Chapter 14
SUTTON
The owner’s box at the Harrisburg Arena has all the amenities—leather seats, catered food, a perfect view of the ice—but I’m barely touching the shrimp cocktail as I watch the Renegades dominate the third period.
We’re up, four to one, and Campbell’s having the kind of game that makes scouts not only take notes, but publish a book about them.
Two assists, solid defense, and that natural leadership that makes the whole team play better.
I lean back in my seat, letting myself take it all in: the roar of the crowd, the sharp scrape of skates on ice, the way the team moves together like a well-oiled machine. This is what I built. What I fought for. The satisfaction should be enough to fill the hollow spaces, but—
My gaze drifts across the arena, scanning the crowd out of habit. That’s when I see him.
Victor Lawson.
Three sections over, partially obscured by a concrete pillar, but unmistakably him.
That same perfectly tailored coat, the way he holds himself like he owns whatever room—or arena—he’s in.
He’s talking to someone I don’t recognize, gesturing toward the ice with the casual authority of a man who’s used to people listening.
My breath catches. For the love of Zambonis, what is Victor Lawson doing in Harrisburg?
He’s not looking my way. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have spotted me at all, good for me—but my mind is already racing.
This isn’t his territory. His interests run to major markets, established franchises, the kind of deals that make headlines.
Harrisburg is nowhere near big enough to warrant his attention unless…
Unless he’s here for a reason that has everything to do with my team.
I force myself to look back at the ice, but I can feel the weight of his presence like a storm cloud rolling in. Victor Lawson doesn’t show up anywhere by accident. He’s here because he wants something, and that something is probably wrapped up in dollar signs and leverage even I don’t have.
My phone buzzes against the glass table beside me, and I welcome the distraction. Anna’s name lights up the screen.
Please tell me you’re not stress-eating all the owner’s box shrimp by yourself.
Despite everything, I smile.
They’re cocktail shrimp. Very sophisticated stress-eating. If I was super stressed, I’d be getting McDonald’s delivered via UberEats.
That’s my girl. How’s the game?
I glance back at the ice, deliberately not looking toward Victor’s section.
Winning 4-1. Campbell’s on fire.
Campbell’s on fire or YOU’RE on fire watching Campbell?
Professionally observing my player and his performance.
Uh huh. Is that what we’re calling it now?
I shake my head, thumbs hovering over the screen. Anna knows me too well, and right now, with Victor lurking three sections away and my mind spinning with questions about why he’s here, her playful teasing is exactly what I need.
Focus. I’m working.
You’re always working. That’s the problem.
I pocket my phone and force myself to refocus on the game. Don’t look at Victor. Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’ve seen him, that his presence here has rattled me. Instead, I watch my team, my players, the thing I’ve built with my own two hands.
Down on the ice, the team is circling their coach, grabbing water bottles and taking swigs as they head back out.
I’ve got my eye on one player in particular.
Campbell glances up toward the box as he grabs his water bottle, scanning the crowd until he finds what he’s looking for.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and he taps his glass twice with his glove before dropping his bottle and heading back onto the ice.
Despite everything going on around us, I smile. Our secret signal from the gala, transported to the hockey rink. He’s checking on me, making sure I’m okay, even in the middle of a game he’s winning.
The gesture shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but right now, it feels like an anchor.
The Renegades win five to one. Campbell gets a third assist on the final goal, and as the team celebrates on the ice, he looks up at me again. This time, his smile is pure victory, and I find myself clapping harder than sitting in the owner’s box probably requires.
I don’t look back toward Victor’s section. Whatever he’s doing here, whatever he wants—I’ll deal with it when I have to. But right now, watching Campbell celebrate with the team, seeing that connection between us acknowledged even in this public space…
That’s enough for me.
The hotel’s elevator hums quietly as I press the button for the fifteenth floor, a small bag of dessert left over from dinner with the opposing team’s owner in my hand.
Eleanor Morrison had insisted on taking me to her favorite Italian place—a business dinner that turned into serious girl talk about running teams in a league full of men who think we’re playing dress-up.
I glance at my watch; Elle’s expecting me.
We’d planned to debrief the game over tiramisu and wine, the kind of post-victory celebration that happens away from the media and the players.
I let myself relax against the back of the elevator and start getting excited about sliding into my pajamas as the elevator door begins to close.
They’re almost shut when a hand shoots out to stop them.
Campbell steps inside, still in his game-day suit but with his tie loosened and his hair mussed from the post-game shower. He looks like victory and exhaustion and something else I can’t quite name. Rhymes with hex.
“Hey,” he says, pressing the button for his floor—which, I realize with a jolt of awareness, is two floors below mine.
“Hi.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Great game tonight.”
“Thanks.” He leans against the wall opposite me, but the elevator’s small enough that we’re still close. Close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of arena soap. “Saw you in the owner’s box. You looked...”
“What?”
“Worried. During the second intermission.”
My chest tightens. Of course he noticed. Even in the middle of the biggest game of his season, he’s the kind of man who would.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say quietly. “Work stuff.”
Campbell’s expression shifts, becoming softer. “You sure?”
“It’s nothing major.” I adjust my grip on the dessert bag. “I saw Victor at the game. He’s here.”
“In Harrisburg?”
“Yeah, which is odd.” I shrug, trying to seem casual about it. “But, I’m sure we’ll see soon enough why he’s here. Who knows? Not me.”
The elevator climbs steadily—eighth floor, ninth, tenth. Campbell doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching me with that intense focus he usually reserves for analyzing plays.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just...” He runs a hand through his hair. “You. You and your confident, polished self.”
The elevator dings softly—thirteenth floor, fourteenth. Almost to his stop. When we get there, the doors open and they close, and he stays where he is. Rooted in front of me.
