Page 58 of Offside Secrets
“Always am.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He’s lying there in the hospital bed, looking smaller than I remember but still managing to worry more about me than himself.
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly. “But I’m going to show up and do my job, and we’ll see what happens after that.”
“That’s all any of us can do.”
We don’t talk much after that. I help him into his coat, careful with the IV bandage still taped to his arm, then we wait for the orderly to bring the wheelchair. Discharge always takes forever, like the hospital’s afraid you’ll get too used to the attention.
Once we’re in my truck Dad settles into the passenger seat, wincing as he adjusts. “You sure you’ve got time to do this? Don’t you need to get to the rink?”
“I’ve got time,” I tell him. And I do. Imaketime.
The drive home is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels earned. Streetlights flicker by, painting his face gold, and for once, he lets himself close his eyes and rest. I pull up to the curb, help him inside, make sure he’s got his pills, water, and the remote within reach. Leaving him here doesn’t feel good, but he keeps telling me he’ll be fine. He tries to wave me off, but I linger anyway—checking, straightening, stalling.
“You’ll be late,” he reminds me, smiling faintly.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Hey, Campbell,” he says as I’m backing toward the door.
I turn, and he’s grinning—fist raised in the air like I’m still ten years old and heading off to my first peewee game.
“Kick some butt out there tonight, son. I’m proud of you.”
The words land heavier than I expect. Maybe because I can see how much effort it takes for him to lie there, smiling through the pain, pretending everything’s fine. Or maybe because it’s been a long time since I let myselfhearthose words from anyone.
Outside, the air bites at my lungs—crisp, cold, clean. Game-day air. I should be thinking about the ice, the team, the noise. Instead, I’m thinking about her.
In the truck, I pull out my phone. Sutton’s name glows on the screen like it knows what it’s doing to me. For a second, I hover my thumb over her contact, just to see if muscle memory takes over. I could call her. Hear her voice. Pretend things are simple for one minute.
But they’re not. And pretending won’t change that.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, the echo of my dad’s words following me to the car.
Be worth staying for.
Tonight isn’t about Sutton or gossip blogs or what people think about my personal life. Tonight is about hockey, pure and simple.
Everything else will have to wait.
CHAPTER 20
SUTTON
I’m in the arena early, hoping the quiet will give me a head start on the day—and maybe a buffer from the inevitable whispers. Every staff member here has probably seen at least three versions ofThe Photoby now. Some of them have probably zoomed in. Good for them, I would have, too.
My office feels like the only safe place left in the building. The hum of the mini fridge, the faint echo of pucks hitting the boards during warmups—it’s all background noise I can handle. What I can’t handle is the sharp edge in Sawyer’s voice when it cuts through the hallway.
He’s not laughing. Sawyer’salwayslaughing.
Through the partially open door, I catch a glimpse of him talking to Ben near the lobby. Both of them look serious—Ben with his arms folded tight across his chest, Sawyer running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Something’s wrong.
I step into the hallway just as Ben pats Sawyer on the shoulder. Sawyer nods once and turns toward the elevator. Then he spots me. The easy grin he usually wears on autopilot? Gone.
