Page 53 of Offside Secrets
“The plan should be that I crawl into a hole and let them find someone else to bother,” I mutter, already rummaging for those cookies.
“Nope,” Elle says firmly. “You don’t crawl. Not my Sutton! You spin.”
Anna nods. “Exactly. This is about control of the narrative. So”—she snaps her fingers—“we spin. We say you’re not dating Campbell, you’re mentoring him. Guiding him. Strong, powerful woman lifts her team up. Inspirational, hashtag feminism.”
I choke on my cookie. “Absolutely not.”
“Fine.” She shrugs. “Then we tell everyone about the feud with Victor Lawson.”
My head jerks up. “Excuse me?”
“Think about it.” Anna’s eyes gleam with mischief. “You and Victor have hated each other since college. If the press thinks you’re locked in a business battle over this new NHL team, no one’s focused on Campbell. You’re competitive, not compromised.”
Elle leans back, considering. “She’s not wrong. Redirect, pull a little smoke and mirrors, Sutton. Give them something juicier to talk about than who you may or may not be kissing.”
I groan. “So my options are: pretend I’m a mentor, or let the world know I’m in a catfight with my nemesis.”
“Exactly,” Anna says sweetly.
“Optics, scandals, fake feuds…” I slump back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles like they might hold escape routes. “Why do I feel like I’m running a reality show instead of a hockey team?”
Elle takes my cookie from me, bites into it. “Because you basically are.”
Two hours later,I’m alone in my office, staring at my phone like it might spontaneously combust.
Seven unread messages from Campbell. Seven.
Hey, are you feeling better?
Saw the blogs. We should talk.
Sutton, please call me back.
I know you’re probably dealing with a lot right now.
The team’s asking about you. I told them you’re fine.
Are you fine?
I’m worried about you.
Each message makes my chest tighten a little more. I keep drafting responses—I’m fine, just busyorThanks for checking on me—but they all sound either too casual or too formal. Too much like I’m brushing him off or too much like I’m encouraging something I should be discouraging.
I set the phone face-down on my desk and try to focus on the expense reports spread in front of me. Catering costs for the Rochester game. Equipment maintenance. Travel expenses. Normal, boring, uncomplicated numbers.
My phone buzzes again.
I flip it over before I can stop myself.
Game’s tomorrow night. Would mean a lot to have you there.
My throat tightens. Tomorrow night. The most important game of Campbell’s career, and I’m hiding in my office like a teenager avoiding her ex-boyfriend.
I start typing:
Of course I’ll be there. I’m always?—
Then I stop. Delete it. Because being there means sitting in the owner’s box where cameras can catch my every reaction. Where every smile, every cheer, every moment of pride in his performance will be analyzed and dissected and turned into more gossip blog fodder.
