Chapter 13
CAMPBELL
The team bus idles outside the arena, diesel fumes mixing with the crisp morning air.
I’m already settled into my usual spot—third row back, window seat—scrolling through my phone while the guys filter on board.
The familiar chaos of an away trip fills the air: Sawyer arguing with Owen about who forgot to pack extra socks, someone’s music bleeding through headphones, the rustle of snack bags and energy drinks.
Ben does his final head count, clipboard in hand, when Elle appears at the front steps. She’s got her coaching gear slung over her shoulder and that determined look she gets when she’s about to spend four hours analyzing game footage.
“Morning, boys,” she calls out, earning a chorus of good mornings and a few wolf whistles that she ignores with practiced ease. She settles into the front seat Ben always saves for her, spreading out her tablet and notes like she’s setting up a mobile office.
I’m back to scrolling through my phone—ignoring emails I should reply to, checking the weather and the local news, reading a text from Dad about his physical therapy appointment—when I hear familiar heels clicking up the bus steps.
My head snaps up just as Sutton appears, looking polished even at seven in the morning.
She’s wearing dark jeans, boots, and a cream-colored sweater that makes her look soft in a way that slams me right dead center in the chest. Her thick hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s got that travel-day glow radiating around her like sunshine, and it makes her even more beautiful.
The entire bus goes quiet for about two seconds—the kind of respectful silence that happens when the owner shows up—before conversations resume at a slightly lower volume.
“Good morning, everyone,” she says, her voice carrying that easy authority she wears like a second skin. A few of the guys call back greetings, and she smiles, looking genuinely happy to be here.
My pulse kicks up a notch. I haven’t seen her since the night.
Since the kiss that I’ve been replaying in my head like a broken record.
We texted once—her thanking me again for being her plus-one, me saying it was my pleasure—but nothing about what happened in the back of that car or in front of her house.
Especially the part in front of her house.
Delicious.
“Owner on board.” Elle looks up from her tablet, wagging a finger in the air. “Sutton’s joining us for this one, boys. Try to keep it clean.”
Sawyer grins from across the aisle. “Define clean.”
“No bodily function stories,” Elle shoots back without missing a beat. “I’m looking at you, Owen.”
Our goalie holds up his hands in mock surrender while the bus erupts in laughter.
I watch Sutton scan the seats, clearly looking for an empty spot. The problem is, there isn’t one. The team fills most of the bus, Elle’s crammed in with Ben so she can be near her colleagues as they get ready for the game, and the only open seat is—
Right next to me.
Our eyes meet across the aisle, and I am witness to the exact moment she realizes it, too. There’s a flicker of something in her expression—nervousness? Anticipation? An apology?—before she squares her shoulders and starts down the narrow aisle.
“Mind if I sit?” she asks when she reaches my row, gesturing to the empty seat beside me.
“Course not,” I manage, sliding over to give her more room. Which is a mistake, because now I’m pressed against the window with nowhere to go when she settles in beside me.
And…she’s close. Close enough that I catch a glorious hint of her perfume—it’s a sense memory that comes to front of mind when I catch the scent.
The smell of gardenias makes me think of spring mornings, red roses at a black tie gala, and sprinkled with kisses that linger like secrets on my lips.
She is close enough that when she reaches for her seatbelt, her shoulder brushes mine and I have to concentrate on breathing normally to get my heart rate down.
“Thanks,” she says softly, as Ben signals the driver to get moving.
The bus lurches forward, and we’re off. Four hours to Pennsylvania. Four hours sitting next to Sutton, pretending I’m not hyperaware of every shift she makes, every breath she takes.
This is going to be torture.
“Sleep okay?” she asks after we’ve cleared the city limits, her voice pitched low enough that it won’t carry to the other seats.
“Yeah, fine.” I turn slightly toward her, careful to keep my voice equally quiet. “You?”
“Like a rock.” She shifts in her seat, getting comfortable, and her knee bumps against mine. The contact sends a jolt of awareness straight through me, but she doesn’t pull away immediately. “I was worried I’d be too wound up after...everything.”
After everything. The way she says it, I know it’s meant for me to hear and to know, because I get it. Everything means the gala. The kiss. The way we left things hanging in the air that night between us.
“Any regrets?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She turns to look at me fully, and we’re suddenly much closer than I expected. Her eyes search mine for a long moment before she shakes her head slightly. “No. No regrets. You?”
“None,” I say, meaning it completely.
The bus hits a pothole, jostling us together. Her hand flies out to steady herself, landing squarely on my thigh. We both freeze, the contact burning through the denim of my jeans like a brand.
“Sorry,” she breathes, but thankfully she doesn’t move her hand right away. Her palm is warm against my leg, her fingers spread just enough that I can feel each individual point of contact, her fingertips along my inner thigh.
“It’s fine,” I manage, my voice sounds rougher than it should.
She starts to pull back, but the bus sways again, this time around a curve, and suddenly she’s pressed against my shoulder, her hand sliding higher on my thigh to brace herself.
I catch the soft sound she makes—half surprise, half something else—and have to grip the armrest to keep from doing something stupid like wrapping my arm around her.
“These roads are terrible,” she mutters, finally managing to right herself. But when she settles back into her seat, there’s less space between us than before. Her shoulder stays pressed against mine, and I can feel the warmth of her body all along my left side.
“You okay?” I ask, because she’s looking a little flushed.
“I’m good,” she says quickly. “The bus is close quarters.”
