Chapter 17
CAMPBELL
The puck hits my stick wrong for the third time in ten minutes, skittering away toward the boards like it’s allergic to me. Ben blows his whistle, and I know without looking that he’s wearing his “What the hell is wrong with you?” expression.
“Stockton! Where’s your head today?”
I skate over to retrieve the puck, trying to shake off the fog that’s been following me around since Tuesday night. Since I found Sutton struggling in that parking lot, since Marcus caught us in what should have been a private moment, since everything went sideways.
She’s been out sick—migraine turned into something worse, according to Elle.
I’ve texted twice, called once. Radio silence.
When I messaged her to reiterate I’d spoken to Marcus and not only got him to hold off on sharing the picture, but promised him another exclusive of some kind, she still didn’t respond.
Either she’s too sick to answer, or she’s avoiding me because of the mess I helped create.
Probably both.
“Again!” Ben shouts, and we line up for another power play drill. Tomorrow night’s game against Rochester is important—it’s the one where the scouts will be right here, in River City, watching—but right now I can barely remember which end of the rink I’m supposed to be defending.
The drill starts, and I manage to make a decent pass to Sawyer before Owen’s sharp whistle cuts through the air.
Not Ben’s whistle, but Owen’s. It’s loud and commands attention, the kind of sound that makes you, and herds of cattle, stop in your tracks.
The kind he uses when he spots something interesting off the ice.
“Yo, Campbell!” Owen calls from the goal. “You might want to see this.”
Several of the guys are already pulling out their phones, skating toward center ice like they’ve been called for a team meeting. My stomach drops. Nothing good ever starts with teammates gathering around their phones.
Sawyer reaches me first, his expression somewhere between amused and concerned. “Bro, you need to look at this.”
He holds out his phone, and my blood turns to ice water.
The screen shows a few images from some gossip blog called Puck Bunny Central.
On the left is a photo from the donor gala—me with my arm around Sutton, both of us looking at each other like we’re the only two people in the room.
It’s a good photo, actually. Professional.
The kind that could have been taken at any charity event.
There’s another one, from the same night, and it’s one I remember being taken: we’re sitting at our table, I’m kissing her cheek, and she’s laughing, waving a red rose in the air, just as the photographer instructed. Harmless.
But there’s another image. This one is Tuesday night.
Sutton and me in her car, her hands fisted in my hoodie, my arms around her, both of us clearly lost in the moment.
It’s grainy, obviously taken through a window with a long lens, and it’s not a picture Marcus would have taken, not from that angle.
Let’s not forget Marcus also doesn’t call his blog Puck Bunny Central—his is called Offside Opinions.
Whoever got this shot was nearby, and not in our line of sight. But, one glance at this image and there’s no mistaking what’s happening. At all.
The headline reads: “RENEGADES OWNER’S SECRET ROMANCE? Team captain Campbell Stockton and owner Sutton Mahoney caught in intimate moments—is this why the Renegades are suddenly winning?”
My hands start shaking.
“Holy…man,” Ollie says, looking between his phone and me. “Is this real?”
Owen skates closer, reading over Sawyer’s shoulder. “Says here they’ve been ‘carrying on a clandestine affair for weeks.’ Has quotes from ‘anonymous sources close to the team.’”
Anonymous sources. My jaw clenches. It’s not Marcus, so I can only come up with exactly one person who might have cried ‘anonymous sources’ and given some reporter a reason to use them.
“Cam?” Sawyer’s voice is quieter now, concerned, using my family nickname probably to ground me, because he knows I’m about to spin out. “This is real, isn’t it?”
I look around at my teammates—guys who’ve had my back on the ice for months, who trust me to lead them into games, who are all staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“It’s a lot to unpack,” I say finally.
“Unpack? How?” Maxwell asks. He’s holding his own phone, scrolling through what looks like a different blog. “Because according to this one, you two were ‘practically undressing each other at the gala’ and the parking lot thing was just ‘the latest in a series of secret rendezvous.’”
“They’re making it sound way more—” I stop, because how do I explain this without making it worse?
That yes, I have feelings for Sutton, and yes, she feels something, too, but we’ve been trying to handle it professionally?
That the gala photo was taken when we had no clue all of this would happen?
That Tuesday night she was sick and I was worried about her?
“Does Ben know?” Owen asks.
Before I can answer, Ben’s voice booms across the ice. “What’s all this about? You guys are in a circle exchanging, what, protein drink recipes and we’ve got a game tomorrow!”
The guys scatter like roaches when they hear his voice, but not fast enough. Ben skates over, his expression already shifting from annoyance to concern when he sees our faces.
“Someone want to tell me what’s going on, why you’re all standing in a circle and chatting away like you have all the time in the world?”
Sawyer hands over his phone without a word. I watch Ben’s face as he scrolls through the article, his expression growing darker with each sentence.
“Office. Now.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it, just turns and skates toward the tunnel.
The arena suddenly shrinks down and feels like a tomb as I make my way off the ice.
I know behind me the guys are trying to act normal, but I can feel them watching me, whispering when they think I’m not listening.
