Chapter 11
CAMPBELL
The red carpet hits like a tidal wave, all flashes and cameras, reporters shouting names I barely register. Sutton glides ahead like she owns the place—which, honestly, she does. The woman could probably walk into Buckingham Palace and the guards would step aside like she was expected.
I trail a step behind, letting her take the lead. It’s her night, her territory, and I’m just the guy in the sharp suit who can smile on cue and not trip over a microphone cord.
I’m used to lights, cameras, public eyes.
Hockey gave me that armor—sweaty pads, rowdy arenas, questions lobbed after practice like pucks.
But Sutton? She doesn’t need armor. She is the armor.
She works the crowd like a pro, smiling at every camera like she’s doing them a favor by existing in their frame.
And I can’t help it. I admire her. The curve of her shoulders, the way she carries herself, the unflappable confidence that makes billionaires nod and rookies sit up straighter in their chairs. She radiates “I’ve got this,” and somehow makes me believe it, too.
A photographer calls her name, then mine, and as we pause, Sutton leans closer, whispering through her smile, “Keep smiling. You look like you’re bracing for a body check.”
“Depends,” I murmur back, still holding my grin for the cameras. “Are these reporters tougher than the Bruins’ defense?”
Her lips twitch, just shy of a laugh, and God help me, it feels like I’ve won the Stanley Cup.
We move again, weaving between questions, Sutton’s hand grazing my arm now and then like she doesn’t even notice what it does to me.
I shake hands, nod at familiar names, make the right noises about the team, all the while tracking her out of the corner of my eye like a puck I don’t dare lose sight of.
She’s waiting for me at the end of the carpet, beaming like this is exactly where she’s meant to be. For a second, the chaos fades and it’s just her, just me, and a hundred flashbulbs going off like fireworks to mark the moment.
I step up, offering my arm, crooking it at the elbow in an old-fashioned move that feels reckless and right all at once.
She slips her hand through without hesitation, her warmth pressing into my side as we walk into the Barrington Estate together.
And suddenly, it doesn’t feel like I’m the guy in the sharp suit trailing behind—it feels like I belong right next to her.
The noise of the crowd swells around us, a chaotic symphony of laughter and chatter. Sutton’s laughter cuts through the din, bright and infectious, as someone stops her to chat for a moment. When they excuse themselves, she turns to me, her eyes sparkling like the chandelier above us.
“Okay, Campbell, I need you to work your magic tonight,” she says, her tone playful yet serious. “I’ll be mingling up front, but I need you to float around here and charm the folks in the back. Can you handle that?”
I nod, a grin breaking across my face. “You mean, I should just be my usual charming self?”
“Exactly.” She gestures to the crowd, her confidence radiating like the stage lights. “But remember our secret sign—two taps on the glass if you get stuck in a conversation.”
“Right. Don’t leave me hanging,” I reply, the playful banter loosening the knot of formality in my chest. She’s got that effect on me—turning even a corporate schmooze-fest into something that feels like a private joke.
As she glides away, I adjust my tie, feeling the comforting weight of the suit across my shoulders. It’s tailored, precise, a uniform as much as any jersey I’ve ever worn—a reminder that I belong here, even if I’m not the star of the show.
I dive into the crowd, weaving between clusters of guests, exchanging smiles, firm handshakes, and polite laughter at jokes I’ll never remember. The air smells faintly of champagne and polished wood, and the low hum of conversation rises and falls like a crowd before a face-off.
A few minutes in, I catch Sutton’s eye from across the room.
She’s deep in conversation with a group of guests, her laughter ringing out like music—bright, clear, and just for me, even though I know it isn’t.
That’s the thing about Sutton: she has a way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room, even when she’s lighting up an entire corner of it.
I lift my glass and give it two taps, the crystal singing a quiet note under my fingers.
She turns at once, her head tilting in playful acknowledgment, eyes sparking with mischief.
Her lips curl into a smirk, and I can’t help but return the grin like an idiot who’s just been caught sneaking cookies before dinner.
She leans slightly away from her group, raising her glass in a mock toast. “Don’t get too cozy, Campbell! I’ll need you back here soon!”
I chuckle, the sound coming from somewhere low and warm, like a secret. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I call back, feeling a rush of connection across the room—an invisible thread, pulling taut between us despite the crowd pressing in around us.