I nod, though I’m thinking the same thing. The seat that seemed perfectly normal five minutes ago now feels impossibly small with her in it. Every bump in the road pushes us closer together. Every turn makes our hands brush when we both reach for the same armrest.
“Want some water?” I offer, pulling a bottle from my bag.
“Thanks.” She takes it from me, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Such a small thing, but it sends electricity shooting up my arm.
She takes a sip and hands it back, our fingers touching again when I accept it.
This time, the contact lingers just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Do I take advantage of the moment and let one of my fingertips slide delicately across hers, dragging it slowly to the back of her hand, licking my lips? Why is my mouth so dry?
“Campbell,” she says quietly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the bus engine.
“Yeah?”
She looks like she wants to say something important, her lips parted slightly, her eyes serious. But then Sawyer’s laugh booms from across the aisle, and the moment breaks.
“Never mind,” she says, settling back into her seat. “It can wait.”
But she doesn’t pull away from me. If anything, she relaxes into the contact, letting her shoulder rest more fully against mine. And when she reaches into her bag for her phone, her elbow bumps my ribs in a way that feels almost intentional.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the way she smells, the soft sound of her breathing, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. Four hours to Harrisburg.
This is definitely going to be torture. The sweetest kind.
The Grand Harrisburg Hotel lobby buzzes with the familiar energy of game day. Families with kids in team jerseys mill around the marble floors, and I can already spot the die-hard fans who make the trip to every away game, cameras ready, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite up-and-coming players.
Hockey is a popular sport, but the fans love the accessibility of the AHL teams, at least in my experience.
I’ve noticed there’s an ease in their approach with us when we’re at this level, like we’re all in it together.
However, when you’re in the NHL, things do shift.
These same fans show up, but they’ve put in the time with you, watched you come up the ranks.
At that point, they’re expecting you to win.
The team filters off the bus in our usual chaos—once Sutton has exited anyway.
The guys are stretching, grabbing bags, and bless his heart, Sawyer is already complaining about the hotel’s terrible coffee based on the smell wafting out of the lobby alone.
I sling my duffel over my shoulder and follow the crowd through the revolving doors, the cool blast of hotel air conditioning hitting my face.
That’s when I see them. Three women, probably in their early twenties, stationed near the elevator bank like they’ve been waiting all morning. They’re wearing Renegades jerseys—two with Sawyer’s number, one with mine—and they light up the second they spot us.
“Oh, it’s them!” one of them whispers, loud enough for half the lobby to hear.
I brace myself for the familiar routine.
It’s part of the job, part of what comes with playing professional hockey, even at this level.
Most of the time I don’t mind it because these fans drive hours to see us play, spend their hard-earned money on tickets and jerseys.
The least I can do is sign an autograph and take a picture.
But right now, with Sutton walking beside me, I’m acutely aware of how this must look to her. The owner of the team, watching her captain get swarmed by female fans who giggle and bat their eyelashes and ask if he has a girlfriend.
The woman in my jersey approaches first, all confidence and glossy lips. “Campbell! Hi! I’m Jessica. I was at the game last week in River City, drove down with my family. We’re big fans. You were amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the Sharpie she offers. “Appreciate you coming out.”
“Could you sign this?” She holds out her jersey, pulling it taut across her chest in a way that’s definitely intentional. “And maybe we could get a selfie?”
“It’s called an ‘us-ie’ now,” one of her buddies teases while the other one snorts back a laugh as Sawyer signs an old player card for her.
“Whatever,” she hisses back at her companions, keeping her eyes trained intensely on me. “I just want photographic evidence that I was here and met you.”
“Of course we can take a selfie,” I manage with a chuckle. “Or an us-ie, or whatever it is.”
The woman I’m talking to cheers, suddenly on her tiptoes and kissing my cheek. Part of me wants to holler “I did not give consent!” but, for this second, I can go with the flow. We’ll be pushed out of the lobby soon and pointed to our rooms, and then I can focus.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Sutton. She’s stopped near the concierge desk, pretending to check her phone, but I can tell she’s watching. Her expression is carefully neutral, but I know her well enough now to read the tension in her shoulders.
I wonder if this is the moment where she sees what dating a player could be like.
The fans, the attention, the women who throw themselves at athletes like we’re some kind of prize to be won.
This is probably the moment where she decides it’s not worth the hassle, if she was even considering it anyway.
I sign the jersey, smile for the selfie, exchange pleasantries with the other two fans. The whole interaction takes maybe three minutes, but it feels like an eternity with Sutton watching from across the lobby.
When I finally extract myself from the group—politely declining an invitation to grab drinks later—I expect to find Sutton looking uncomfortable, maybe annoyed, possibly reconsidering everything that happened between us.
Instead, when our eyes meet across the marble expanse, she gives me a small nod. Not dismissive or judgmental. Understanding.
She gets it. Gets that this is part of the job, part of the world I live in. That signing autographs and taking pictures with fans isn’t about ego or attraction—it’s about respect for the people who support the team.
The power in that woman, that with one simple smile, she sends relief flooding through my system. The feeling is so intense it’s almost dizzying.
Sutton pockets her phone and heads toward the elevators without another glance in my direction. She’s not fleeing, not making a scene. She’s just giving me space to do what I need to do, the same way she’d handle any other aspect of team business.
As the elevator doors close behind her, I realize something that hits me harder than any check I’ve ever taken on the ice: Sutton Mahoney doesn’t just understand my world—she respects it.
And that might be the most attractive thing about her yet.