Page 38 of Offside Secrets
“It’s fine,” I manage, my voice sounds rougher than it should.
She starts to pull back, but the bus sways again, this time around a curve, and suddenly she’s pressed against my shoulder, her hand sliding higher on my thigh to brace herself. I catch the soft sound she makes—half surprise, half something else—and have to grip the armrest to keep from doing something stupid like wrapping my arm around her.
“These roads are terrible,” she mutters, finally managing to right herself. But when she settles back into her seat, there’s less space between us than before. Her shoulder stays pressed against mine, and I can feel the warmth of her body all along my left side.
“You okay?” I ask, because she’s looking a little flushed.
“I’m good,” she says quickly. “The bus is close quarters.”
I nod, though I’m thinking the same thing. The seat that seemed perfectly normal five minutes ago now feels impossibly small with her in it. Every bump in the road pushes us closer together. Every turn makes our hands brush when we both reach for the same armrest.
“Want some water?” I offer, pulling a bottle from my bag.
“Thanks.” She takes it from me, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Such a small thing, but it sends electricity shooting up my arm.
She takes a sip and hands it back, our fingers touching again when I accept it. This time, the contact lingers just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Do I take advantage of the moment and let one of my fingertips slide delicately across hers, dragging it slowly to the back of her hand, licking my lips? Why is my mouth so dry?
“Campbell,” she says quietly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the bus engine.
“Yeah?”
She looks like she wants to say something important, her lips parted slightly, her eyes serious. But then Sawyer’s laugh booms from across the aisle, and the moment breaks.
“Never mind,” she says, settling back into her seat. “It can wait.”
But she doesn’t pull away from me. If anything, she relaxes into the contact, letting her shoulder rest more fully against mine. And when she reaches into her bag for her phone, her elbow bumps my ribs in a way that feels almost intentional.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the way she smells, the soft sound of her breathing, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. Four hours to Harrisburg.
This is definitely going to be torture. The sweetest kind.
The Grand HarrisburgHotel lobby buzzes with the familiar energy of game day. Families with kids in team jerseys mill around the marble floors, and I can already spot the die-hard fans who make the trip to every away game, cameras ready, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite up-and-coming players.
Hockey is a popular sport, but the fans love the accessibility of the AHL teams, at least in my experience. I’ve noticed there’s an ease in their approach with us when we’re at this level, like we’re all in it together. However, when you’re in the NHL, things do shift. These same fans show up, but they’ve put in the time with you, watched you come up the ranks. At that point, they’re expecting you to win.
The team filters off the bus in our usual chaos—once Sutton has exited anyway. The guys are stretching, grabbing bags, and bless his heart, Sawyer is already complaining about the hotel’s terrible coffee based on the smell wafting out of the lobby alone. I sling my duffel over my shoulder and follow the crowd through the revolving doors, the cool blast of hotel air conditioning hitting my face.
That’s when I see them. Three women, probably in their early twenties, stationed near the elevator bank like they’ve been waiting all morning. They’re wearing Renegades jerseys—two with Sawyer’s number, one with mine—and they light up the second they spot us.
“Oh, it’s them!” one of them whispers, loud enough for half the lobby to hear.
I brace myself for the familiar routine. It’s part of the job, part of what comes with playing professional hockey, even at this level. Most of the time I don’t mind it because these fans drive hours to see us play, spend their hard-earned money on tickets and jerseys. The least I can do is sign an autograph and take a picture.
But right now, with Sutton walking beside me, I’m acutelyaware of how this must look toher. The owner of the team, watching her captain get swarmed by female fans who giggle and bat their eyelashes and ask if he has a girlfriend.
The woman in my jersey approaches first, all confidence and glossy lips. “Campbell! Hi! I’m Jessica. I was at the game last week in River City, drove down with my family. We’re big fans. You were amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the Sharpie she offers. “Appreciate you coming out.”
“Could you sign this?” She holds out her jersey, pulling it taut across her chest in a way that’s definitely intentional. “And maybe we could get a selfie?”
“It’s called an ‘us-ie’ now,” one of her buddies teases while the other one snorts back a laugh as Sawyer signs an old player card for her.
“Whatever,” she hisses back at her companions, keeping her eyes trained intensely on me. “I just want photographic evidence that I was here and met you.”
“Of course we can take a selfie,” I manage with a chuckle. “Or an us-ie, or whatever it is.”
The woman I’m talking to cheers, suddenly on her tiptoes and kissing my cheek. Part of me wants to holler “I did not give consent!” but, for this second, I can go with the flow. We’ll be pushed out of the lobby soon and pointed to our rooms, and then I can focus.
