Offside Secrets (River City Renegades #3)

Chapter 1

SUTTON

Winning is loud.

I know this because after a game, when you enter the Renegades locker room, it sounds like a frat party colliding with a rock concert.

Someone’s usually in their underwear and blasting music, someone else is yelling about a poker game, and I’m fairly certain at least one grown man is always tasked with singing into his skate like it’s a microphone.

That’s what happens with the team after a winning game. Meanwhile, when you are the owner of said team, well…I’m in my office, heels off under my desk, eating a cold slice of pepperoni pizza, and juggling crises like the chicest ring leader in town.

Anna Denault—a former member of our Renegades family and now a sports agent for one of our players, Sawyer Stockton—is perched on the edge of my desk. She’s got legs crossed, eating Twizzlers out of a coffee mug that has my initials engraved on it.

Across the room is Elle Carter, Renegades assistant coach, stats whisperer, and my best friend. She’s currently sprawled across my sofa, headset dangling, laptop still open from her video session with one of the rookies.

“...No, Tyler, she wasn’t ‘flirting with you’ when she said your plus-minus was impressive. That’s not a euphemism. It’s literally a stat.” She meets my gaze over the top of her screen, exasperated. “If hockey doesn’t work out, that boy’s gonna get eaten alive on Tinder.”

From my seat, the arena glows against the glittering River City skyline, a reminder of everything I’m trying to hold together. Keeping this franchise from turning into a soap opera feels like a full-time job—plus overtime.

“Okay,” Anna says, wagging a Twizzler like a gavel. “So, listen to my idea for the PR spin on Sawyer yelling at the ref tonight: we say he’s ‘passionate.’”

“He looked like he was auditioning for WWE,” I say, trying not to snort in disapproval, starting to flip through the day’s media clippings.

“Tonight’s media chatter is all about the NHL’s newest expansion coming to our neck of the woods—Virginia might be getting this team, which would be huge for us. ”

“Would it ever,” Elle says with a whistle. “The Alexandria Dominion. I like it. Strong.”

“Right? I like a good team name,” I agree with Elle before turning my attention back to Anna. “So, based on that, let’s try to keep Sawyer’s passion to a minimum, shall we?”

Anna shrugs. “Passion sells.”

“Passion gets us fined,” I counter.

Elle pipes up from the couch. “We could always have the team captain talk to Sawyer.”

“Except the team captain is his cousin,” I reply, my Southern drawl suddenly appearing. Why does it do that when I get stressed? “Will he make him atone for what he’s done?”

Elle grins as she points to the Word of the Day calendar sitting on my desk. “I see what you just did there. Atone is today’s word.”

“You are the only person I know, Sutton, who has an app and calendar for a word of the day,” Anna says with a laugh.

I wink slyly. “I love it. My word of the day makes me feel ridiculously smart. But words or not, I need to know for real if there will be atonement. Again, our captain is related to ‘he who needs to be put in his place’, albeit gently.”

“Does not matter. Related or not, I told Campbell when he accepted the captaincy that he couldn’t show favorites.

What’s good for the team is also good for all players, even if they all have the last name Stockton.

” Elle sighs as she kicks her feet into the air.

“I swear, as much as I respect these guys, they’re going to be the death of me.

I wish they would listen, that I could tell them to do what I say do, and if they don’t do it, I’ll just strangle ‘em.”

Anna tosses her a Twizzler in approval. “See, that’s passion. Nobody’s fining you.”

“You two are impossible.” I lean back in my chair, pointing to said calendar on my desk. “Or problematical, if I was following Merriam-Webster’s rules yesterday.”

“You love us,” Anna sing-songs.

“Debatable,” I mutter, though my lips twitch.

“Speaking of debatable…” She grins and leans in, twirling her Twizzler and using it to punctuate each word. “Kiss, marry, kill. Sawyer, Campbell, or that new guy, Maxwell Rivers.”

“I think he wants to be called Max,” Elle says as she sits up straighter. “And I’d kiss Max, for sure.”

“No,” I say firmly. “We’re not doing this.” I then point a finger at Elle. “And I’m pretty sure it’s Maxwell. Not Max. Just Maxwell. Also, hello…Dixon?”

When I bring up the love of her life and also our former goalie, Dixon Andrews, who has graduated and moved on up to the big leagues himself, Elle ignores me.

Which is fine. I love them as a couple, and I love that she’s happy, but do I like to tease her when I see the opportunity? Yes, that’s what friends do.

