Chapter 5
SUTTON
The conference room feels like a tomb after three hours of budget spreadsheets and revenue projections.
My eyes burn from staring at numbers, and my neck has that familiar ache from hunching over financial reports.
The last board member finally shuffles out, leaving me alone with a stack of papers and the lingering scent of coffee.
My phone dings. No, not to signal a text or an email. It’s not even a phone call. It’s my word of the day app reminding me I haven’t even opened it today. Yes, I am that person who buys a calendar and downloads an app because I love input. It’s a strength, so I lean into it.
I tap my phone and the app comes to life. “Nonpareil” lights up my screen, along with its meaning. “That which has no equal because it is better than any other,” I mumble to myself, letting the words sink in as I take in my surroundings again.
Not only do I love reading my word of the day, but I also like using it in a sentence.
Sometimes, I use it when I’m alone just after I’ve read the word of the day and that’s enough.
But when it’s a word that I consider a good one, I hold on to it and try to drop it into conversations and see if anyone else picks up on it.
Nonpareil is one I can do both with…use now and call back, I’m certain, when I’m at my next board meeting. For now, I’d use it as, “Sixteen-year-old me would be in awe to see the woman I’ve become at thirty-five—living a life that is truly nonpareil, unmatched in its joy, strength, and purpose.”
I sit in silence and smile at no one, because even for my complaints I am proud of where I’m at, and so far, where I’m headed, too.
Now, if the board was still here I’d probably use it like this: “You know, when I was sixteen, I always hoped I would be sitting at a board table surrounded by nonpareils—and I am, just not quite the kind I pictured.”
Am I being internally petty? A little. I glance at my watch—7:47 p.m. The building feels different at this hour, hollow and echoing.
The cleaning crew finished a couple hours ago, and even the die-hard staff have gone home to their families.
Just me, an urn of old coffee, and the ghosts of a thousand hockey games.
I gather my papers, shoving them into my leather portfolio with more force than necessary. The numbers aren’t adding up the way I need them to. We’re profitable, sure, but not by enough to feel secure if the new NHL team starts poaching our best talent. And if Campbell or Sawyer get scouted away…
I shake my head, pushing that thought down. One crisis at a time.
As I make my way down to the parking lot, I think about the very real fact we’ll most likely say goodbye to a player, or two, or maybe more once the new team is announced.
I know we have players who are being watched, because we have a good team.
Would I be sad if they left? Yes, especially for the team, and for River City, but it’s the business of it all.
I always want my guys to be their best, no matter where it takes them.
The lot is dimly lit, my heels echoing off concrete as I make my way to my car.
The BMW sits under a flickering fluorescent light, and for a moment I feel a stab of gratitude for something reliable in my life.
My car, my mechanic, and my hairdresser are the three relationships I’ve had the longest, and I cherish the most.
I slide into the driver’s seat, toss my portfolio onto the passenger side, and turn the key.
Nothing.
Not even the courtesy of a clicking sound or a half-hearted engine turnover. Just...silence.
“Oh no. Come on,” I mutter, trying again. The dashboard lights don’t even flicker. “You have got to be kidding me.”
I lean back against the headrest, staring out into the void.
My phone shows three missed calls from Elle, probably checking in about my day.
But it’s almost eight o’clock on a Thursday night.
I can’t call her now and ask her to come rescue me.
I don’t know her coaching schedule, but she probably has an early morning practice.
The rideshare app shows a twenty-minute wait time and surge pricing that makes my accountant’s soul weep. I could call a tow truck, but that means standing in this creepy parking lot for who knows how long.
I’m contemplating my limited options when I hear the sharp scuff of rubber on concrete—for half a second, in my hockey-stimulated mind, it reminds me of skate guards scraping the rink floor.
Campbell appears from the stairwell, almost as if he’s materialized out of thin air using some kind of sorcery.
He’s got his hockey bag slung over his shoulder, dark hair still damp from a post-practice shower.
He looks surprised to see me, then concerned when he notices I’m sitting in a car that clearly isn’t running.
“Everything okay?” he asks, approaching my window. If I’m not mistaken, I think those stormy gray eyes of his are flashing with worry.
