Chapter 20
SUTTON
I’m in the arena early, hoping the quiet will give me a head start on the day—and maybe a buffer from the inevitable whispers. Every staff member here has probably seen at least three versions of The Photo by now. Some of them have probably zoomed in. Good for them, I would have, too.
My office feels like the only safe place left in the building. The hum of the mini fridge, the faint echo of pucks hitting the boards during warmups—it’s all background noise I can handle. What I can’t handle is the sharp edge in Sawyer’s voice when it cuts through the hallway.
He’s not laughing. Sawyer’s always laughing.
Through the partially open door, I catch a glimpse of him talking to Ben near the lobby. Both of them look serious—Ben with his arms folded tight across his chest, Sawyer running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Something’s wrong.
I step into the hallway just as Ben pats Sawyer on the shoulder. Sawyer nods once and turns toward the elevator. Then he spots me. The easy grin he usually wears on autopilot? Gone.
“Sutton,” he says, crossing the lobby in a few strides. “Good, you’re here.”
My stomach drops. “What’s wrong?”
He glances down the hall, then gently takes my elbow and guides me back into my office, closing the door behind us. The silence that follows is heavy, like he’s looking for the right words and can’t quite find them.
“It’s my uncle. Campbell’s dad,” he says finally, his voice low. “Bad RA flare. Campbell took him to the hospital really early this morning.”
For a second, I just stand there. The words don’t fully register. Hospital. This morning.
Campbell’s dad.
“Oh no,” I whisper. And just like that, everything else—the photo, the whispers, the headlines—fades into static. My chest tightens. “Is he okay?”
“He will be. But Campbell...” Sawyer runs a hand through his hair, looking uncharacteristically rattled. “I’ve never seen him like this. He’s trying to hold it together, but he’s scared. Really scared.”
I sink into my desk chair, my mind already racing. Campbell at the hospital all day, missing practice, probably running on coffee and anxiety. “Where is he now?”
“Still there. Says he’ll be here to warm-up, but...” Sawyer shakes his head. “His dad was in so much pain he couldn’t get out of bed this morning. Campbell had to carry him to the truck.”
The image hits me like a physical blow. Campbell, strong and capable. Campbell, watching his father suffer and feeling helpless to fix it.
“He won’t ask for help,” Sawyer continues, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told him to call you. But you know how he is—stubborn as a mule. Sometimes thinks admitting he needs anyone is a weakness.”
That sounds exactly like Campbell. The man would rather tape a broken rib than let someone see he’s hurting.
Sawyer exhales, his gaze flicking toward the window, the arena lights reflecting off the glass. “But with everything riding on this game…” He trails off, then looks back at me. “He needs to know his dad’s taken care of so he can focus.”
My throat tightens. “What do you need from me?”
Sawyer hesitates, his expression softening, almost hopeful. “He mentioned a conversation he had with you once,” he says quietly. “Said you understand about taking care of family.”
My heart tightens. I nod a little, urging him to keep going, even though the worry already buzzes beneath my skin.
He shifts his weight, the words coming slower now, like he’s trying to be careful with them. “And I know you two have been…whatever you’ve been. But right now, he could use someone who cares about him.”
I swallow hard, the breath catching in my chest. “I hear you,” I say before he can say more, my voice steadier than I feel. “Whatever he needs, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
Sawyer studies me for a moment, like he wants to make sure I mean it. I hold his gaze, willing him to see I do. Then he nods, relief flickering across his face. “Thanks, Sutton. I knew you’d get it.”
He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before heading for the door. The click as it closes behind him feels louder than it should.
I sit there for exactly thirty seconds before grabbing my phone. I may have been avoiding Campbell for days, may have been spiraling about gossip blogs and board meetings, but this—this is bigger than all of that.
This is Campbell needing help, and me being in a position to give it.
The first call is to my assistant. “Margaret, I need you to coordinate grocery delivery to an address I’m going to text you. Full service—someone to stock the refrigerator, prepare some easy meals, make sure there’s coffee and whatever else a household might need.”
“Of course. Anything specific?”
“Comfort food. Things that are gentle on the stomach and easy to prepare. And make sure they include instructions.”
“I’ll handle it personally.”
The second call is harder—a private nursing service I’ve used for board members’ families. It’s expensive, but that’s not the point.