By tomorrow, this story will have spread through the entire AHL.
By Thursday, when the guys from Alexandria show up, it’ll be the only thing anyone’s talking about.
I will my feet to slow down; I feel like I’m a dead man walking or some other kind of analogy. The team leader, falling from his spot right before his big break. Go me.
Ben is waiting for me in his office, the door already closed. The gossip blog is pulled up on his computer screen, but instead of the anger I expected, his expression looks more concerned than frustrated.
“Close the door and sit down, son.”
I do as I’m told, taking my place in front of him and bracing for the lecture.
“So,” he begins, hiking a thumb over his shoulder at the screen, “is it true?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I could lie, claim it’s all blown out of proportion, that we’re just friends and the photos make it look like more than it is. I could even try to blame AI, and an opposing team making fake images in an effort to make us look bad.
But looking at those pictures, even I can see there’s no way to spin this as platonic.
“Some of it,” I say quietly.
Ben nods slowly. “Want to tell me about it?”
The gentleness in his voice catches me off guard. I was prepared for anger, for disappointment, not...understanding.
“The gala photos are what they are. One taken who knows when, maybe on the red carpet? The other, with the rose, was taken right after a photographer asked us to get together for a photo opp. Honestly, not a big deal.”
“And,” Ben continues, looking me square in the eye, “the other one?”
I clear my throat. “The other one...” I run a hand through my hair. “She was sick. I drove her home, stopped to get her medicine. It wasn’t supposed to be anything public.”
“But,” he continues, keeping his line of sight on me, “there is something between you two.”
“Yes.” The admission feels like jumping off a cliff. “I think there is.”
Ben leans back in his chair, and I can see him processing this information. But instead of calculating risks or consequences, he just looks thoughtful.
“Sutton’s good people,” he says finally. “Smart, fair, cares about this team more than anyone gives her credit for. I’ve seen how she handles herself in a room full of men who think they know better than her.”
I nod, not sure where he’s going with this.
“I know I don’t have to remind you, of all people, Campbell, what tomorrow is,” he continues.
“No, sir,” I acquiesce, nodding my head. “You certainly don’t. It’s a huge night.”
“Biggest opportunity of your career so far. You ready for that?”
“I was. Now...” I gesture helplessly at the computer screen, resolving myself to the fact that I probably look like a lovesick puppy for doing that.
I want to make a joke, something along the lines of “Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” but I make a solid choice to not drop in any humor right now.
Ben studies me for a moment, wagging a finger in the air. “Campbell, I’ve been coaching for a long time. You know what I’ve learned? The players who perform best under pressure are the ones who have something worth playing for. Something more than just themselves.”
This man is full of surprises tonight, because that’s not what I expected him to say.
“The question is,” he carries on, pointing to the computer screen, “is this going to be a distraction tomorrow night, or is it going to be motivation?”
I think about Sutton, about how she looked when she was worried about Victor’s threats, and the board’s silent judgement about the way she’s been carrying the weight of running this team mostly alone.
“Motivation,” I say, sitting up taller in my seat and meaning it.
“Good. Because those scouts aren’t just evaluating your hockey skills. They’re looking at your character, your leadership, and how you handle adversity.” He closes the laptop. “This situation? This is adversity. How you handle it says a lot about who you are.”
Things I had not taken into consideration. “What do you think I should do?”
Ben stands up, moving to sit on the edge of his desk, still facing me. “I think you should talk to Sutton. She’s probably dealing with ten times the pressure you are right now. Board members, media calls, people questioning her judgment.”
The thought makes my stomach clench. “I’ve tried texting. She’s not responding.”
“She will, when she’s ready. Until then, you keep showing up—for me, for her, but mostly for you.
If you still hit a wall, my advice is always going to be then you try harder.
Because right now, she’s probably thinking she’s dragged you into something that could hurt your career.
And you’re probably thinking you’ve created problems for her with the team.
” He turns back to me. “You’re both wrong, but you’re both too stubborn and focused on your own agendas to see it. ”
“Ben—”
“Campbell, Sutton Mahoney is one of the strongest people I know. But even strong people need someone in their corner. If you care about her, be in her corner. And if she cares about you, she’ll be in yours tomorrow night. In her way. Got it?”
I stand, feeling lighter than I have since Tuesday. “Thanks, Ben.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Look, tomorrow night you’ve got one job. Tomorrow night is about hockey first. Everything else comes after. But that doesn’t mean everything else doesn’t matter.”
As I reach the door, he adds, “And Campbell? For what it’s worth, I think you two could be good for each other. Just don’t let the noise from people who don’t matter drown out what you know is right.”
I want to hug him, but instead, I shake his hand and leave.
The locker room feels louder than it should—the low buzz of whispered questions, the not-so-subtle glances, the phantom vibration of phones blowing up with gossip alerts. I keep my head down, pretending it’s just another day, but inside I’m a mess.
Tomorrow night, scouts will be in the stands. Everything I’ve worked for is right there, dangling in front of me.
And all I can think about is Sutton. The risk. The fallout. The headlines.
And the truth I can’t outrun: she’s already worth it.