Chapter 2
CAMPBELL
To me, the Renegades locker room always smells like either victory or dirty water and armpits. Tonight, even though we’re celebrating a win, it’s leaning heavily toward the latter. Sweat, disinfectant, and the faint tang of someone’s forgotten protein shake bottle—that’s our cologne.
I yank my jersey off and toss it into my bag, grinning when Sawyer flops onto the bench beside me with a groan loud enough to make it sound like he just climbed Everest instead of skating for sixty minutes, managing one awesome game, and screaming at the ref.
“Somebody get Grandpa here an oxygen tank,” I say, and the guys snort.
“Grandpa?” Sawyer squints at me. “I barely have ten months on you.”
“Exactly,” I shoot back, loud enough for the rest of the room. “That’s ten months of wear and tear. Your knees sound like popcorn when you bend down to tie your skates.”
The chirps fly around—old man jokes, retirement home references, one guy starts humming The Golden Girls theme—and Sawyer flips us all off with the grace of a man who knows his limits and doesn’t care.
Laughter bounces off the walls, filling the space in that post-game buzz where we’re too hyped to be tired yet.
This is my element. The locker-room banter king. Court jester with a mouthguard.
But even the greatest of kings sneak off to make sure their castle’s still standing.
I grab my phone like I’m checking the game highlights and duck toward the back alcove.
The noise fades to a dull roar as I hit Dad’s number.
He picks up on the third ring. “You done winning yet?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice softer than it was two seconds ago. “Did you take your meds?”
A pause. “Don’t start.”
“Dad—”
“I took ‘em.”
I breathe out. “Okay. And the flare-up? Any better?”
“Some. Rheumatologist knows his stuff, I’ll give him that.”
My throat tightens. Rheumatoid arthritis. Two words that flipped our whole world sideways this year. Dad hates slowing down. Hates needing help. But he’s got me, whether he likes it or not.
“Don’t push yourself,” I say. “Please.”
“Go enjoy your night, Cam. I’m fine.”
Cam. A nickname my mom had given me when I was little that’s stuck around and is for family only.
My mom. I was young when she passed away, but that doesn’t mean that now as a nearly thirty-year-old man I don’t miss her.
I do, but I’m beyond grateful I still have my dad.
I hang up and stare at the cracked tile wall for a beat too long before shoving the worry down where no one else will see it.
When I step back out, the room’s buzzing.
“They’ve already got the arena,” Maxwell, our newest addition says, towel around his waist and hair sticking up like he stuck a fork in a socket. “Leftover from that college team that folded. Investors lined up. Whole deal’s happening fast.”
Sawyer snorts. “I bet half this roster’s about to defect the second there’s money on the table.”
“All I’m saying,” pipes up another guy, “is I look good in NHL colors. Just putting it out into the universe.”
I chuckle and shake my head. The dream’s dangling in front of everyone like a carrot on a stick. For most of us, it’s all we’ve ever wanted. NHL. The show. But it’s a dream that doesn’t exactly come with built-in health care for players’ aging dads who forget their pills.
I tug my jeans on and catch my reflection in the dented metal of my locker door. That’s when Sutton flashes across my brain. Sitting behind her desk, honey-blond hair swept back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck…she looked like she’d walked straight out of some glossy magazine.
Untouchable. That’s the word.
She’s the kind of woman who orders wine by the vineyard, not the color. The kind who probably has a favorite art museum. I bet she goes home and listens to classical music on purpose. Me? My idea of culture is remembering to rinse my hockey socks so they don’t become sentient.
Still, she’s gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that makes you wish you were on her level. Makes you wonder what it’d be like if you were.
But wishing’s dangerous and a luxury I can’t afford. Not when my off-ice life already feels like a second job. Caretaker, chauffeur to doctor’s appointments, pharmacist-in-chief.
Adding a woman into that mix? Forget it. Even if she weren’t the boss—the owner of the whole team, no less. That’s not just a complication. That’s a five-alarm, dumpster-fire-sized disaster.
“Hey, Campbell,” Owen, our backup goalie, calls out as he jerks his chin toward the exit. “Couple of us are hitting the diner. You in?”
Sawyer elbows me. “He’s not coming. Pretty boy’s got a hot date with his mirror.”
I smirk, easy and practiced. “Can’t risk you stealing my fries again, Sawyer. Go without me.”
The guys boo and heckle as they head out, a couple of towels sailing my way before the door shuts behind them.
I take my time lacing up my sneakers, the quiet settling in heavy now that the room’s empty. Truth is, I’d love to go. Love to be the guy who can just hit the diner at midnight, laugh over greasy pancakes, and forget about everything else.
But that’s not me. Not anymore. My world’s already split in two—leader in the locker room, caretaker at home.
And right now? There’s no room for anything else. Not for Sutton. Not for dating. Not even for pancakes. Shaking my head, I grab my keys, slam my locker door shut and head toward the exit.
The air outside the arena is sharp, the kind that fills your lungs with cold and makes you feel awake in a way coffee never does.
My sneakers crunch against the asphalt as I cross the lot, duffel strap slung over my shoulder.
Inside, that’s one world. Out here, it’s just me and the silence.
And my thoughts—the ones I can never quite shut off.
I think about Dad. About how it used to be him driving me and Sawyer to early-morning practices, thermos of coffee in hand, barking at us to hurry up so we didn’t lose our ice time.
I used to look at him and think he was invincible.
Now? Rheumatoid arthritis is stealing that from him piece by piece, and no matter how many times he tells me not to worry, I can’t stop.
And Sawyer—my cousin, my best friend, my teammate. We grew up in each other’s pockets, stickhandling in driveways, begging for just one more skate before dinner. Back then, the NHL wasn’t a dream, it was a given. We’ll make it, we told each other, over and over, like a mantra.
Make it we did. Well, so far I’ve made it as far as the Renegades.
After college, stepping onto AHL ice felt like winning the lottery.
It still does most nights. But lately…it’s not enough.
I want more. More than bus rides and practice gear that smells like death.
More than scraping by and hoping the off-season job covers the bills.
I want the NHL. I want the paycheck that makes Dad’s meds a non-issue, the kind that lets me put money away for the future—for the family I hope I’ll have someday. Because let’s be real: Sawyer’s knees aren’t the only ones with an expiration date. Mine will give out eventually, too.
The thought makes me laugh under my breath, humorless and low.
Here I am, twenty-nine years old, healthy, living the dream most folks never even touch, and already I’m overthinking what comes next.
These are moments I get on my own nerves.
Half-laughing, I scrub a hand over my face and keep walking, trying to shake it off.
That’s when I see her.
Across the lot, Sutton’s slipping into her car. Even under the yellow wash of the parking lights, she looks like she belongs to a different world entirely, one where bank accounts never dip into overdraft and family health scares aren’t part of the daily equation.
I pause without meaning to, long enough to watch her door close and then her taillights flare red. My chest tightens, and I can’t decide if it’s longing or common sense reminding me she’s out of reach.
Probably both.
I shift my duffel higher on my shoulder and unlock my own car, telling myself to stop staring. Sutton Mahoney is my boss. My reality is my dad, my cousin, this team. And yet…
As her car pulls away, I realize I want it all anyway. The NHL, security for my family, a woman like her.
And I hate myself just a little for wanting more than what I already have.