Chapter 8
CAMPBELL
The locker room empties out faster than usual after practice, guys scattering to whatever passes for nightlife in River City.
I’m taking my time with my gear, in no particular rush to get home.
Dad’s having a good day. He texted me earlier that his hands felt “almost human”—which means he’s probably tinkering in the garage and won’t miss me for a few hours.
What’s left behind is a rare kind of quiet once the last voices fade down the hall.
Only the steady rush of the shower breaks the silence, Sawyer’s muffled humming drifting with the steam.
Without the usual chaos of twenty guys slamming lockers and tossing chirps, the space feels bigger somehow—echoey, stripped down to concrete, metal, and the hum of tired fluorescent lights.
Damp towels slouch on the benches, the air heavy with that distinct mix of soap, sweat, and disinfectant.
My footsteps sound too loud as I move between the rows, and for a second, I catch myself listening—to the water, to my own breathing, to the kind of pause that only happens after a game, when everything’s been said and the noise finally runs out.
A few moments later, Sawyer suddenly appears at my side. He’s freshly showered and grinning like he’s about to propose something that’ll get us both in trouble.
“Campbell, my handsome cousin,” he starts, which is never a good sign.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“I know that tone. The answer is still no.”
He drops onto the bench beside me, undeterred. “O’Malley’s. Tonight. You, me, Owen, and the new guy, Maxwell. Ollie threatened to come. Just a few beers, share some wings, show the rookie what River City nightlife has to offer.”
“River City nightlife?” I snort, stuffing my practice jersey into my bag. “That’s like saying ‘Antarctic beach vacation.’”
“Hey now, O’Malley’s has character. Plus, they’ve got that new bartender who doesn’t water down the drinks, and I heard they finally fixed the jukebox.”
“Did someone say O’Malley’s?” Owen appears from around the corner of lockers, already changed into street clothes. “I’m in. I’ve been eating nothing but protein bars and sadness for three days.”
“See?” Sawyer spreads his hands like he’s just proven some cosmic truth. “Owen’s sad, but he’s in. And Maxwell already said yes when I asked him earlier.”
Owen shrugs. “I was being sarcastic. Not really sad.”
“Well, not really funny either,” Sawyer retorts as he slaps his back. “But you can still come, sad or not.”
I look between the pair, both wearing matching expressions of hopeful expectation. “What’s the real reason you want to go out?”
Sawyer’s grin widens. “Can’t a guy just want to spend quality time with his teammates?”
“Not you,” I manage with a chuckle, wagging a finger in the air. I know this guy. “You’ve got an agenda.”
“Fine.” He leans back against the lockers, stretching his arms behind his head. “Maybe I want to remind the good people of River City that their beloved Renegades are still worth getting excited about. Maybe I want to sign a few autographs, take some selfies, spread a little AHL magic around town.”
Owen laughs. “You mean you want to show off.”
“Jog the memories of the people that he’s here,” I add, high-fiving Owen.
“I prefer ‘community outreach.’” Sawyer winks. “Besides, when’s the last time you went anywhere that wasn’t the rink, the grocery store, or your house? You’re becoming a hermit, Campbell.”
As much as I wish he was, he’s not wrong. Since Dad’s diagnosis, my social life has consisted of hockey, home, and the occasional trip to Beavertail Diner. Not exactly the lifestyle of a twenty-something professional athlete.
“Come on,” Owen adds. “One night out won’t kill you. And if Maxwell’s going, someone needs to make sure he doesn’t accidentally insult the locals with his Cape Cod charm.”
“Oh please, Maxwell is just fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. I love how Sawyer has always been like a gossipy old lady. “He’s got that prep school confidence that either wins people over immediately or makes them want to stuff him in a locker.”
“I’m worried about the ‘stuffing in a locker’ part of the equation,” Sawyer mutters.
“What time?” I hear myself asking, which apparently counts as surrender.
“Eight o’clock. Gives us time to grab dinner first if you want.” Sawyer claps me on the shoulder. “This is going to be fun, Cam. Trust me.”
Famous last words.
O’Malley’s Sports Bar sits on the corner of Main and Third, squeezed between a vintage clothing shop and a place that sells artisanal soap.
It’s the kind of bar that tries hard to be authentic—exposed brick walls, mismatched chairs, and enough hockey memorabilia to start a small museum.
The crowd tonight is typical for a Friday: a mix of college kids, locals who’ve been coming here since the Carter administration, and the occasional hockey fan who recognizes us from game programs.
Maxwell fits in better than I expected, though he’s still wearing a button-down shirt that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Owen’s already claimed a high-top table near the bar, and Sawyer’s holding court with a group of guys who keep buying him drinks and asking about his penalty shot technique.
“Your cousin’s really something,” Maxwell says, watching Sawyer demonstrate his wrist shot using a beer bottle and an invisible puck.
“That’s one way to put it.” I take a sip of my beer, scanning the room out of habit. It’s a hockey player thing—always checking exits, reading the crowd, making sure nobody’s looking for trouble.
“Must be nice, having that kind of confidence.”
I glance at Maxwell, hearing something in his voice. “You seem pretty confident to me.”
He shrugs, rolling his beer bottle between his palms. “Different kind of confidence, I guess. Sawyer’s got that natural charisma thing. People just gravitate toward him.”
“You’re not doing too badly yourself.” I nod toward the bar, where two women keep stealing glances in our direction. “Pretty sure they’re not looking at me.”
Maxwell follows my gaze and grins. “Want to go introduce ourselves?”
“I’m good here.” I settle back in my chair, content to watch Sawyer’s performance and nurse my beer. It’s nicer than I thought it would be to be out, be normal, not think about medical bills or scouts or the way a certain woman looked at me in a parking lot not too long ago.
Except now I’m thinking about it again.
It’s been at least a week since the battery incident, and I’ve caught myself checking my phone more often than usual, hoping for another text from her.
Which is ridiculous. She thanked me, and that thanking was because I helped her out, end of story.
She’s probably already forgotten about it, moved on to whatever crises team owners deal with on a daily basis.
“Earth to Campbell,” Owen says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You look like you’re solving the mysteries of the universe over there.”
I take a swig of my drink before answering him. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing important.”
Sawyer appears at our table, slightly flushed from his impromptu fan meet-and-greet. “Having fun yet?”
“It’s barely been an hour,” I point out.
“An hour’s plenty of time to make memories, cousin.” He signals the bartender for another round. “Besides, the night’s young, and River City’s finest are just getting started.”
He’s not wrong. The bar’s filling up, the music’s getting louder, and there’s that electric feeling in the air that comes with Friday night possibilities. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe.
Maybe Sawyer was right. Maybe I did need this.
“To the Renegades,” Owen says, raising his fresh beer.
“To showing River City what we’re made of,” Sawyer adds.
“To not embarrassing ourselves,” I contribute, which gets a laugh.
“To new teammates and old friends,” Maxwell finishes.
We clink glasses, and for a moment, everything feels simple. Just some guys in a bar, celebrating another week of doing what we love.
If only it could stay that simple.