Chapter 19
CAMPBELL
Sutton’s laughing. The kind of laugh that melts something in my chest. We’re on the ice, her cheeks pink, breath curling in the air as she tries to steal the puck from me. The world feels lighter here—like nothing bad could ever touch us.
Then it happens.
A sound that doesn’t fit the dream—too jagged, too real.
A cry, broken and raw, cutting straight through the rink, through her laughter, through me.
I blink, disoriented, heart hammering. The ice vanishes.
“Dad?” My voice catches.
Another sound answers—quieter this time, but soaked in pain.
I’m already out of bed, feet hitting the floor, every nerve lit up with panic.
Twenty minutes later, I’m helping him into the passenger seat of my truck, his face gray and drawn, his hands so swollen he can’t grip the door handle.
The drive to the hospital feels like it takes forever, every bump in the road making him wince.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I keep saying, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or me. “We’re almost there.”
The emergency room is a blur of forms and waiting and nurses who speak in hushed tones about inflammation markers and pain management. They get him settled into a bed, start an IV, give him something that makes his breathing less shallow.
By the time Sawyer shows up—because of course I called him—it’s nearly 10:00 a.m. We’ve been here for at least five hours if not more, and I’ve missed morning skate entirely.
“How is he?” Sawyer asks, settling into the uncomfortable plastic chair beside me.
“Better. They gave him a steroid shot, adjusted his meds.” I run my hands through my hair, wishing I was able to shower this morning. “Doctor says it’s a bad flare, but not the worst she’s seen.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yeah. Good.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the linoleum floor. “He couldn’t get out of bed, Sawyer. Couldn’t lift his arms. What if I hadn’t been there?”
“But you were there.”
I look up at my cousin, at his earnest face and his Renegades hoodie that he probably threw on without thinking. “What if this happens again? What if it happens when I’m—”
“When you’re what? Playing hockey? Living your life?” Sawyer’s voice is gentle but firm. “Cam, you can’t think like this. He wouldn’t want that.”
I know he’s right. I know it’s not rational to think I can prevent Dad’s flare-ups by staying close to home. But sitting here in this sterile hospital room, watching my father sleep off pain medication, rational doesn’t seem to matter much.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Ben.
Where are you?
Right. Tonight. The most important game of my career.
I text back:
Family emergency. Dad’s in the hospital. Will be there for warm-ups.
The response comes immediately.
Is he okay? Do you need to sit out tonight?
I stare at the phone. Sit out? Miss the scout game because I’m emotionally compromised and exhausted? It would be the smart thing to do, probably. The safe thing.
But, I don’t do safe, do I?
He’ll be fine. I’ll be ready.
Sawyer’s watching me type, his expression concerned. “You sure about that?”
“I have to be.”
“Campbell—”
“I’m fine.” I stand up, pacing to the window that overlooks the parking lot. “Dad’s stable, the doctor says he can probably go home this afternoon. There’s no reason I can’t play tonight.”
“Except that you look like you’ve been through a war and you’ve been sitting in a hospital chair for hours worrying about your father.”
I turn to face him. “Then I guess it’s a good thing hockey players are supposed to be tough.”
Sawyer studies me for a long moment, then checks his watch. “I should head to practice. I’ll let everyone know you’ll be at the game tonight.”
“Thanks.”
He stands, grabbing his keys. “And Cam? Call Sutton.”
My chest tightens. “What?”
“Call her. Tell her what’s going on. If this thing between you two is headed where I think it is, well, she’d want to know.”
After he leaves, I pull out my phone and scroll to Sutton’s contact. My thumb hovers over her name, remembering all my unanswered texts from the past few days. The gossip blog photos. The way she’s been radio silent all week.
She has her own problems right now. Board members breathing down her neck, media scrutiny, probably a dozen meetings about damage control. The last thing she needs is me calling to dump my family drama on her.
I put the phone away and settle back into the chair next to Dad’s bed. He’s awake now, looking more like himself but still pale around the edges. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour this time. How do you feel?”
“Like I got trampled by a herd of particularly vindictive cattle.” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look worse than I do.”
