Chapter 10
SUTTON
The zipper on my dress finally gives in with a satisfying zip, and I exhale like I’ve just scaled the Himalayas while wearing my favorite pair of heels.
My normally tidy living room looks like a boutique exploded—shoes tossed across the rug, a half-open lipstick rolling dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table, and two different clutch purses abandoned in the overstuffed armchair because I couldn’t decide which one screamed “competent team owner” louder.
The driver’s due any minute, Campbell’s supposed to be on his way over, and my pulse is already racing like I’m the one about to sing a solo in front of twenty thousand people instead of sipping overpriced champagne under twinkle lights.
The doorbell rings and my stomach flips.
I take a moment to double-check my hair and how my dress swings in the hallway mirror before I even dare open it.
I’m still mulling over an affirmation or two when I realize the person on the other side is Anna, not Campbell.
And she’s standing there with a manila envelope in her hand and her usual knowing smile.
“Delivery,” she says, holding up the envelope. “Owen’s contract, signed, sealed, and delivered. Hot off the presses…or at least ‘damp and outta my sweaty mitts.’”
“Sweaty mitts? That’s a first.” I step aside, grateful for the distraction. “Get in here and please tell me you’re also secretly good at accessories, because I’m losing a battle with this bracelet.”
She drops the envelope on the counter and raises an eyebrow. “Sutton Mahoney, needing help? This is new.”
“Don’t make me beg,” I mutter, holding out my wrist where the delicate silver chain dangles, refusing to cooperate.
Anna takes it with a smirk and fastens the clasp in two seconds flat. “There. Crisis averted.” She studies me for a beat. “You look stunning, by the way. But why are you vibrating like you just drank five shots of espresso?”
I sink onto the edge of the sofa, careful not to wrinkle the dress.
“Because tonight has the potential to be huge. The investors for the new NHL franchise are rumored to show. Which means it’s half party, half interview for a job I didn’t apply for.
It’s a way for me to get in front of them, and stay in front of them. ”
“That is a good thing,” Anna counters. “You like being visible in the hockey community, so staying front of mind is smart. Especially when there is a possible relationship to stoke the fires for. Besides, you’re good at that kind of thing.”
“I’m Southern, talking comes naturally to me. Like whistling.”
“That’s not natural to a lot of people,” Anna says with a laugh.
“I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Help you see whistling is a privilege?”
“Showing me that I’m worrying over silly things, but I’m not. I’m being a bit calmer in my delivery of my anxiety, and not as vociferous as I usually am, so I’m sure it confuses you.”
“What confuses me is that sentence. I can tell you were wanting to throw vociferous in there for kicks,” Anna says as she crosses her arms and eyes me. “Word of the day?”
“Yes, and it’s a good one.” I drag a hand through my hair, careful not to disturb the waves my stylist coaxed into place. “I just…I wish I had a word for the weird feeling I have in my tummy because I’m going with Campbell.”
Anna’s mouth twitches, like she’s trying not to laugh. “You say that like it’s a problem.”
“It is a problem.” I stand again, pacing across the room, the click of my heels echoing too loudly in the quiet house.
My nerves are practically tap dancing, and my feet just decided to join in.
“He’s supposed to be this steady, neutral presence, someone I can depend on without…
whatever this feeling is that has me—what did you say—acting like I’ve done eight espresso shots. ”
“Five,” she says with a nod and a lazy shrug, like she’s on a talk show explaining quantum physics to an audience that tuned in for celebrity gossip. “But eight works.”
I groan, tossing my head back like the ceiling might have answers etched up there in tiny motivational quotes. “I wish I could figure out whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is?” she echoes, one brow arching so high it should have its own frequent flyer miles. “Do tell. Because I, for one, would love to know what has you pacing holes in the floor like a heroine in a Victorian novel who just learned her fiancé kissed the milkmaid.”
I wave a hand, exasperated, like I’m shooing away a fly only I can see. “Campbell’s easy to be around. He makes me laugh when I shouldn’t. He’s kind, respectful, dependable. And tonight, we’re going to walk in together, and the media’s going to spin it, and—”
“And?” she presses, grinning now like she’s already bought popcorn for the show.
“And I don’t know,” I admit, collapsing back onto the sofa with the dramatics of someone auditioning for a daytime soap. “I don’t know, but I’m nervous, okay? And I don’t usually get nervous.”
