Chapter 7
SUTTON
The sharp hiss of skates carving into ice echoes across the cavernous, empty arena, bouncing off the high ceilings and curling around the boards.
Elle moves with effortless authority, running drills with a handful of younger players who begged for extra ice time.
Their sticks slap the ice, pucks clatter against the boards, and the faint scent of cold, slightly metallic air fills my nostrils.
I’m perched in the penalty box, as I have been for most of the past week, laptop balanced precariously on my knees, scrolling through vendor contracts that blur under the fluorescent glare.
I like coming here to work some days. Being on the ice and watching the team makes me feel a part of it, if that makes sense.
Sometimes, being tucked away in that office…
what do the players call it, the Ivory Towers?
Yeah, it can feel exactly like that. Tucked away, on a floor high up in the sky, not connected to the arena and the team. That’s why I do it.
I need to focus on my screen and the numbers floating in front of me, but my attention drifts anyway, caught in Elle’s rhythm—the way she leans into each drill, her voice sharp but encouraging, and the subtle flare of satisfaction when a player nails a move.
Every so often, I lift my eyes from the spreadsheet, watching her command the ice, the ease in her stance, the confidence that makes it clear why the kids respond to her.
She’s in her element out there—calling out corrections, demonstrating footwork, treating these guys with the same respect she demands. It’s one of the things I admire most about her: she never talks down to anyone.
Unlike the phone call I just endured.
“Sutton!” Elle calls out, skating over as the players head to the bench for water. “You look like someone just told you the ice machine is broken forever.”
I close my laptop with more force than necessary. “Conference call with the league office. Apparently, they’re ‘concerned’ about some of our recent PR incidents.”
Elle raises a brow. “You okay? You sound tense.”
“I prefer sonorous,” I say, tossing her a grin.
“Oh stop it, I was in your office this morning and saw that word on your calendar.” Elle laughs, referencing my use of sonorous as she pulls off her helmet and shakes out her hair. “Let me guess—the call was all about Sawyer’s ref situation?”
“Among other things.” I stand, gathering my things. “But mostly it was forty-five minutes of thinly veiled suggestions that maybe I need more ‘experienced guidance’ in managing the team’s public image.”
“Experienced guidance.” Elle’s voice drips with disdain as she steps off the ice. “You mean a man.”
“They didn’t say that exactly, but...” I shrug, following her toward the locker room area. “Commissioner Davies kept referring to how other ‘successful franchises’ have handled similar situations. And every example he gave involved a male owner or GM.”
Elle snorts, unlacing her skates. “Right. Because men never have PR disasters. Tell that to half the league.”
We settle into the coaches office adjacent to the main locker room.
It’s cramped but cozy, filled with playbooks, strategy charts, and a coffee maker that’s seen better days.
Considering it’s usually filled with our head coach, Ben, another assistant coach named Cannon, plus Pete, and any other special coaches we have coming in and out, it’s not half bad.
“Coffee?” Elle asks as she pours us each a cup from what I’m pretty sure is her fourth pot of the day.
“The best part,” I continue, accepting the mug gratefully, “was when Davies suggested I might want to ‘lean on my more experienced staff’ for guidance. Like I haven’t been running this team successfully for two years.”
“Let me guess—he meant Ben?”
“Probably. Or maybe he thinks I should defer to anyone on the board who is male…about everything.” I take a sip of coffee and immediately regret it. Elle’s coffee could strip paint. “You know what really gets me? When my car broke down the other night—”
“Wait, what? When did your car break down?”
“Oh, it was no big deal.” I wave a hand dismissively.
“Happened last Thursday night, after that budget meeting. Dead battery in the parking lot. But the point is, Campbell happened to be there and helped me out. Jumped my car, made sure I got home safe. And you know what? He didn’t once make me feel stupid for not knowing about car maintenance. ”
“Huh.” Elle leans back in her chair, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “Campbell helped you with your car?”
“Yes, but that’s not—”
“Campbell Stockton. Your captain. Stayed late to help his boss with car trouble.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Elle. He was leaving the arena at the same time I was, and happened to find me in the car, not getting it to start.”
“Interesting.” She takes a sip of her paint-stripping coffee like it’s fine wine. “Especially since most men would’ve mansplained the entire internal combustion engine while changing your tire.”
“He didn’t change my tire. It was the battery.”
“Even better. Battery issues can be tricky. I’ve changed plenty of tires in my day—hazard of having an older car in college—but battery problems always made me call someone.”
I set down my mug, studying Elle’s face. “Where are you going with this?”
“Nowhere.” Her grin widens. “Just noting that your captain is apparently the kind of guy who helps without making you feel helpless. That’s...nice.”
“It was professional courtesy.”
“Did he text you afterward to make sure you got home okay?” Elle leans forward, elbows on her desk.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Maybe.”