I barely get a sip of champagne before a voice cuts in from my left. “You’re Campbell, right? Defenseman for the Renegades?”
I turn to find a man in a perfectly tailored suit, smile sharp enough to slice paper. He looks polished, too polished—like he practices his expressions in the mirror until they’re just the right amount of charming.
“That’s me,” I say, shifting my glass to my other hand and offering a polite nod.
“You are a superstar,” he says smoothly. He doesn’t bother with a handshake, or an introduction, he simply launches right in. “Big night for the organization. How are you feeling about the direction of the team under Miss Mahoney’s leadership?”
The way he says her name pricks at me, but I keep my tone even. “She’s a strong leader. Gets the best out of us.”
“That’s…good to hear.” The man’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something oily underneath it. “And with the NHL expansion coming? Must be exciting. Lots of opportunities for the right people to step up, make their mark.”
“Sure,” I say, wary now. He’s too interested, too invested for someone I’ve never seen around the rink. These kinds of questions are usually coming from reporters, not some Joe-blow at a party.
“But with the Renegades,” he presses, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “don’t you ever wonder if things could be…better? A little more support, a little less—what’s the word—risk?”
There it is. The slide of his words, casual on the surface but bait underneath. My gut tightens, the same instinct that tells me when a forward’s about to fake left and cut right. I don’t like him. At all.
I give him a smile that’s polite but thin. “The Renegades are my team. Always have been. Always will be.”
“Of course. Loyalty. Admirable quality.” For a fraction of a second, his smirk slips, then it’s back, smooth as ever.
“I guess…I’m looking at things holistically.
You’re on a team that over a year ago lost one owner because his family ousted him from his position and now the sister is in charge, new blood to be fair behind the wheel, as a huge opportunity comes to our neck of the woods. ”
It’s not lost on me that this guy is dredging up the fact that Jimmy, Sutton’s brother, had to be pushed out of his seat steering the team, but it wasn’t done for kicks and giggles.
Jimmy had, and was, making a giant mess of the Renegades and everyone—including the board, our shareholders, the team—wanted Sutton to be in charge.
“Well, as a team we’ve had no complaints or issues since Sutton took over, in fact we’re thriving. And as the captain of the Renegades, you can quote me on that.”
The man looks me up and down as if he’s some kind of soothsayer, like he wants to tell me secrets only his ears have heard, but instead, he claps me lightly on the shoulder, the gesture too familiar, too staged.
“That’s good to hear,” he replies as someone nearby waves and catches his attention. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to say hello to someone, but it was nice talking to you, Campbell.”
He melts back into the crowd before I can form a reply, leaving behind the faint stink of smugness and questions I don’t want to consider.
Before I can follow that thread, a booming voice cuts through the hum of conversation.
“Campbell Stockton? Oh wow, it’s really you!”
A man in a suit that’s a little too tight clasps my shoulder like we’re old pals.
He’s flushed with excitement—or maybe just the open bar—but his grin is wide and earnest. “Biggest fan, man. Watched you play all through juniors. That playoff goal against the Admirals? Unreal. You saved us that season.”
I shake his hand, offering a practiced smile. I’ve learned not to deflect compliments—they mean something to the people giving them—but it still feels odd. “Appreciate that. It was a good run.”
Before I can catch my breath, another couple drifts over. The woman is already pulling out her phone, gushing about “how her son has your jersey and would lose his mind over a photo.”
So I smile, I pose, I sign a napkin when someone digs one out of a pocket. The small talk blurs—where I’m from, what I think of the town, whether I like Sutton as a captain. I answer graciously, but my gaze keeps flicking past their shoulders, scanning the crowd.
I don’t see her.
The minutes stretch. More hands to shake, more polite banter. My hockey smile—polished but a little stiff—stays in place, but under it, a restless current runs. I know she’s here somewhere, but it’s fair to say I’ve officially lost track of her.
Finally, as dinner approaches, I catch a flash of golden hair across the room. Relief surges—until I see who she’s with. Someone has her cornered, and he’s leaning in far too close. Sutton’s smile is strained, the light in her eyes dimmed.
The restless current in me snaps taut as my protective instinct takes over. I excuse myself mid-conversation, weaving through the crowd like a hawk honing in on its prey.