Page 72 of Offside Secrets
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
“Well,” Elle says, raising her glass, “you’ve got about eighteen hours to decide if you’re going to keep hiding, or if you’re going to fight for what you want.”
“And whatever you decide,” Gavin adds from the screen, “you’ve got us in your corner.”
I look between them—my brother, who believes in me even from thousands of miles away, and my best friend, who won’t let me sabotage my own happiness. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe again.
“What if he doesn’t want to deal with me, with this anymore?”
“What if he does?” they say together, then look at each other and laugh.
“Okay, that was definitely rehearsed,” I say, but I’m smiling, too.
For the first time since this whole mess started, I think I know what I want to choose.
And I know exactly where and how to do it so I can get my point across—Sutton-style.
CHAPTER 25
CAMPBELL
The lot outside the Renegades Arena hums with game-night energy—engines idling, the faint echo of fans filtering through the concrete. My pulse beats in time with it, steady but sharp, like I’ve been holding my breath all stinking day.
I’m parked in VIP, engine off, headlights dimmed. Waiting.
Ben gave me the green light.Do what you need to do.His words still ring in my head. After everything Sawyer and I handed him—the footage, the statements—there was no going back.
So yeah. I’m doing what needs to be done.
Headlights flare at the entrance, cutting through the dusk. There he is.
Victor Lawson, in his shiny imported car, stepping out like he owns the place. Expensive suit, smug smile. Same arrogance that’s fueled every stunt he’s ever pulled.
I push open my door and climb out of the truck, the slam echoing a little too loudly in the quiet lot. It’s the kind of stillness you only get in places built for noise—like even the concrete’s waiting for the crowd to return.
When his eyes land on me, that smirk widens. “Well, well. Greeted by one Campbell Stockton. What are you doing here? Here to defend Sutton’s honor? Or maybe play hero for the cameras?”
I step forward, jaw tight and every muscle coiled tight. “Making sure you don’t make it past the parking lot.”
He chuckles, low and venomous. “Careful, son. You don’t want to start something you can’t finish.”
“Oh, I already finished it.” My voice comes out cold. Certain.
His smirk falters—just a flicker, but I catch it. And that’s when Sawyer materializes beside me, silent as a shadow, phone in hand. He doesn’t say a word at first, just stands there radiating that calm, lethal energy that that turns defensemen into brick walls and legends.
Victor’s eyes dart between us. “What is this?”
“This,” Sawyer says, voice smooth as glass but just as sharp, “is the end of your run.” He holds up his phone. “We already sent this to the NHL execs. League officials. Every contact that matters.”
He presses play.
From the tiny speaker, a voice spills out into the night—the photographer Victor hired, drunk and confessional, laying it all bare. The setup. The staged photos. The harassment campaign designed to destroy Sutton’s reputation and mine. The plan to tank the team’s value so Victor could swoop in and buy the Renegades for pennies on the dollar. Every ugly, calculated move.
Victor’s face drains of color, his tan suddenly sallow under the parking lot lights. His jaw works, but no sound comes out.
“You don’t have a leg to stand on, Victor.” Sawyer’s voice is smooth, but his eyes are ice.
Then, like something out of a movie, engines cut off around us. Doors slam in succession—thunk, thunk, thunk—asymphony of solidarity. One by one, the team emerges from their vehicles. Renegades jerseys under their street clothes, game faces already on. Sawyer is already next to me, arms crossed over his chest. Owen on my right, silent but immovable. Then the rest—Ollie, Maxwell, the rookies—all of them forming a wall behind me.