“Campbell—”
He pushes off the wall and steps closer as the car ascends again. “Yeah?”
I should step back. Maintain professional distance. Remember that Elle’s waiting for me upstairs and that we’re in a hotel elevator where anyone could see us.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am.
“We shouldn’t,” I whisper, even as he reaches up to cup my face with one hand.
“You can be in charge outside of the elevator, okay?” He leans in, slowly traces a line with the tip of his nose from my ear to my cheek, moving ever so slowly as he stops himself right when his lips reach mine, inches away. “In here, let me lead.”
“I don’t know about this…” The words come from my mouth, but let’s be honest, I’m in a paralyzed trance, almost as if my body is floating above us, looking down and watching this happen to me. If it were a TV show, I’d be cheering this man on.
“Yet here we are,” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with something that sounds suspiciously like surrender as his mouth lands on mine.
This kiss isn’t a question. It’s a claim. And this one burns hotter, hungrier. His lips move with purpose—soft, sure, tasting like mint and victory and a man who knows exactly what he wants.
The dessert bag slips from my fingers, forgotten, thunking into the corner as my hands slide up his chest. The fabric of his dress shirt strains under my palms, warm from his body heat, and I feel the solid muscle beneath. Steady, strong, real.
He exhales sharply, the sound rumbling in his chest before he deepens the kiss, mouth slanting over mine with unrestrained need.
One of his hands cups my jaw, thumb sweeping across my cheek, while the other settles firmly at my waist. He pulls me closer until I can feel his heartbeat pounding through both of us, until the only thing keeping me upright is the heat of his body and the way he’s holding me like he can’t bear to stop.
The elevator hums around us, but it feels like it’s us moving—spinning, lifting, tumbling. My breath catches when he groans softly, the sound low and raw, and I swear my knees nearly give out.
The ding of the fifteenth floor slices through the moment. We break apart, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the charged silence. His hair is mussed from my fingers, his tie askew, lips deliciously swollen. I probably look like a woman who’s been kissed senseless…because I am.
“This is my floor,” I manage, voice unsteady and whisper-thin.
“It is.” But he doesn’t move away from me. Instead, much to my shock, he reaches out and hits the emergency stop for the elevator and looks at me.
“What are you doing?”
“Whatever’s going on with Lawson or the new team, or all the constant decisions you’re juggling…
I want you to know, you can come and talk to me about it.
It’s a lot to hold so much in, eventually things start to seep out.
” He wraps his arm around my waist tightly and pulls me into his chest. “If I have my way, I’ll be someone you trust to share those things with, but I know it’ll take time. Just know I’m here.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, because they’re exactly what I needed to hear.
He noticed. Not just that Victor was there, but that it’s been weighing on me.
That behind the owner’s box and the confident decisions, I’m calculating risks and running scenarios and wondering what Victor wants badly enough to show up in Harrisburg.
That it’s not only about Victor, it’s about more: it’s about taking care of my team, my people. My Renegades.
I want to wrap my arms around him, stay right here and talk more, but I have to say pulling the emergency stop in an elevator where we’re surrounded by press and prying eyes, not Campbell’s smartest move today. “I should go. Elle’s waiting.”
“I know.” He picks up the dessert bag and hands it to me, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
“But think about it, okay?” He taps the button and the doors slide open.
“I get that you have deals to navigate, decisions to make—all the owner stuff. But whatever he’s circling around for, it stresses you out.
So, feel free to unload sometime, okay?”
I step out of the elevator on unsteady legs, turning back to look at him as the doors begin to close.
“Campbell?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He leans out the doors and looks around, a devilish grin on his lips. “For the making out in the elevator or winning the game?”
“A little of both,” I chuckle. “But mostly for tonight. For checking on me during the game.”
His smile is soft and genuine as he reaches out his hand to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. He looks around once more before kissing my cheek. “Anytime.”
The doors close, and I’m left standing in the hallway, dessert bag in hand, my lips still tingling from his kiss and my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
Elle’s going to take one look at me and know exactly what happened.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t mind being that transparent.
I’m still smiling when I hear footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Victor Lawson rounds the corner.
My stomach drops. Of course he’s here. Because apparently the universe can’t let me have five uninterrupted seconds of post-makeout bliss.
He doesn’t say anything at first, he simply lets his gaze skim over me—hair, lips, the bag clutched to my chest like a lifeline. It’s all the confirmation he needs, and the smug tilt of his mouth tells me he knows it. Or at least thinks he does.
“Well, I thought I heard voices,” he finally says, voice silk and smoke. “You look like you’ve been busy tonight.”
I tug at my blazer, willing my cheeks to cool, wishing I didn’t feel like I had “Just kissed Campbell Stockton” stamped across my forehead. “It was a long night. I’m tired.”
Victor hums, the sound low and knowing, like he’s filing this away to pull out later. He taps the down arrow and stands, waiting for the elevator to reappear.
“Thought I heard your captain a moment ago,” he says, somehow making the question sound like a threat.
“Mmmm.” Yep. That’s my formal reply, because I really do not know what to say.
We stand this way for what feels like all eternity but in reality was probably a few seconds.
The silence stretches just long enough for my skin to prickle, and honestly, why am I choosing to not walk away right now?
No, it seems I’m frozen. Like a statue, but I’m holding myself up and keeping my posture perfect, because I’m still me.
And I do not want to run away from this man like I was the one who was doing something horrible.
Then the elevator dings.
Victor glances at it, then back at me, his smirk deepening. Without another word, he strolls inside.
The doors slide shut, leaving me alone in the hallway with dessert, kiss-swollen lips, and the sinking certainty that Victor Lawson never misses a thing.
That kiss? It tasted like spring mornings and roses.
This moment now? Well, it feels like storm clouds are gathering.