Chapter 21
CAMPBELL
Game days always feel different. The air’s sharper, the ice hums louder under my skates, and every muscle in my body buzzes like it’s had three Red Bulls before puck drop. But tonight? Tonight isn’t just a game.
I can feel it before I even see them. The energy in the arena is different—charged, like the whole place is holding its breath.
The crowd’s bigger than usual, louder, too; a sea of jerseys and foam fingers and kids pressing their palms against the glass.
Every time my blades cut into the ice, the sound ricochets back at me, echoing in a way that makes my heart hammer harder.
Then I glance up and spot them. Third row, dead center. Sharp suits, clipboards balanced on their knees, eyes trained on every stride I take. Watching me like I might be the answer to their team’s prayers.
And I want to look higher—to the owner’s box, to where I know Sutton’s sitting.
I want that one second of connection, to see her looking back at me, to steal a hit of calm before the chaos starts.
But I don’t. If I see her, I’ll think about her instead of the game, and I can’t afford that.
Not tonight. So I keep my eyes forward, pretending the ice is all that matters, even when I know she’s up there.
No pressure.
The ref blows the whistle, the puck drops, and it’s like flipping a switch.
Instinct takes over. My stick connects, clean, the puck sliding into possession, and the crowd erupts.
The sound hits me like a wave—cheers, stomps, the low rumble of drums from the fan section.
It’s chaos, but it’s my chaos, the kind I know how to skate through.
I’m dialed in. Every pass is tape-to-tape, every check rattles through my shoulders and back like electricity.
My legs burn, lungs scream, but it feels good—earned.
Every drill, every 5:00 a.m. skate, every bruise from years of grinding it out funnels into this moment.
I’m a machine out here, and nothing else exists except ice, puck, and motion.
By the second period, I can feel the momentum shift.
We’re pushing harder, faster. The puck slides toward me on defense, and I block the shot, ricocheting it back up the ice like a bullet.
My teammates’ shouts echo in my ears, sticks banging against the boards, the crowd roaring like it’s trying to shake the building apart.
My chest tightens, adrenaline coursing, sweat stinging my eyes.
I steal a glance at the scouts during a line change. Heads bent, pens scribbling notes, murmured conversation. I try to act casual—like I’m not analyzing their every movement—but my pulse jumps anyway. They’re watching. Every second, every decision.
And, still, I fight the urge to look up. Just once. Find her in the box, see if she’s watching me. I can almost feel it—the pull, like gravity knows her name.
Don’t do it.
I shift my weight, jaw tight.
Just one look.
No. Focus.
If I see her now, I’ll forget the play, forget the game, forget everything but her. And I can’t—not yet. So I keep my eyes locked on the ice, pretending it’s the only thing that matters.
Third period, final minutes. We’re up by one, and the other team’s pressing hard. My body’s screaming, my legs feel like lead, but adrenaline drowns out the pain. I dig deep, intercept a pass, fire it down the ice to clear, heart hammering. The buzzer sounds. The arena explodes. We’ve won.
I’m drenched in sweat, helmet crooked, grinning like an idiot as my teammates slam me on the back. I can barely catch my breath, but I’ve never felt more alive. Victory tastes like frozen air and exhaustion and pure sweetness.
That’s when I see them—two scouts breaking from the crowd, moving with purpose toward me. My stomach flips, fingers twitching as I tug off my gloves.
“Campbell,” one says, extending a hand. “Man, that was an excellent game. We’d like to sit down with you.”
My heart stops. A sit-down. Not just a look, not just a maybe. A sit-down.
I swear, the ice beneath my skates feels smaller than it ever has—like the whole arena has shrunk to the size of this single, heartbeat-shattering moment.
The second scout grins. “We’ve been watching your tape for a while, but seeing you in person tonight? You’ve got poise under pressure. You read the ice well. And that block in the second period? That’s the kind of awareness we want in our system.”
My throat goes dry. “Thank you, sir.” My voice cracks halfway through, and I clear it, trying to sound like I’ve done this before. Like my entire life doesn’t hinge on these guys liking me.
They chuckle, like they’ve seen a thousand players stumble over these words. “We’ll be in touch with your coach to set something up,” the first scout says. “But consider this your official notice—we’re interested. Really interested.”
My heart’s doing slapshots inside my chest.
“You’ve put in the work,” the second scout adds. “Keep playing like this, keep your head straight, and you’re exactly the kind of player we want moving up.” He claps me on the shoulder, solid and reassuring. “Enjoy this win tonight. You earned it.”
And then, they’re gone, weaving through the crowd, leaving me rooted to the spot with my gloves dangling from my hand.
The rink noise fades into background static. The cheers, the stick taps, even my teammates’ shouts blur into one thought, sharp and undeniable.
This is it. Everything I’ve been killing myself for. Everything I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid with a stick and a cracked driveway net.
And the first person I want to tell isn’t my coach, or my teammates, or even my dad.
It’s Sutton.
I glance up toward the owner’s box, grinning like an idiot and wanting––no, yearning to be rewarded––expecting to see her there, a smile, a wave, anything.
But it’s empty. Just glass, empty seats, the echo of cheers bouncing around like it’s mocking me.
My chest tightens. I feel proud, triumphant, unstoppable—and yet there’s this hollow ache. The victory tastes like nothing without her here to share it.
I let out a slow, frustrated breath, gripping my stick a little too tight. Somewhere underneath my frustration is a stubborn, impossible hope—that maybe, just maybe, she’s watching from somewhere else, and we can ride this out together.
The arena’s back exit is quiet except for the distant hum of the Zamboni and the occasional clatter of equipment being loaded.
I push through the heavy door, ready to head home to my dad, when I spot a familiar figure near the loading dock.