Anna lets out a laugh, warm and sharp all at once, the kind that feels both comforting and slightly weaponized. “Oh, honey. You shouldn’t be this nervous if you’re going with Campbell. You know him. You’ve known him for a few years now. He’s a friend.”
I nod quickly, way too quickly—the kind of nod that should come with a warning label. “Right. He’s a friend. Totally. Just a friend.”
The words taste flimsy on my tongue, like store-brand soda pretending it’s the real thing. And judging by the look Anna gives me, she can tell.
“Mmhmm,” she hums, drawing it out like she’s savoring the last spoonful of crème br?lée. “Funny how you’re more worked up over going with Campbell than you are about the sponsors you need to schmooze.”
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again, jaw clicking shut like a trap. Because she’s right. And that’s the most terrifying realization of all—apparently, a six-foot-four defenseman has me more rattled than a boardroom full of billionaires.
The sound of a car crunching up the gravel drive makes both of us glance toward the window. My heart skips in traitorous anticipation, the kind that feels like it should come with a warning from the Surgeon General.
Anna smirks. “And speaking of…”
I freeze, smoothing my dress with all the focus of someone trying to iron out not just wrinkles, but feelings.
My hands won’t stay still, restless like they’ve just discovered jazz hands and want to audition.
Tonight’s about the team. Tonight’s about the Renegades.
I chant it in my head like a self-help audiobook on repeat.
Stability. Leadership. Sponsors. Stability.
My heels click against the floor as I pace toward the foyer, each step meant to sound steady and rehearsed. Professional. The kind of woman who can close deals, manage egos, and walk into a ballroom without accidentally confessing she’s suddenly low-key crushing on her captain.
And yet, beneath the polished mantra, there’s that maddening current I can’t quiet: the fluttery hitch of excitement that has nothing to do with hockey or business.
It’s the anticipation of walking into that ballroom with Campbell beside me.
Which is ridiculous. I don’t get giddy. I don’t flutter. I’m not that girl.
The doorbell rings, sharp and final, like the universe has called my bluff.
Before I can even move, Anna swoops past me with the stealth of a woman who’s been training for this exact moment. She yanks open the door, and her smile widens like the cat that not only caught the canary, but got a crown, a throne, and a three-book deal.
And then, there he is. Campbell.
He fills the doorway, tall and broad, in a suit that makes my carefully rehearsed pep talks short-circuit.
The foyer shrinks, my pulse trips, and suddenly all I can think is how absurdly unfair it is that one man can look like hockey royalty and a slow-burn disaster waiting to happen… all at the same time.
“Well, well,” she says, her voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t you look smoking hot in that tux.”
Campbell stands still, like a model waiting for his cue, straightening his jacket with the kind of ease that should be illegal. He’s in a perfectly cut suit—dark, sharp, understated—but it’s the way he wears it, confident and unbothered, that makes Anna’s eyes dance, and to be fair, my pulse skip.
“Evening,” he says politely, his gaze sliding past Anna and landing on me.
And for just a second, the whole world narrows to the way his eyes move over me—slow, deliberate, appreciative without a single word.
It’s not crude. It’s not obvious. But Lord have mercy, it’s enough to make my skin prickle like I’ve just been caught in a summer storm.
My heart betrays me with a thud that echoes in my ears, loud enough I’m half convinced Anna can hear it from across the foyer.
“Campbell,” I manage, my voice a touch higher than usual, like I’ve been sucking helium on the sly. I clear my throat, clinging to whatever composure I’ve got left. “You’re right on time.”
“Wouldn’t dream of being late,” he replies smoothly, stepping inside. His eyes flicker with something warm, maybe something a little dangerous, as they roam over me again. “You look amazing.”
And heaven help me, he does too.
That tux fits him like it was custom-built, every line sharp, every button straining just enough to hint at the kind of muscles no tailor could hide.
His arms fill out the jacket in a way that makes my mouth dry, the broad sweep of his shoulders making him look like he could hold up the ceiling if it ever decided to cave in.
And then there’s the way the fabric skims down his torso, perfectly cut, like James Bond if James Bond had grown up on skates instead of martinis.
“Thanks,” I squeak—no, eke out, like the word itself barely survived the trip past my lips. My palms go damp, my brain short-circuits, and suddenly I’m more worried about drooling than I am about the multi-million-dollar sponsors waiting on me tonight.