helping. Step one: make them underestimate you. Step two: casually ruin them.
Not sure that’s in the gala itinerary.
Then make it fit. Look, Sutton—you’re running this team. You survived the league commissioner’s lecture on “how hockey works.” You can survive a room full of sponsors with bad cologne.
That’s generous. Half of them probably bathe in aftershave.
Exactly. But here’s the thing—men like Harold, they want to put you in a box. “Owner, but pretty.” “Successful, but attached.” You owe them nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
So what, I show up alone and dare them to say something?
Yes. Or show up with the hottest man in River City, your call. But either way, you set the tone. Not them. You always have.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles like they might hold the answers. Elle has a way of making the battlefield sound winnable—even if I feel like I’m walking into it in four-inch heels.
You’re right. Ugh. I hate it when you’re right.
You love it. And when you need a pre-gala pep talk, I’ll be here, champagne in hand, ready to hype you up.
Deal. Also, if I do hire a fake boyfriend, you’re responsible for vetting his shoulders.
Obviously. I have standards.
I laugh again, the tension in my chest easing. Leave it to Elle to turn the mere mention of muttered “optics” into a war cry.
Maybe this gala won’t be the end of me after all. I stare at the ceiling, letting the absurdity of the whole situation settle around me. A single woman, expected to perform like a perfectly polished ornament at a mansion full of key supporters. I shake my head and snort. Me. Performing.Ha.Why can’t I walk into that glittering room, sipchampagne, make small talk, and own the room just by being me?
I straighten in my chair, a little spark of defiance igniting deep inside. Please. Iamenough. I have apps and a calendar that tell me so. And honestly? That thought tastes like champagne already.
Yet in a quiet corner of my mind, a small, stubborn thought lingers. Would I like someone beside me for this—someone to share a laugh when the boardroom starts to feel like a bad comedy sketch? Yes. Someone to pour wine in the living room later, who’ll rub my feet while we talk in front of the fire at the end of a long day? Absolutely. The one who knows my private jokes, catches my secret looks across a room, and makes even the absurd feel like home? For sure.
My person.
But for tonight, I tuck the thought away with a smile and a shake of my head. Some dreams don’t need to be solved. They just need to be believed in long enough to find you.
CHAPTER 4
CAMPBELL
The Beavertail Diner is buzzing in that way it always does—coffee brewing, forks clinking, TVs over the counter replaying last night’s highlights. Karen zips between tables, her plaid apron swishing, hair piled up like she hasn’t had time to breathe since 5:00 a.m. Behind the counter, Gerry’s got one foot propped on a milk crate, gesturing wildly at the TV like the game on replay could still have a whole different outcome if he yells loud enough.
Sawyer’s already in our usual booth, menu closed, arms sprawled out like he owns the place. My cousin doesn’t even have to look anymore. The Beavertail Special’s practically named after him.
“Morning, princess,” Sawyer says when I slide in across from him. “Sleep in your tiara again?”
“Funny,” I say, pulling the menu toward me. “You’re just jealous because mine fits better.”
Owen drags himself in next, hoodie inside out, eyes half-closed. He drops into the seat beside Sawyer like gravity’s doing all the work.
“Nice fashion statement,” I say, nodding at his hoodie.
He blinks down. “Oh, crap. Thought it felt weird.”
Sawyer snorts. “Backup goalie, backup wardrobe skills.”
“I’mthegoalie now, not the backup.” Owen just gives him a look that says,worth it. “Plus, we’re going to practice, not a red carpet event.”
