Chapter 18
SUTTON
Being sick as the team owner is like leaving your phone unlocked at a party—by the time you come back, there’s a viral photo, a new rumor, and a sudden interest in your “relationship status.”
Oh, wait. That’s not a rumor. It’s my life.
Right. Game face, Mahoney. No flinching, no comment, no panic. Just the cool, calm professionalism of someone who definitely didn’t kiss her captain behind a closed door.
However, the second I step foot in the arena, I’m ambushed.
“Ms. Mahoney, a word?”
It’s Harold. Of course it’s Harold. He’s flanked by two other board members like he’s forming a firing squad, their ties crooked with self-importance. Their expressions scream grave emergency. And I think my name is chiseled into the tombstone.
I paste on my best smile, the one that could charm a shark. “Gentlemen. Lovely to see you. Did you miss me that much?”
Harold clears his throat. “We’ve seen the blogs.”
Ah. There it is.
I tilt my head, feigning innocence. “You read gossip blogs now? Harold, I had no idea you were such a DeuxMoi enthusiast. Or maybe it’s Page Six?”
No one laughs. Typical.
“You’re jeopardizing the team’s reputation,” he says flatly. “A relationship with a player—even the suggestion of one—opens us to scrutiny. People are talking. Sponsors are uneasy.”
I laugh, airy and dismissive, while my stomach tries to crawl out through my ribcage. “I assure you, the Renegades are not in danger because I once stood near my captain in a photograph.”
“It’s not the picture from the gala we’re talking about,” Harold says.
I purse my lips together and tighten my core, forcing myself to stand even taller in my heels.
I’m already a kind of tall woman at five foot seven inches, and this little trick not only gives me more height, but it sends sensations of fire and power through my body. Not sure why it does it, but it does.
“Ah, the grainy picture that’s making the rounds. Where it’s assumed it’s me and Campbell in the shot? That picture?”
Harold and his two buddies nod in agreement, timing each bob of their heads perfectly off the other, as if they’d rehearsed it.
“Well,” I say, pulling my phone out and opening up a blog as well.
“This photo could be anyone, really. I see the back of someone’s head, and that could be Campbell…
” I pretend-squint, even pulling the phone close to my face like I’m trying to read its fine print.
“But really, I just don’t know. With all of our crazy fans, and of course AI, this seems manufactured, don’t you think?
I mean, you can’t really tell who these people are, can you? ”
Harold stares at me, as if waiting for some kind of big reveal, but I stay the course of gaslighting this man like it’s my new hobby. I’d spent the better part of last night on the phone with Elle getting my head, and story, straight. It comes down to one thing right now.
Deny, deny, deny.
I wait for what seems like an hour for one of this trio standing in my way to make a move, but when they don’t, I do. “So, if that’s all, I’m going to go do things. In my office. We good?”
Harold shakes his head as he looks around the arena and sighs. The other two exchange skeptical glances, but shrug as they turn on their heels and walk away. I step around Harold, heading to the elevator, but he leans closer. “Optics matter, Sutton. Don’t forget that.”
With that, he walks off, leaving me in the hallway with my smile frozen in place and my pulse hammering.
Optics. Always optics. Never mind that I’ve tripled attendance, landed sponsorships out of thin air, and turned the Renegades into the most talked-about team in the league. One blurry picture and a gossip blog headline, and suddenly I’m the problem.
By the time I make it to my office, I’m seconds away from biting into the emergency bag of chocolate chip cookies I’ve got hidden in my desk. Instead, I find Elle and Anna waiting, like twin guardian angels with worse boundaries.
Elle’s perched on my sofa, laptop open, hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun. Anna’s leaning against my desk, flipping through a glossy magazine she absolutely did not pay for.
“What’s wrong?” Elle asks immediately. “You look like Harold just volunteered to pose for the next charity calendar.”
“Worse.” I drop into my chair with a dramatic sigh. “The board cornered me. Gossip blogs. Campbell. Optics.”
Anna lights up like a cat spotting a laser pointer. “So it’s official. You and Captain Delicious are the talk of the town.”
I glare. “In another life, an alternate reality, that would be fun to hear. But not today.”
“Relax.” Anna waves her hand. “We know. But perception is reality. And perception is that you’ve got a thing for your player.”
“Which the board thinks is a problem.” Elle shuts her laptop and eyes Anna. “That’s why the plan is to deny it all for now.”
“The plan should be that I crawl into a hole and let them find someone else to bother,” I mutter, already rummaging for those cookies.
“Nope,” Elle says firmly. “You don’t crawl. Not my Sutton! You spin.”
Anna nods. “Exactly. This is about control of the narrative. So”—she snaps her fingers—“we spin. We say you’re not dating Campbell, you’re mentoring him. Guiding him. Strong, powerful woman lifts her team up. Inspirational, hashtag feminism.”
I choke on my cookie. “Absolutely not.”
“Fine.” She shrugs. “Then we tell everyone about the feud with Victor Lawson.”
My head jerks up. “Excuse me?”
“Think about it.” Anna’s eyes gleam with mischief. “You and Victor have hated each other since college. If the press thinks you’re locked in a business battle over this new NHL team, no one’s focused on Campbell. You’re competitive, not compromised.”
Elle leans back, considering. “She’s not wrong. Redirect, pull a little smoke and mirrors, Sutton. Give them something juicier to talk about than who you may or may not be kissing.”