I push the door open a few inches, trying to look collected instead of someone who is playing the part of ‘woman stranded in a parking lot at night’. “I’m in the middle of having a small disagreement with my car.”
He sets his bag down and leans slightly toward my window. “What’s it doing?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s on strike.”
Campbell grins. “Mind if I take a look?”
I should say no. I should maintain professional boundaries and call AAA like a responsible adult. But something about the way he’s looking at me—not like his boss, just like someone who might need help—makes me nod. Because at this moment, I do need help.
“Pop the hood,” he says.
I pull the release, and he disappears around the front of the car. I hear him moving things around, the soft thud as he sets his phone’s flashlight on the engine block.
“When’s the last time you had your battery checked?” he calls out.
“Um...” I rack my brain. “I honestly don’t know. I just take it in for oil changes when the light comes on.”
He reappears at my window, wiping his hands on a paper towel he must have had in his bag. “Your battery terminals are completely corroded. I’m guessing it’s the original battery?”
I stare at him blankly.
“How old is the car, Sutton?”
“Six years?”
He nods. “Yeah, that’s about right. Battery’s done.” He checks his watch. “Auto parts stores are all closed now, but I can get you started if you’ve got jumper cables.”
“I...” I feel heat creep up my neck. “I don’t think I do.”
Campbell straightens, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, no problem. I’ve got cables in my truck. Let me pull around.”
“Campbell, you don’t have to—”
“Sutton.” His voice is gentle but firm. “It’s late, you’re stuck, and I’ve got jumper cables. This isn’t rocket science.”
Before I can protest further, he’s walking away, his truck’s engine revving a minute later.
He pulls up nose-to-nose with my BMW, and I watch him work through the gaps of my windscreen, connecting red cable to red terminal, black to black, moving with the easy confidence of someone who’s done this before.
“Try it now,” he calls out.
The engine turns over immediately, purring to life like it was never dead at all.
Campbell disconnects the cables and appears at my window again. “You’re good to go, but don’t shut it off until you get home. And get a new battery tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate. “I really appreciate this. You didn’t have to stay.”
He shrugs, shouldering his hockey bag again. “What kind of captain would I be if I left the team owner stranded in a parking lot?”
There’s something in his tone—teasing but not entirely joking—that makes my pulse skip.
“Besides,” he adds, his grin turning slightly wicked, “now you owe me one.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling despite myself. “What’s the going rate for jumpstarting a dead battery these days?”
“Dinner,” he says without hesitation.
My heart does a little flip. “Campbell...”
“I’m kidding.” But those gray eyes are dancing now, lit with mischief. I dig through my mental archive—nope, I’ve never met anyone with eyes like this. Hypnotic, the kind that could talk you into bad decisions in a heartbeat. I swear I even catch a flicker of blue. “Well. Mostly.”
Do I want to unpack this flirtation? Oh, I do.
I do. I do. But, I also cannot. Nope, even if there is a tiny gang riverdancing its way across my belly at this moment, I have to tear my gaze away, forcing my focus back to the steering wheel.
Get it together, Sutton. With a quick shake of my head, I put the car in reverse. “Drive safe, Campbell.”
“You too, Sutton. And seriously—get that battery replaced.”
As I pull out of the lot, I catch sight of him in my rearview mirror, standing under that flickering fluorescent light, watching to make sure I make it out okay.
The drive home feels different somehow. Charged. Like the spark that jumped from his truck to my car short-circuited something important, like my common sense.
And, of course, I’m blaming Anna and Elle. I didn’t feel this weird buzz before they started their matchmaking nonsense. Now I’m hyperaware of all things Campbell—his laugh, his stupidly nice forearms, the way his name sounds when someone says it.
Honestly, I should bill them for emotional damages.
When I pull into my driveway twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes with a text from Campbell.
Made it home okay?
I stare at the message for a long moment before typing back.
Yes, thank you again.
I pause before tapping my screen once more.
Like you said. I owe you one.
I’ll think of something.
I’m still smiling at my phone when I unlock my front door, and for the first time in weeks, the empty house doesn’t feel quite so lonely.