Chapter 3
SUTTON
If Hades had fluorescent lighting and stale coffee, it would look exactly like the boardroom for the Renegades.
Polished mahogany table stretching longer than common sense, chairs so stiff they could double as medieval torture devices, and walls adorned with awards that scream look how good we think we are.
I’ve been trapped here for an hour, listening to an endless debate about whether our promotional posters should grab attention or gently persuade.
My soul, if it hadn’t already been threatened by deadlines, has now officially wilted under the combined force of corporate pomposity and too-bright lights.
“Now, the next item,” Harold Henderson, a longtime board member, drones as he adjusts his tie like he’s about to reveal breaking news. “The end-of-year gala.”
The board collectively perks up, like someone just whispered open bar, but alas it is not.
This also isn’t your average end-of-year gala.
It’s more of a stakeholder reception—a night where the city’s wealthiest show up in sequins and smug smiles, circling the room to see who’s funding what next season.
Corporate sponsors, local investors, and the occasional politician mingle over champagne while pretending this isn’t just one big networking competition.
“This year’s host will be the Barringtons, at their estate,” Harold continues.
Estate. Right. More like a palace with a guesthouse bigger than my arena. Translation: palatial mansion the size of a small European country, complete with chandeliers worth more than my entire franchise.
“Our current sponsors, and next season’s hopefuls, will be out in full force. Sutton, we’ll need you there, front and center. The image for the Renegades must be perfect.”
There it is. Perfect image. Just the phrase to make my blood pressure spike.
“Of course,” I say, plastering on my best polite “I’m a good girl” smile. “I’ll be there.”
The satisfied nods around the table should’ve been my warning.
“Wonderful.” Harold clears his throat. “And…I assume you’ll want to bring a guest, of course?”
I blink. “A guest?”
He gives a vague little wave, like the word date is too scandalous to utter in a boardroom. “These functions are…well, it’s always nice to present a complete picture. Sponsors appreciate stability. Warmth.”
“So, basically, you’re suggesting I find a plus-one?” I let out a laugh that’s sharper than I intended, like a paper cut on my sanity. “Maybe download one from an app? ‘Rent-A-Boyfriend: Gala Edition’?”
A cough. A shuffle of papers. The kind of silence so thick it could be cut with a butter knife. The kind of silence that screams we are deadly serious.
I let my gaze slowly make its way around the table, making eye contact with each person present. They are, indeed, deadly serious.
Before I can deliver a speech about how my worth isn’t determined by the presence of a tuxedoed accessory, Marlene, Harold’s wife and another board member, leans forward, her smile sweet but her tone edged.
“It would be good for you to have backup, because I have it on very good authority that Victor Lawson will be there.”
My stomach drops. Victor Lawson. Who would have thought that as a thirty-five-year-old woman I would have someone to call my nemesis.
An archrival. The man who made college debate finals a personal blood sport and now runs his business like it’s a chess match he always has to win. Of course he’ll be there.
Suddenly, it clicks. This isn’t about optics. It’s about not letting me look like the sad single who somehow runs an AHL dynasty. Not letting me look pathetic, which would in turn make the Renegades look the same, next to Victor and whatever Instagram-ready woman he drags along.
Perfect. Just perfect.
By the time I escape, I’m half a second from stress-eating the entire bag of chocolate chip cookies I keep in one of my office desk drawers.
They come from a small bakery down the street, and she bakes them fresh every day.
My assistant makes sure I always have my stash topped up.
I can taste the sugar on the tip of my tongue now, as my heels click down the hall like tiny hammers of doom until I finally reach my office.
It feels so good to slam my door shut behind me and drop into my chair.
I’ve barely started muttering threats at the ceiling when there’s a soft knock.
“Come in,” I call, more growl than invitation. This better be good, because I have a bag of cookies to plow through.
The door creaks open, and in shuffles Dennis, one of our quieter board members. He’s the human equivalent of a beige sweater—inoffensive, slightly itchy, and somehow always there. He seems to be my eyes and ears when I need them most. Honestly, I don’t mind him, he’s just so very…Dennis.
“Uh, Sutton?” he says, stepping inside. “I just wanted to clarify something.”
I arch a brow. “If you’re here to talk poster fonts, I swear—”
“No, no.” He wrings his hands, looking everywhere but at me. “It’s the gala. About, um, what they were saying about bringing someone.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to be the one to tell you, but Harold was serious. He’s been muttering for a few weeks now that it would look so much better, for the team, if you were in a stable relationship.”
“Muttering for weeks? Stable relationship?” I repeat, deadpan.
“I’m not sure which bag to unpack first, Dennis.