I groan. “So my options are: pretend I’m a mentor, or let the world know I’m in a catfight with my nemesis.”
“Exactly,” Anna says sweetly.
“Optics, scandals, fake feuds…” I slump back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles like they might hold escape routes. “Why do I feel like I’m running a reality show instead of a hockey team?”
Elle takes my cookie from me, bites into it. “Because you basically are.”
Two hours later, I’m alone in my office, staring at my phone like it might spontaneously combust.
Seven unread messages from Campbell. Seven.
Hey, are you feeling better?
Saw the blogs. We should talk.
Sutton, please call me back.
I know you’re probably dealing with a lot right now.
The team’s asking about you. I told them you’re fine.
Are you fine?
I’m worried about you.
Each message makes my chest tighten a little more. I keep drafting responses—I’m fine, just busy or Thanks for checking on me—but they all sound either too casual or too formal. Too much like I’m brushing him off or too much like I’m encouraging something I should be discouraging.
I set the phone face-down on my desk and try to focus on the expense reports spread in front of me. Catering costs for the Rochester game. Equipment maintenance. Travel expenses. Normal, boring, uncomplicated numbers.
My phone buzzes again.
I flip it over before I can stop myself.
Game’s tomorrow night. Would mean a lot to have you there.
My throat tightens. Tomorrow night. The most important game of Campbell’s career, and I’m hiding in my office like a teenager avoiding her ex-boyfriend.
I start typing:
Of course I’ll be there. I’m always—
Then I stop. Delete it. Because being there means sitting in the owner’s box where cameras can catch my every reaction. Where every smile, every cheer, every moment of pride in his performance will be analyzed and dissected and turned into more gossip blog fodder.
Team owner can’t hide her feelings as Captain Stockton dominates on the ice!
Is this the face of a woman in love?
I delete the message and set the phone aside again, but the damage is done.
Now I’m thinking about Campbell on the ice tomorrow night, playing his heart out while scouts evaluate his every move.
I’m thinking about how he always glances up at the owner’s box during warm-ups, how his smile gets a little brighter when he spots me there.
I’m thinking about how much I want to be there for him, and how that wanting is exactly the problem.
My computer dings with an email notification. Another sponsor inquiry, probably, or maybe a media request about these rumors. Instead, it’s from our head of marketing, forwarding me a compilation of social media posts about the gossip blog story.
I shouldn’t click on it. I know I shouldn’t.
I click on it anyway.
The comments are a mix of support and speculation, with plenty of both camps getting nasty about it. Some fans think it’s cute and are shipping us with increasingly ridiculous hashtags. Others think I’m a “puck bunny with a trust fund” who’s “taking advantage of her position.”
One comment makes my stomach drop: “Guess we know how Stockton really earned that captain’s C.”
I close the laptop so hard I’m surprised the screen doesn’t crack.
This is what Campbell will be dealing with tomorrow night.
Whispers in the stands, questions from reporters, teammates wondering if his performance has anything to do with sleeping with the boss.
Even if he plays the game of his life, there will always be people who assume it’s because of favoritism rather than talent.
I’ve ruined this for him. The biggest opportunity of his career, and I’ve turned it into a circus.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Elle.
Saw you didn’t take the back exit. Are you avoiding the rink?
I am avoiding the rink. I’ve been taking the long way to my office, using the administrative entrance instead of walking past the practice facility. I can’t handle seeing Campbell right now, can’t trust myself not to do something stupid like apologize or, worse, kiss him again.
Just busy. Lots to catch up on.
Uh huh. Want to talk about it?
Nothing to talk about.
Sutton.
Elle.
Fine. But you’re being ridiculous.
She’s right, and I hate that she’s right. I’m being ridiculous. I’m a grown woman hiding from my own employees because I can’t handle my feelings. I’m letting Harold and his cronies dictate my behavior, letting gossip blogs control my life.
But knowing I’m being ridiculous doesn’t make it easier to stop.
I look out my office window, down toward the parking lot where Campbell jumped my car battery that night.
Where everything started. From here, I can see players heading to their cars after practice, but I’m too high up to make out individual faces.
Campbell could be down there right now, and I wouldn’t know.
Three days ago, I was falling asleep thinking about his hands on my face, his reminder that I didn’t have to do things alone anymore. Now I’m actively avoiding him like he’s some kind of contagious disease.
My phone buzzes with another text. For a second, my heart jumps, thinking it’s Campbell again.
It’s not. It’s Victor.
Heard you’ve been under the weather. Hope you’re feeling better.
I stare at the message, a chill running down my spine. Victor texting me now, today. Like I don’t know what he’s trying to do. He’s circling like a vulture, that’s what, waiting to see how much damage this scandal does to my position.
And suddenly, I can see exactly how this plays out.
The affiliation deal gets “reconsidered” due to “management concerns.” Campbell gets called up to Alexandria—not because of his talent, but because Victor wants to twist the knife.
I end up with a choice between my career and my personal happiness, and no matter what I choose, I lose.
I delete Victor’s message without responding and shove my phone into my desk drawer.
Tomorrow night, Campbell will play the most important game of his life. And I’ll be there, smiling professionally from the owner’s box, pretending that watching him succeed doesn’t feel like watching him slip away from me.
Because that’s what good owners do. They put the team first, even when it breaks their hearts.