“And did he happen to research battery replacement options for you?”
I stare at her. “How did you—”
“Because that’s exactly the kind of thing a guy does when he’s interested, Sutton.”
“Or simply being nice,” I counter.
Elle shakes her head. “He was being all helpful and protective, ‘let me solve this for you even though you didn’t ask’ kind of thing.”
I slump in my chair. “He sent me a whole breakdown of where to get the best deal on a BMW battery. With installation options.”
Elle’s laugh fills the small office. “Oh yeah…he’s got it bad.”
“No one has anything bad.”
“Really? Then why are you sitting in my office talking about Campbell instead of the league office trying to mansplain your job to you?”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. She has a point.
“He’s my captain, Elle.”
“And?”
“And he works for me. There are rules about these things.”
“As you have told me since I got here, there are guidelines about these things,” Elle corrects. “And plenty of successful relationships that started in the workplace. Look at me and Dixon.”
“Both of you are professional athletes who had a history.” I roll my eyes.
“But, I was his coach when he finally admitted feelings.” She levels her gaze. “If that won’t work, then let’s look at Anna and Ollie.”
I sigh. Yes, another good example. “First, Anna started out as a personal assistant for Ben, so while she had some connection to the team, it was a more natural flow for her and Ollie. They’d been friends for years before Ollie even made the Renegades…
plus, Anna doesn’t own the team Ollie plays for. ”
“Excuses.” Elle shrugs. “Look, power dynamics exist everywhere. The question is whether you trust each other to handle it like adults.”
I think about the other night. The way Campbell looked at me when my car started, the careful way he texted afterward, the battery research he definitely didn’t need to do.
“He’s younger than me,” I say weakly.
“By what, four or five years?”
“He’s got a lot going on at home, too. We all know his dad has rheumatoid arthritis, and the medical bills are killing them. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here complaining about league commissioners while driving a car that costs more than most people make in a year.”
Elle sets down her coffee, her expression turning serious. “Sutton, has it occurred to you that maybe Campbell doesn’t see those things as barriers? That maybe he sees them as reasons to work harder, to be better?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, from what I’ve observed, Campbell Stockton is ambitious. He wants to be the best, he wants security for his family, and he wants to prove himself. Dating the owner of his current team wouldn’t exactly hurt those goals.”
My stomach drops. “You think he’s using me?”
“No.” Elle’s voice is firm as she crosses her eyes and tries not to laugh.
“That’s not what I meant at all. I think he’s a guy who sees an opportunity to be with someone amazing, and he’s not letting circumstances talk him out of it.
To me, the real question is: are you going to let circumstances talk you out of it? ”
I stare at the strategy charts on her wall, thinking about Campbell’s hands on my car battery, his text messages, the way he made helping me seem effortless.
“The gala is next week,” I say half-joking, but also Elle’s got me along for the ride, so it’s a half ‘what if’ as well. At this point, I can’t tell if I’m humoring her or actually considering it.
“The one where the board expects you to bring a date?”
“Harold practically demanded it. Something about presenting a ‘complete picture’ to the sponsors.”
“Well, well, well.” Elle grins. “If you need to take someone with you, I know a guy.”
“Elle. No. I was being facetious.”
“Campbell cleans up nice. He’s charming, he knows hockey, and he clearly doesn’t mind helping you out of tough situations. Plus, showing up with your captain would send a pretty strong message about team unity.”
“The players aren’t usually invited, this isn’t their scene.”
“Players are like a really good purse. We all have our regular handbags—some are old and worn out, others we treat like royalty—but every now and then, it just feels good to bring out the fancy one. You know, the bag that says ‘I’ve got my life together, and maybe a private jet, too.’” Elle lifts her shoulders, and lets them drop.
“Honestly, I don’t see the issue. It’s a little dash of PR strategy, mixed in with a little goodwill, and it all gives the community a reminder that the Renegades aren’t just a business, they’re a team. ”
I laugh despite myself. “You’re relentless.”.
“I’m practical. And I’m sure you’re also thinking that I’m right.” She stands, gathering her gear, pleased with herself. “Are you brave enough to ask him?”
As we leave her office, I catch sight of myself in the reflection of the trophy case in the hallway.
Shoulders a little tight, hair slightly messy, face probably carrying more “I’ve been cornered all day” than I’d like.
First the league, now my own conflicted feelings—yeah, I look it.
But hey, there’s still a spark in my eyes, a hint that I’m plotting my next move, and if anyone asks, I’ll tell them I meant to look this frazzled.
I’ll tell them this is my “intentionally frazzled” look. Fierce, frazzled, and fabulous.
Maybe it’s time to stop letting other people decide what’s appropriate for me.
Maybe it’s time to take a chance.