Page 40 of Offside Secrets
Uh huh. Is that what we’re calling it now?
I shake my head, thumbs hovering over the screen. Anna knows me too well, and right now, with Victor lurking three sections away and my mind spinning with questions about why he’s here, her playful teasing is exactly what I need.
Focus. I’m working.
You’re always working. That’s the problem.
I pocket my phone and force myself to refocus on the game. Don’t look at Victor. Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’ve seen him, that his presence here has rattled me. Instead, I watch my team, my players, the thing I’ve built with my own two hands.
Down on the ice, the team is circling their coach, grabbing water bottles and taking swigs as they head back out. I’ve got my eye on one player in particular. Campbell glances up toward the box as he grabs his water bottle, scanning the crowd until he finds what he’s looking for. Our eyes meet across the distance, and he taps his glass twice with his glove before dropping his bottle and heading back onto the ice.
Despite everything going on around us, I smile. Our secret signal from the gala, transported to the hockey rink. He’s checking on me, making sure I’m okay, even in the middle of a game he’s winning.
The gesture shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but right now, it feels like an anchor.
The Renegades win five to one. Campbell gets a thirdassist on the final goal, and as the team celebrates on the ice, he looks up at me again. This time, his smile is pure victory, and I find myself clapping harder than sitting in the owner’s box probably requires.
I don’t look back toward Victor’s section. Whatever he’s doing here, whatever he wants—I’ll deal with it when I have to. But right now, watching Campbell celebrate with the team, seeing that connection between us acknowledged even in this public space…
That’s enough for me.
The hotel’selevator hums quietly as I press the button for the fifteenth floor, a small bag of dessert left over from dinner with the opposing team’s owner in my hand. Eleanor Morrison had insisted on taking me to her favorite Italian place—a business dinner that turned into serious girl talk about running teams in a league full of men who think we’re playing dress-up.
I glance at my watch; Elle’s expecting me. We’d planned to debrief the game over tiramisu and wine, the kind of post-victory celebration that happens away from the media and the players. I let myself relax against the back of the elevator and start getting excited about sliding into my pajamas as the elevator door begins to close.
They’re almost shut when a hand shoots out to stop them.
Campbell steps inside, still in his game-day suit but with his tie loosened and his hair mussed from the post-game shower. He looks like victory and exhaustion and something else I can’t quite name. Rhymes with hex.
“Hey,” he says, pressing the button for his floor—which, I realize with a jolt of awareness, is two floors below mine.
“Hi.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Great game tonight.”
“Thanks.” He leans against the wall opposite me, but the elevator’s small enough that we’re still close. Close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of arena soap. “Saw you in the owner’s box. You looked...”
“What?”
“Worried. During the second intermission.”
My chest tightens. Of course he noticed. Even in the middle of the biggest game of his season, he’s the kind of man who would.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say quietly. “Work stuff.”
Campbell’s expression shifts, becoming softer. “You sure?”
“It’s nothing major.” I adjust my grip on the dessert bag. “I saw Victor at the game. He’s here.”
“In Harrisburg?”
“Yeah, which is odd.” I shrug, trying to seem casual about it. “But, I’m sure we’ll see soon enough why he’s here. Who knows? Not me.”
The elevator climbs steadily—eighth floor, ninth, tenth. Campbell doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching me with that intense focus he usually reserves for analyzing plays.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just...” He runs a hand through his hair. “You. You and your confident, polished self.”
The elevator dings softly—thirteenth floor, fourteenth. Almost to his stop. When we get there, the doors open and they close, and he stays where he is. Rooted in front of me.