” I open a drawer, grab my bag of cookies, and toss them on my desk, digging into the bag immediately.
“Tell me, where should we start? You’re here saying this, Harold told you this, or that members of the board think a woman needs a relationship to look stable? ”
As I shove a cookie in my mouth to demolish it, I realize I’m probably my own worst enemy right now. Tip: if someone walks into your office and says these things to you, don’t lean into the whole “unstable” side of things.
He winces. “I know, I know. I didn’t want to tell you, but I couldn’t not tell you.”
“So let me get this straight,” I manage with my mouth full, as I kick off my heels and spin in my chair.
If a girl’s gotta be unstable, I’m gonna roll out my flag for it.
“A room full of men who think promotional posters are a life-or-death decision have decided my dating life is now their problem?”
“To be fair, Marlene was there, too,” Dennis starts, but stops when I give him the look. He, in return, gives a helpless little shrug. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“I know, you’re just telling me.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Thank you for that. But, trust me, Dennis. If I bring someone, it won’t be because of optics. It’ll be because they’re hot enough to make Victor, and the board, choke on all the canapés.”
“Right. Well.” His ears turn the brightest shade of red I’ve ever seen. This man would give a stoplight a run for its money. “Good luck with that.”
And then he scurries out, leaving me with the knowledge that, apparently, my plus-one is now to be the hottest ticket in town.
I wait until Dennis is down the hall before yanking my phone out of my bag. If anyone will understand the absurdity of this, it’s Elle.
You will not believe what I was just told.
Did they finally decide on a new team motto for the posters? “In it to win it”?
Worse. Apparently, I need a DATE for the donor gala. Because…optics.
Optics? What are you, a telescope?
No, just a single woman in a male-dominated industry. Same thing, apparently.
Let me guess. Harold?
Harold. And then beige-sweater Dennis came in after, all “I don’t want to be the one to tell you…” Like he was warning me about termites.
Oh, Sutton. Welcome to my life. Remember when one of the scouts asked me if my “husband let me” take this job?
Still want to key his car.
I handled it.
Of course you did. Probably with your death stare.
It’s a gift. But back to you—what are you going to do?
Honestly? Show up alone. Or hire a boyfriend who looks like he walked off a cologne ad.
Tempting. But please pick someone with good shoulders. If you’re going to make a point, make him hot.
I snort-laugh, the sound echoing in the otherwise empty office. Leave it to Elle to boil down a feminist manifesto into “get a man with nice shoulders.”
You’re not helping.
I am helping. Step one: make them underestimate you. Step two: casually ruin them.
Not sure that’s in the gala itinerary.
Then make it fit. Look, Sutton—you’re running this team. You survived the league commissioner’s lecture on “how hockey works.” You can survive a room full of sponsors with bad cologne.
That’s generous. Half of them probably bathe in aftershave.
Exactly. But here’s the thing—men like Harold, they want to put you in a box. “Owner, but pretty.” “Successful, but attached.” You owe them nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
So what, I show up alone and dare them to say something?
Yes. Or show up with the hottest man in River City, your call. But either way, you set the tone. Not them. You always have.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles like they might hold the answers. Elle has a way of making the battlefield sound winnable—even if I feel like I’m walking into it in four-inch heels.
You’re right. Ugh. I hate it when you’re right.
You love it. And when you need a pre-gala pep talk, I’ll be here, champagne in hand, ready to hype you up.
Deal. Also, if I do hire a fake boyfriend, you’re responsible for vetting his shoulders.
Obviously. I have standards.
I laugh again, the tension in my chest easing. Leave it to Elle to turn the mere mention of muttered “optics” into a war cry.
Maybe this gala won’t be the end of me after all.
I stare at the ceiling, letting the absurdity of the whole situation settle around me.
A single woman, expected to perform like a perfectly polished ornament at a mansion full of key supporters.
I shake my head and snort. Me. Performing.
Ha. Why can’t I walk into that glittering room, sip champagne, make small talk, and own the room just by being me?
I straighten in my chair, a little spark of defiance igniting deep inside. Please. I am enough. I have apps and a calendar that tell me so. And honestly? That thought tastes like champagne already.
Yet in a quiet corner of my mind, a small, stubborn thought lingers.
Would I like someone beside me for this—someone to share a laugh when the boardroom starts to feel like a bad comedy sketch?
Yes. Someone to pour wine in the living room later, who’ll rub my feet while we talk in front of the fire at the end of a long day?
Absolutely. The one who knows my private jokes, catches my secret looks across a room, and makes even the absurd feel like home? For sure.
My person.
But for tonight, I tuck the thought away with a smile and a shake of my head. Some dreams don’t need to be solved. They just need to be believed in long enough to find you.