“Maxwell comes from a good family around the Cape,” she says, not missing a beat. “He looks great in a suit—probably smells like cedar and generational wealth. Sawyer’s the loyal type: in a protective ‘you’re mine’ kind of way.”

“And then there is Campbell…” Anna fans herself dramatically. “Let’s just say that man was born to be kissed.”

“Will Ollie have something to say about it?” I’m referring to our defenseman, Ollie Decker, who Anna’s been friends with for years but has been dating for almost a year now.

Elle laughs. “Maxwell’s the one you marry. He’s the dependable minivan in a sea of flashy sports cars. Sawyer you kill—sorry, but dealing with his little outbursts for the rest of my life would make me nuts. I do not see how his girlfriends can handle it…”

“They’re usually pop stars,” Anna interrupts with a laugh. “They probably sing their way out of a room so they don’t have to listen to him.”

“But,” Elle continues nonplussed, “Campbell you definitely kiss. And it’s good, too. Possibly twice.”

“Are you both done now?” I ask, arching a brow. “I’m sure both Ollie and Dixon would love to hear this conversation. Adore. With bells!”

“Not even close to being done,” Anna says sweetly. “Ollie, as my boyfriend, would support me in this. He loves to play this game. I pick out strangers on the street and make him play with me. Come on, Sutton. Who would you pick?”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t play this game.”

“That’s exactly what someone with a very secret answer would say,” Elle quips.

“What would Dixon say to you?” I ask, hoping to slow her roll.

“He’d wonder why I didn’t pick him for all three.” She laughs. “But he’d be really curious to know who you’d pick.”

“She doesn’t want to agree with us that she thinks her captain is kissable, too.” Anna smirks. “Admit it. You think Campbell’s hot.”

“He’s a player,” I reply crisply.

Campbell’s face flashes in my mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

The man is unfairly good-looking. Like, “walks through the airport in slow motion” good-looking or the kind of guy who can talk a woman into sharing her passwords kind of good-looking.

Since the first day I met him, I noticed the cut of his jaw—sharp enough to make bad decisions over.

Strong. Sexy. Dangerous in all the right ways.

“On the ice or off?” Elle deadpans.

Anna nearly falls off the desk laughing.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “HR is going to have an aneurysm if they ever get ahold of this conversation.”

“Relax,” Elle says, suddenly slipping into her best faux Southern accent, which she does to make fun of me, and drawing out each word as much as she can, which is as much as time allows. “We’ll just keep it a secret. You can stay picture-perfect, my sweet, Southern Belle they call Sutton Mahoney.”

That earns her the look—the one that can silence an entire boardroom. However, not my girl. She just smiles wider.

The truth? I am the golden-girl owner. Perfect wardrobe. Perfect hair. The media darling who runs the Renegades and has turned them into the team everyone’s suddenly talking about. On paper, I have it all.

Except when the arena lights go out and I’m just the very single golden-girl owner. The one with an empty dinner reservation waiting. Party of one? Yes, please.

The door bangs open. Speak of the devil, or devils as it were. Sawyer barrels in, all six-foot-two of hockey attitude, dragging his cousin Campbell along like a reluctant bodyguard.

“I’m not apologizing,” Sawyer declares, pointing a finger at me like I’m Judge Judy.

“Good evening to you, too,” I say. “Love what you’ve done with your temper tantrum.”

Campbell leans against the wall, arms folded, eyes glinting with amusement.

Of course he looks unfairly good doing absolutely nothing.

My shoes probably cost more than his entire outfit, but here he is—broad shoulders, hair that falls just right, smile that should be illegal—smirking like this circus is my problem, not his.

Spoiler: it is.

Sawyer crosses his arms like a sulky teenager who happens to be built like a Viking. “I’m not sorry,” he repeats, louder this time, as if volume will make it true.

Elle cough-laughs. “Great strategy. Yell until everyone agrees with you. Works every time.”

I hold up a hand before it devolves into WrestleMania in my office. “Sawyer, you shoved a ref. The league doesn’t care if you call it shaking hands or patriotism or interpretive dance—they care that the Renegades don’t look like a bunch of clowns exiting a small car.”

“We won the game,” Sawyer argues.

I look at Anna. “You’re his agent. Can’t you do something about this?”

She shrugs as Sawyer butts back in. “The fans loved it. Social media loved it.”