“Thanks. Really building up my confidence here.”
“Keep me distracted.” Dad shifts in the bed, studying my face with that parental radar that never seems to shut off. “Tell me what’s going on with you?”
Where do I even start? The scouts who’ll be watching me play tonight while I’m running on no sleep and maximum stress? The woman I’m falling for, who won’t return my calls? The fact that I’m terrified of leaving him alone while he’s dealing with this disease?
“Just worried about you,” I say.
“Bull-hockey. That’s not all of it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Bull–hockey?”
He chuckles, a sound that’s good to hear right now. “It’s better than the four-letter word I want to use.”
I lean back in my chair, suddenly feeling every one of my twenty-nine years and none of them at the same time. “There’s a lot going on right now.”
“You feeling pressure about tonight?”
“Some, but I’m also excited. But...” I trail off, not sure how to explain Sutton without sounding like a lovesick teenager.
“But…what?”
“It’s about the woman I mentioned to you the other day.” I toss my hands in the air. “I don’t know what to call her. My ‘complicated situation’.”
“Kinda figured when I overheard Sawyer talking to you,” Dad says as he nods slowly.
“I thought you were asleep?"
He winks. “That’s what parents do.”
“So you heard most of it?”
“Enough to know that you’re worried about this ‘complicated situation’.”
“I am,” I affirm. “But, it’s gotten more complicated.”
Dad waves a hand in the air, as if he was showing off his hospital room machines to me. “Well, I’m obviously not going anywhere if you want to talk about it.”
I keep replaying Sutton in that parking lot, her hands fisted in my hoodie, the way she looked at me like I was something precious. Then come the gossip blog photos, the silence, the way she’s been avoiding me like I’m contagious.
“She’s my boss,” I say finally. “And there are people who see that as a problem.”
“Ah,” he responds, mulling over my words. “So, people around you believe it’s an issue—but what about you?”
I don’t hesitate. I’ve spent the last few days turning it over in my mind, losing sleep over it, trying to make sense of it. “I think I’m falling for her, and she’s scared of what that means for both of us.”
Dad’s quiet for a moment, processing. “You know what I learned when your mother and I were first together?”
“What?”
“Sometimes the best things in life are the scariest. Your mom was way out of my league—college educated, came from money, could have had anyone she wanted. I spent six months convinced she was going to wake up one day and realize she was slumming it with a construction worker.”
I can’t imagine my parents as anything other than solid—steady as bedrock, the kind of couple that argues about who forgot to buy milk and then holds hands on the way to the store.
“What changed?” I ask, half-expecting some story about fate or timing.
Dad gives a small laugh, though it catches halfway and turns into a wince. “She told me I was being an idiot.”
That sounds about right. Mom always had a way of cutting through his nonsense with surgical precision.
He shifts, settling back against the pillow. “Said if I was going to spend all my time worrying about why she shouldn’t be with me, I wasn’t giving her much reason to stay.”
I stare at him, trying to picture that version of my dad—the one full of doubt, questioning whether he was good enough for her. The guy who taught me how to throw a puck and fix a leaky faucet has never struck me as insecure.
“So you stopped worrying?” I ask.
“I started focusing on being worth staying for instead of assuming I wasn’t.” His tone softens, the words landing like he’s handing me something valuable he almost lost once.
They hit harder than I expect—right in the ribs, where I keep all the things I don’t say out loud.
Have I been doing that with Sutton? Spending all my time waiting for her to come to her senses, to realize she could have someone easier, less complicated—someone who doesn’t come with a locker room full of opinions and a PR team on speed dial?
Maybe the problem isn’t that she’ll leave. Maybe it’s that I’ve already decided she should.
A nurse comes in to check Dad’s vitals, and by the time she leaves, she reports that he’s cleared to go. His bloodwork looks good, his oxygen’s steady, and he can go home—as long as he takes his meds and rests for a few days.
It’s a relief, even if the lines of exhaustion around his eyes tell a different story.
“You going to be okay?” Dad asks as I gather our things.
“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. I make time.
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 myself hear those 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.