In fact, he’s so familiar, I almost break my neck trying to get a second look.
I squint, realizing how I know this guy. He’s the event photographer from the gala who handed us the long-stemmed red rose for the photo. Same expensive camera, same opportunistic smile, same slicked back, greasy hair.
I actually laugh under my breath. Part of me wants to walk over and thank him—if he hadn’t forced that photo, Sutton and I might never have...well, whatever we did or didn’t do, I cannot confirm nor deny at this time.
I’m about to head over when I notice he’s not alone. Victor Lawson emerges from the shadows near the dumpsters, looking every inch the corporate shark in his tailored coat. They’re talking in hushed tones, the photographer nodding eagerly as Victor gestures toward the arena entrance.
I duck behind a maintenance truck, close enough to see Victor pull an envelope from his jacket and hand it to the photographer. Then, I watch as he extracts a serious wad of cash and counts it, stuffing it back in the envelope when he’s done.
Money. Victor is paying the photographer?
It doesn’t take long at all for the pieces to click into place. The “anonymous sources” in the gossip blogs. The perfectly timed photo taken in the parking lot of the pharmacy. All of the sudden influx of rumors and nastiness…Victor’s been orchestrating this whole media circus.
The photographer pockets the envelope and walks away, probably to find his next shot at destroying someone’s privacy. Victor checks his watch, then heads back toward the arena through a side entrance reserved for VIPs and board members.
I wait thirty seconds, then follow.
The VIP corridor is dimly lit, lined with framed photos of championship teams and local sports heroes.
It’s supposed to be restricted access—players, coaches, and essential staff only.
But there’s Victor, leaning against the wall outside the women’s staff lounge, clearly having had too much of whatever they were serving at the VIP reception upstairs.
Two of our female staff members—Jenny from marketing and Lisa from accounting—are trying to get past him to the elevator. Victor’s positioned himself so they have to squeeze by, and he’s making a show of not moving, his eyes lingering where they shouldn’t.
“Excuse me,” Jenny says firmly, but I can hear the discomfort in her voice.
“Of course, of course,” Victor slurs slightly, stepping aside but not nearly enough. “Just admiring the dedication of the Renegades staff.”
My jaw clenches. This isn’t just inappropriate, it’s harassment. And it’s happening in a space where he has no business being.
I step into the corridor. “Ladies, is everything alright?”
Both women look relieved to see me. “Fine, Campbell,” Jenny says quickly. “We were just heading out.”
I nod toward the elevator. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll make sure you get there safely.”
They hurry past, and I wait until I hear the elevator doors close before turning to Victor.
“Lawson.”
“Stockton.” He straightens his tie, trying to look less drunk than he obviously is. “That was an epic game tonight. Though I suppose you had extra motivation.”
I ignore the bait. “Are you lost?”
“Simply appreciating the facilities. Impressive operation Sutton’s running here.”
“This corridor is restricted access.” I keep my voice level, professional. “Board members and VIPs use the main entrance.”
Victor’s smile turns predatory. “Are you telling me where I can and can’t go?”
Oh, the temptation of telling this man where he can go right now doesn’t escape me. But I do park it for the moment.
“I’m telling you the league has pretty strict policies about harassment.” I let my eyes drift meaningfully toward where Jenny and Lisa disappeared. “Funny how quickly things can escalate when there are witnesses.”
His expression shifts, becoming more calculating. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” I step closer, not threatening but making it clear I’m not backing down. “But here’s the thing about hockey players—we’re really good at protecting our teammates. All of them, doesn’t matter if they’re on or off the ice.”
“Is that some kind of threat?”
“It’s a friendly reminder that this building has security cameras everywhere.” I gesture casually at the discreet camera mounted above us. “And the league takes workplace safety very seriously. Especially when it involves minority owners of partner organizations.”
Victor’s face goes pale. He knows exactly what I’m implying—that his behavior tonight could cost him his stake in Alexandria, could destroy his carefully cultivated reputation.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I wouldn’t have to. Security reviews footage automatically after incidents.” I shrug. “But I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a misunderstanding, right?”
He stares at me for a long moment, clearly trying to calculate whether I’m bluffing. Finally, he pushes past me toward the main corridor.
“Stay in your lane, Stockton,” he mutters.
“Always do,” I call after him. “That’s what makes me captain.”
I wait until he’s gone, then pull out my phone and dial Sawyer.
“Yo, Cam, what’s up? You should be celebrating—”
“I need you to do me a favor,” I interrupt. “Are you still here, at the arena?” Judging by the ruckus I hear in the background, I could have guessed the answer, but I still ask.
“Yeah, man. Why?”
“Can you swing by security and ask them to pull the footage from corridor C-7 from tonight? Tell them there was an incident with an unauthorized person in a restricted area.”
“What kind of incident?”
“The kind that needs to be documented. Just in case.” I pause. “And Sawyer? Make sure Ben knows about it, too. Quietly.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
I think about the photographer, about the envelope full of money, about all the ways Victor’s been trying to destroy Sutton’s reputation and hurt our team.
“Yes, but hear me out first,” I begin. “Can you please also try to find the photographer and find out his side of the story? He was walking toward the parking lot, if you head that way now you may be able to catch up to him.”
“Yeah man, of course,” Sawyer agrees readily. “I’m already walking that way. But, why can’t you do it?”
Something like a movie montage flickers behind my eyes: Sutton stranded in the parking lot, needing help.
Sutton in that dress she wore the night of the gala, looking like she could stop traffic without even trying.
Sutton in my arms when we finally kissed—her lips soft and perfect, tasting like the sugary sweetness I always knew they would.
I blow out a breath, my decision already made. “Because I’ve got somewhere else I need to be.”