Chapter 4
CAMPBELL
Sawyer’s already in our usual booth, menu closed, arms sprawled out like he owns the place. My cousin doesn’t even have to look anymore. The Beavertail Special’s practically named after him.
“Morning, princess,” Sawyer says when I slide in across from him. “Sleep in your tiara again?”
“Funny,” I say, pulling the menu toward me. “You’re just jealous because mine fits better.”
Owen drags himself in next, hoodie inside out, eyes half-closed. He drops into the seat beside Sawyer like gravity’s doing all the work.
“Nice fashion statement,” I say, nodding at his hoodie.
He blinks down. “Oh, crap. Thought it felt weird.”
Sawyer snorts. “Backup goalie, backup wardrobe skills.”
“I’m the goalie now, not the backup.” Owen just gives him a look that says, worth it. “Plus, we’re going to practice, not a red carpet event.”
“The fact you even know what a ‘red carpet’ event is?” Sawyer manages to say, punctuating his words with a whistle. “Impressed, kid. Good thing it’s clean, though, since we’ve got that photo shoot today, too.”
“Photo shoot?” Owen asks, cocking his head to the side. “Wait, is that what Cannon’s email was about?”
“That’s the one,” I say, referring to a missive that had been sent out to the team earlier this week by one of the assistant coaches. I open a menu so my stomach and I can begin our decision-making for breakfast.
“I knew I should have read it,” Owen sighs.
Before I can even decide if it’s going to be pancakes or breakfast poutine (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it), Ollie slides into the booth beside me. He’s grinning like he’s got the cheat code to life, which, I mean, he does. He’s got Anna. Game over.
“Boys,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table. “So. That team moving to Alexandria…”
The air shifts. Even Gerry pauses mid-rant at the counter like he’s listening.
Sawyer whistles. “Heard about that. And rumor is, they’re sending scouts to our games.” He says it like it’s casual, but I can read him like a playbook. He’s testing. Waiting.
“That’s cool, but honestly?” Ollie just shrugs, easy as you please.
“I’m happy here. I’ve got Anna, we’re close to home.
She’s going to be the big time sports agent, and I want to be the guy who makes sure the kids get to school.
We’ve got plans, you know? I’m not chasing the big leagues anymore. This is enough.”
Enough. My stomach knots. I’d love to know how someone can just…decide that.
Owen perks up, eyes sharp for the first time this morning. “Man, that’d be unreal. Imagine showing off in front of NHL scouts. I’d kill for that shot.”
Karen appears with the coffeepot like she’s been eavesdropping—because she always does. She fills our mugs and grins at Owen. “Sweetheart, you look like you’d kill for a nap. Or a good stylist.”
Sawyer barks out a laugh, slapping the table. “She’s got you there.”
Karen leans toward me, lowering her voice like she’s telling a secret. “Don’t let them distract you, Campbell. You’re the one to watch.” Then she winks and bustles off before I can answer.
Gerry hollers from behind the counter, “Don’t fill their heads with nonsense, Karen! The Leafs are the only team worth scouting.”
Sawyer calls back, “Keep dreaming. One day, Toronto will make a comeback, Ger Bear.”
“It’s Gerry!” he fires back, not pleased with Sawyer’s nickname for him. “Say it right, or you’re washing dishes!”
“I’ll order a funnel cake,” Sawyer tosses back, knowing that for some odd reason even the mere mention of funnel cakes sets Gerry off. More so than being called Ger Bear.
“Pffft. And you’ll get barred from this place,” Gerry retorts, wagging a finger in the air. “My establishment does not make funnel cakes. I’m not a carnival.”
Sawyer just grins. “Still dreaming, Ger Bear.”
The table cracks up. Even Owen chuckles into his mug. For a second, it’s all easy, the way mornings here are supposed to be.
But then Gerry turns back to his TV and Sawyer shrugs, pushing the laughter off like it doesn’t stick. “Wouldn’t mind moving up either,” he admits. “But hey, I’ll take it as it comes.”
The others keep talking, teasing about who’s going to order the most bacon, Owen trying to convince Karen to add “goalie fuel” smoothies to the menu, Sawyer calling him Princess Protein Shake.
And me? I go quiet.
Because the noise fades, and all I can hear is the pounding in my chest. Scouts. At our games.
This is it. Everything I’ve ever wanted since I was a kid, since Sawyer and I wore holes into our sneakers playing street hockey until the streetlights came on. Since the only dream worth having was skating under those bright NHL lights.
But then Dad flashes in my mind—struggling with his RA, the stack of bills on the kitchen counter he tries to hide. The weight slams back onto my shoulders.
I don’t just want this. Not anymore. This time, today, I need it. We need it.
The guys are still laughing, but I can’t taste the maple syrup in the air any longer. All I can taste is pressure, and it tastes a lot like adrenaline.
Gerry stops by our table, taking orders. When he gets to me, I’ve got one half of my mind in my seat, the other already in Alexandria. “I’ll have the hash browns, eggs over easy, side of fruit, and no bacon today.”
Sawyer looks at me like I sprouted horns. “Bro, since when do you order fruit instead of the full bacon apocalypse?”
I pull my eyes from the menu. “Feeling light.”
Sawyer leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes serious for once. “Hey, man,” he says in a low voice, “you’ve been real quiet this morning. Is your dad okay? Is everything okay with you?”
I swallow. Let the table go silent for just a second (which with us is rare).
“Yeah,” I manage. “Dad’s…not great. He’s having a flare-up.
He woke up this morning and his wrists were so stiff he couldn’t close his fists all the way.
His knuckles looked swollen and he felt burning in his joints, even before he stood up.
With the stiffness—it takes him forever just to get going in the mornings. ”
Ollie gives me a soft look, Owen sets down his mug as though tasting sympathy, and, out of the corner of my eye, I notice Karen pauses wiping a table nearby.