“I need someone available for in-home care assistance, possibly starting this evening. Rheumatoid arthritis patient, recent flare-up. Just someone to be there overnight, help with medications, call for help if needed.”
“We can have someone there within two hours.”
The third call is to my doctor, asking for referrals to the best rheumatologists in the area. Because Campbell’s father deserves better than whatever overworked hospital physician he’s been seeing.
I’m in the middle of coordinating everything when my phone buzzes with a notification. Against my better judgment, I glance at it.
Another article. This one from a different gossip site, with a headline that makes my stomach drop: “Cougar on the Prowl: How Renegades Owner Sutton Mahoney Bags Her Young Captain.”
I shouldn’t read it. I know I shouldn’t.
I read it anyway.
The article is vicious in a way that feels personal, analyzing everything from our “significant age gap” (which is five years—I’m thirty-five, he’s just about to turn thirty) to my family’s money to Campbell’s “obvious ambition.” It speculates about what I’m offering him in exchange for his attention, suggests that I’m using my position to manipulate a younger, financially vulnerable player.
“Sources close to the team suggest Mahoney has been targeting Stockton since he joined the roster, using her authority to create situations where he felt obligated to spend time with her. The gala photos show a young man clearly uncomfortable with his boss’s advances, while the recent parking lot images capture what appears to be Mahoney initiating unwanted physical contact. ”
I feel sick. Actually, physically sick. I would have thought some of this would start dying down by now, that they’d move on to a new story, a new scandal of some sort.
But no, it feels like things are escalating.
They’re making me sound like a predator, like some desperate older woman throwing money and power at a man who doesn’t want me.
Five years. Five years is apparently a “significant age gap” that makes me a cougar.
The worst part? A tiny, poisonous voice in my head whispers that maybe they’re right.
My phone rings, startling me out of the spiral. Margaret.
“The grocery service is en route, and an assistant from the nursing care service touched base, too. Said the aide you’ve asked for will arrive at 5:00 p.m. and can stay as long as needed. Is there anything else?”
I look back at my phone screen, at the cruel article painting me as a villain in my own life story. For a moment, I consider canceling everything. Pulling back, letting Campbell handle his family crisis alone so no one can accuse me of using it to manipulate him.
Then I think about Sawyer’s words: He needs to know his dad’s taken care of so he can focus.
This isn’t about me. It’s about Campbell having one less thing to worry about on the most important night of his career.
“No,” I tell Margaret. “That’s everything. And Margaret? This stays between us.”
“Of course.”
I delete the article notification without sharing it, without screenshotting it to dissect with Elle and Anna later. Some toxins are better not spread around.
Two hours before game time, I get a text from the nursing service confirming the aide is in place.
Twenty minutes later, Margaret sends photos of the groceries being delivered and stored.
Campbell’s father will have everything he needs, and Campbell can play hockey without wondering if his dad can reach the phone in an emergency.
I lean back in my desk chair, staring at the ceiling tiles that have become my confidants over the past few days. In a few hours, Campbell will take the ice in front of a packed arena, carrying the weight of his dreams, his father’s medical bills, and whatever complicated feelings he has about me.
At least now he’ll know that no matter how messy everything else is, his father is safe and cared for.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from a number I recognize:
Thank you. Whatever happens tonight, thank you.
I stare at the message until my vision blurs. He knows. Somehow, Campbell figured out that I was behind the help, and instead of being angry about my interference, he’s grateful.
I don’t text back. Can’t text back, because what would I say? That I care about him enough to make sure his father is safe, but not enough to risk my reputation by admitting it publicly?
Instead, I close my phone and make a last-minute decision that could help me or hurt me.
I get up from behind my desk and grab my bag and jacket, making my way back out to the elevators.
Spoiler alert: I’m not walking toward the owner’s box, where I would love to spend the next two hours watching the man I’m falling for play the game of his life while pretending we’re nothing more than owner and player.
I’m going home.
I’m not running away, per se, but rather taking yet another stressor out of Campbell’s equation.
He doesn’t need me here tonight to add to the pile on, and as much as I’d like to be close so I can cheer him on, I don’t want to be a distraction of any kind.
Not for the team, not for the stupid board, but mostly not for him.
At least this way, I can breathe a little easier knowing that whatever happens on the ice, I helped him get there with one less burden on his shoulders. One less thing weighing on the shoulders of someone who carries enough already.
Even if the world thinks I’m the predator for caring.