Page 43 of Offside Secrets
I’m lying to my cousin, which feels wrong, but I can’t deal with his excitement on top of my own panic right now.
I set the phone down and take in the space around me. My room is quiet, familiar. Not the kind of quiet that feels empty, but the kind that’s steady, reliable—like my dad’s old flannel shirts or Sunday coffee. The bed isn’t made, sheets twisted from me rolling around all night, but everything else is pretty much in order. Desk against the wall, stacked with a few books I keep meaning to finish. A framed, signed poster from my childhood hockey hero takes up space above it, the one thing I let stay when I redecorated. A couple of Renegades jerseys are draped over the back of the chair, half folded, half abandoned. Otherwise, it’s simple, adult, mine.
It could also be the childhood bedroom of the next NHL star, but hey, I’m going to leave that thought in the back of my mind. For now. I need to focus.
I head downstairs and start a pot of coffee while I make a quick breakfast. Look, I tried to concentrate on simplyscrambling my eggs, but I managed to cook them so they’re almost hard and taste like cardboard, and the orange juice I try to wash the eggs down with might as well be battery acid. Because, hey, I’ve got two days to either make my dreams come true or watch them slip away forever.
And then, because my life apparently has perfect timing, my phone buzzes with a text from Sutton.
Morning. Just wanted you to know your name was brought up in a board video call we had last night. You played a great game in Harrisburg. Seriously. That group of buttoned up tight humans are die-hard #TeamCampbell.
I stare at her message for a long moment, my chest tightening in a completely different way. Sutton. The elevator kiss. The way she looked at me when she thanked me for checking on her during the game, like it was even a chore. The growing thing between us that I can’t name but I also can’t ignore.
If the scout likes what he sees on Thursday, if Alexandria makes an offer, what happens to...this? Whateverthisis becoming? What if, what if, what if…I’m lost in a loop where I’m not even present. I’m too busy in an alternate universe trying to make plans, aren’t I? So I go back to what’s happening, right now.
That’s really cool to hear. Thank you.
Of course! I feel like if someone says something nice about anyone, they need to know. How’s your morning going?
I could talk to her about the scout. A part of me wants to. But she’s the owner—she probably already knows, and if she doesn’t, maybe it’s not my place. Could even be a conflict of interest if I open my mouth. The last thing I want is to cross aline. She’s got enough on her plate; I can hear it in the sharp edge of her voice when she mentions her board. That sound makes me stop cold. Whatever’s going on, she doesn’t need me adding to the pile.
Quiet. Just thinking about Thursday’s game.
Should be a good one. See you at the arena today?
The cheesy grin that takes over my mouth isn’t one I want to put away. I like the way she makes me feel, and that she can make me grin like a freaking idiot. But more than that, I’m starting to realize I really like the fact that I make her smile, too.
Yeah. See you there.
I set the phone down and drop my head into my hands. Two days. Forty-eight hours to prepare for the most important game of my life, while trying not to think about the fact that success might mean leaving behind more than I’m prepared to let go of right now. My team, my dad, my…okay, what do I call her. My female friend, Sutton?
The woman who also happens to be my boss?
The woman whose team I might be abandoning if things go well?
Dad shuffles into the kitchen, interrupting my spiral, thankfully, moving slowly but better than yesterday. His hands look less swollen, which is a small miracle.
“You look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet,” he observes, pouring himself coffee.
“Thanks. I’ve never quite understood that old saying, yet it’s exactly the look I was going for.”
He settles into the chair across from me, studying my facewith that parental radar that never shuts off. “What’s going on?”
I could lie to him, too, keep the pressure to myself, but Dad’s been through enough uncertainty lately. He deserves to know that things might be changing.
“There’s a scout coming to Thursday’s game,” I say quietly. “He’s with the new team from Alexandria. Ben says he’s coming for the Renegades as a whole, but he’s asked specifically about me.”
Dad goes very still, his coffee mug halfway to his lips. When he sets it down, his hands are steady despite the arthritis.
“That’s good, Cam. That’s real good.”
“Yeah.” I push my eggs around my plate. “Could be everything we’ve been hoping for.”
“But?”
I look up at him. “But what if I’m not ready? What if I choke? What if?—”
“Stop.” Dad’s voice is firm, the same tone he used when I was twelve and convinced I’d never make varsity. “You’ve been ready for this your whole life. Don’t start doubting yourself now.”