I drop my voice, because I don’t want the pity, just the truth out there. “He’s been on pain meds, doing the therapy, but there’s always the bills piling up. And every flare-up feels like it moves two steps ahead of what we can pay or plan for.”
Sawyer nods. “Man, Campbell. I’m sorry. That sucks.”
Owen leans in. “Anything I can do? I mean, hockey stuff or otherwise.”
I look around at my friends—the guys who make me feel like I could almost believe my dreams are within reach. Almost.
I take a sip of coffee, bitter in that good way, and try to smile as I shake my head. “Thanks. Means a lot.”
My breakfast arrives—eggs are certainly over easy, the hash browns crispy, and the fruit is cold and bright. I pick at the fruit first, because fruit’s easy. The eggs take more thought.
Everything feels heavier now, like I’m carrying two games: one on the ice, one at home.
I eat in small bites. The laughter and the jokes start up again—Sawyer teasing Owen about his smoothie plan, Gerry shouting at the TV about the Leafs, and Karen asking if anyone wants a side of silver dollar pancakes or more bacon.
But inside me the storm’s already gathered. Scouts. NHL shot closer than ever. Dad hurting. Bills looming.
I chew the last piece of cantaloupe, stabbing at a strawberry almost immediately. I need this. Not just for me, but for him.
The weight of it hums in my veins.
And I promise, one way or the other, I’m going to make damn sure it counts.
The arena doesn’t look like our usual playground right now—it looks like a professional photography studio set up shop on our ice.
Someone has stretched a backdrop across one side with the Renegades logo prominently displayed, and lighting equipment is scattered around like a small army of mechanical sentries along with various props that I assume are meant to make us look “dynamic” and “engaged.”
We’re lined up for the annual team photo shoot, the one that generates content for programs, posters, social media, our holiday campaigns, and whatever else our marketing team dreams up.
All of us in our jerseys, skates, and varying degrees of enthusiasm for being photographed.
Even Trevor, the guy who takes his mascot duties seriously, is on the ice in his beaver costume, striking exaggerated poses that make the photographer groan.
The photographer is busy barking directions like “closer, arms around each other, yes, show me that team unity!” and sounds like he’s trying to wrangle a kindergarten class photo or herd cats, which he kind of is.
Sawyer elbows me in the ribs, grinning, and the rest of the guys ham it up, flexing and striking dramatic poses between shots.
Then comes the parade of “special guest” photos. Coaches get pulled in—Ben, of course as head, Elle, Cannon, even Pete, the assistant to our coaching staff. We do the arms-crossed, tough-guys version, then the “family shot” with everyone cheering. It’s chaos, but at least it’s chaos I can hide in.
And then the photographer squints past the group, toward the edge of the boards. “Miss Mahoney, are you still there?”
I look across the ice as Sutton freezes like a deer in headlights.
I’d seen her when I arrived; she’s been lingering off to the side with her clipboard, her blazer sharp and heels clicking every time she shifts her weight.
At the mention of her name, her eyes widen and in a comical and slow motion fashion, she turns her pointer finger to herself.
The photographer cracks up. “Yes, come on in! Let’s get a few with you, too.”
“Oh, no,” she begins, shaking her head once. It’s subtle, but the photographer is already beckoning her forward. The guys notice, of course, and start to cheer her on.
“Come on, we’re a team!”
“Boss lady,” this one is from Sawyer, “get in here!”
“Please?”
Sutton looks at all of us as if we’ve lost our minds before shaking her head and acquiescing to our cries. A chorus of oooohs and wolf whistles rises behind me as she steps gingerly onto the matting they’ve rolled across the ice. Her expression could cut steel, but she keeps moving, chin high.
“Perfect,” the photographer says, practically vibrating with excitement. “Let’s put the owner right here in front…yes, next to the captain. Front and center.”
Sutton slides into place beside me, muttering something under her breath that I’m pretty sure isn’t festive. We’re all watching as she takes one careful step forward, but the matting shifts under her heel, making it slide to the side. She wobbles, arms flailing.
There’s a split second here where I freeze before my instinct kicks in, but somehow I catch her at the waist before she can slam into the ice without any safety gear on.
She’s a tumble of floral fragrances and fresh clean sheets as she grips my forearm, steadying herself, her frosty blue eyes flashing up at me.
For one second, it’s just the two of us, closer than we’ve ever been, her perfume cutting through the scent of pine spray and hockey gear.
And of course that’s the moment the photographer nearly explodes. “Yes! Hold it!” The flash goes off, locking us in that frame: my hand at her waist, her laugh just breaking free as the team roars with approval behind us. “That’s perfect—natural, connected, I love it!”
“Can you stand?” I murmur into her ear, because Sutton’s still clenching my arm like I’m her only lifeline before she gets tossed off a cliff.
“No clue,” she mutters back. “I would love to know how Elle can run around here in heels and make it look like she’s in sneakers, for Pete’s sake.”
The corner of my mouth quirks. I probably shouldn’t find that funny, but I do. Way more than I should.
“Oh, yes!” The photographer claps like he’s just discovered electricity, winking at both of us. “This is the money shot. Fabulous, you two. Thanks.”
Sutton groans under her breath, finally releasing my arm. I should probably let go of her waist too, but it takes me a second longer than it should. When I do, the space between us feels colder than the ice beneath my skates.
The guys are eating it up behind us, hooting and hollering like it’s the best entertainment they’ve had all season. Sawyer cups his hands around his mouth. “Calendar cover right there, Cap!”
Sutton straightens, smoothing her blazer like the whole incident never happened. Except her cheeks are a shade pinker than usual, and she’s very carefully not looking at me.
I, on the other hand, can’t seem to stop looking at her.