“Social media also loves raccoon videos. Doesn’t mean I’m putting one in a jersey and letting it run the power play.”

That earns a laugh from Elle. Even Campbell’s mouth twitches. Just slightly.

“Look,” I say, pinning Sawyer with the stare, “this new NHL team moving into Virginia? They’re going to be watching us. The league’s going to be watching us. You can’t afford this reputation right now.”

Sawyer scoffs. “They’ll be lucky if they get half our talent.”

Campbell finally pushes off the wall, voice smooth, steady. “Doesn’t mean they won’t be looking for it.”

The room goes still for half a beat. His words aren’t directed at anyone in particular, but the weight of them hums in the air.

I narrow my eyes on him. “And what exactly do you mean by that, Campbell?”

He smiles—lazy, unbothered, but with a spark behind it. “Just saying, if I were running a brand-new NHL team, I’d want to snag a few names to get the fans excited. Big stage. Fresh start. That kind of thing.”

“Why, Thing Two,” Anna says, arching a brow as she calls up her old nickname for Campbell. “Is that your way of saying you’d look real good on a billboard?”

Sawyer’s face falls. “Wait. I thought I was Thing Two?”

“Nope. She made you Thing One after that time you tried to flirt with the head of PR and accidentally emailed your player bio to the entire team signed ‘Love, Sawyer.’”

“It was supposed to say ‘Later,’” he mutters.

“And yet,” Campbell says, “the love really came through.” Campbell’s smile widens, just enough to be dangerous, as he turns his attention back to Anna. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have me on a billboard, would it?”

Sawyer groans. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I don’t have to,” Anna says brightly. “He’s doing fine all on his own.”

I close my folder with a sharp snap. “Fantastic, Campbell. I’m thrilled my office has become the stage for your billboard audition.”

Campbell meets my eyes across the room, calm, confident. “I’m keeping my options open.”

He says it lightly, but the way his gaze lingers a second longer than it should makes something flip low in my stomach.

Then he straightens, pushes off the wall, and claps his cousin on the shoulder. “Come on, Sawyer. Let’s leave Sutton to her empire.”

“But will Sawyer apologize?”

Sawyer spins around, probably to tell me no, but Campbell redirects him and spins him another one hundred and eighty degrees to point his Viking butt out the door. The best part? Campbell clamping his hand over Sawyer’s mouth so he couldn’t disagree.

“I’m the captain, I will get him to.” Campbell dips his head my way. “Have a good night.”

And just like that, they’re gone—Sawyer still muttering about injustice, Campbell with that faint, knowing smile. The door clicks shut behind them, and for a second, the office feels too quiet after the Stockton Show ends for the night.

“Whew,” Anna says, hopping off my desk and stretching like we just wrapped a Broadway show. “That was entertaining. You’re welcome for the kiss, marry, kill warm-up.”

“Not helping,” I mutter.

She smirks, clearly pleased with herself. “Speaking of which, Ollie texted he’s done with media, so we’re outta here. Don’t wait up.” She grabs her bag and Twizzler stash like she’s heading off to prom instead of date night.

“Have a good night,” I say dryly.

“Oh, I will.” Wink. Out the door she goes.

Two seconds later, Elle’s phone dings. She glances down, grins.

“Let me guess, Dixon checking in?”

She shrugs, a little flush creeping over her cheeks. “We’ve got a FaceTime date later tonight.”

Ever since he was called up to Washington D.C.

, I’ve marveled at how he and Elle have juggled their relationship and made things work.

The distance isn’t impossible. They take turns visiting one another, alternating as much as they can so one person doesn’t feel the weight of it all.

I think it helps that it only takes about two and half hours by car to drive there, too.

But with their schedules, we all knew there would be hurdles.

“He play tonight?” I ask as she nods.

“He did, they won, and he is happy. But, Ben wants to huddle with me before I leave for home.” She gathers her laptop, shoving it into her bag. “Try not to spiral about the whole ref thing…too much.”

“I’m not spiraling,” I lie. I am indeed spiraling. I’m triggered and activated—what could be better?

Elle just smirks, sliding out with a wave.

And then it’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind that presses in around you when the lights outside your office dim and the party downstairs keeps roaring without you.

I smooth the edge of my skirt, glance at the folder in front of me, and force my attention back to it.

Because this is who I am: Sutton Mahoney, golden-girl owner. Focused. Polished. In control—but also, a party of one.