Chapter 23
CAMPBELL
By the time the weekend is almost over, Dad’s finally looking like himself again. The swelling in his hands has gone down, the gray pallor has faded from his face, and he’s moving around the house without that careful, pained precision that always makes my chest tight with worry.
The nurse aide Sutton had kindly hired for us left this morning after confirming his levels are stable. The house feels quiet without Patricia’s efficient presence, but it’s a good quiet. Normal quiet.
I’m in the kitchen making coffee when Dad shuffles in, wearing his favorite flannel shirt and the slippers I bought him last Christmas. He looks better than he has in days, but there’s something in his expression that suggests this isn’t a casual morning coffee run.
“Morning. Sleep good?”
Dad shrugs, sniffing the air. “That coffee smells good.”
“I can take a hint.” I grab his mug and put it on the table in his favorite spot.
He gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s something behind it—something waiting. Not pain, exactly, but a weight. A decision he’s already made. I feel it in my gut before he even opens his mouth.
He settles into his chair, curling his hands around the mug like he needs the warmth for what’s coming.
“We need what my mother would call a ‘come to Jesus’ moment,” he says.
“Uh…” I pause with amusement, the coffee pot halfway to his mug. “Everything okay? Are you feeling—”
“I’m fine, Cam.” He nods in the direction of where I usually sit at our table. “Sit down.”
The stern tone in his voice gets my attention. I pour his coffee, add the cream he likes, and take the chair across from him.
“You’ve been moping around here for three days,” Dad says without preamble. “Ever since you came home from that woman’s house after your big game. So either you’re having the world’s longest celebration hangover, or something’s eating at you.”
I stare into my coffee mug. “I’ll be fine.”
He narrows his eyes. “And what, may I ask, does Sutton think?”
Funny enough, hearing him, of all people, say her name does something painful to my chest.
“We’re in a gray area, I don’t know.” I throw my hands in the air. “We could be on a break. To be honest, I saw her that night for a minute. We were in the middle of talking about us or lack thereof, when the nurse aide called, and...”
He nods his head in understanding. “And you had to get back to me.”
“You were having an episode,” I murmur. “Like, I shouldn’t be there talking to her when you were here and—”
“Oh, the guilt. I get it.” Dad holds up a hand to stop me. “But, using me as an excuse is not good enough. Start from the top and tell me what happened.”
The whole story spills out—the conversation at her house, her conviction that she’s bad for my career, the way she looked at me like I was some fragile thing that needed protecting from the big bad world.
“She thinks I can’t handle the pressure,” I finish. “Like I’m some kid who’ll crumble the second people start asking questions about our relationship.”
Dad nods slowly, processing. “And you’re angry about that.”
“Frustrated. She’s making decisions for both of us, deciding what’s best for me without asking what I want.”
“What do you want?”
The question hangs in the air between us. What do I want? I want it all, that’s what.
“Her,” I say finally. “I want to try. I want to see if we can make it work despite the way things are stacking up. I want to stop being so scared of everything.”
Dad takes a careful sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving my face. “You know what I think your real problem is?”
“What?”
“You’ve been hiding behind me.”
The words hit like a slap. “What does that mean?”
“Tone,” Dad says mildly when my words come out more bark than a calm question. “And you know exactly what it means. Ever since I got diagnosed, you’ve used taking care of me as an excuse to avoid taking some risks. To avoid going after what you really want.”
“That’s not—”
“I’m not saying you’re avoiding all of them, but you are being selective.
” He leans forward, his voice gentle but relentless.
“When was the last time you did something just for you? When was the last time you made a decision based on what Campbell wanted, not what Campbell thought everyone else around him needed or expected?”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because he’s right, and we both know it.
“Son, I love you for wanting to take care of me. But I won’t be the reason you waste your life being afraid.”
“I’m not afraid—”
“You’re terrified.”
Dad’s smile is soft and sad, the kind that comes from knowing too much. “You’re terrified of leaving me. Of failing. Of wanting something so badly it might actually break you if you lose it.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he slices a hand through the air. The movement is swift, sharp, and certain. “I said if, not when.”
The word hangs between us, simple but heavy. I stare at the lines on his face, at the quiet strength there, and something in me twists. The truth of it sinks into my chest like a stone I didn’t know I was carrying.
“What if I can’t handle it all?” My voice cracks before I can stop it. “The NHL pressure. Being away from you. A relationship with someone like Sutton. What if it’s too much?”
He leans back, eyes steady, the ghost of a grin pulling at his mouth. “What if it isn’t? What if you’re stronger than you think? And what if I’m tougher than you give me credit for?”
A lump rises in my throat, and for a second, I can’t look at him. Because this isn’t just permission—it’s a letting go. And I’m not sure which one of us it’s harder for.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a text. I glance at it, see that’s it Ben, and my stomach drops.
Alexandria scouts want to meet tomorrow. 2 PM at the team facility. This is it, kid.
Dad must see something in my expression because he asks, “What is it?”
“Meeting with Alexandria. Tomorrow.” I set the phone down with shaking hands. “The Dominion wants to talk.”
“The Dominion, huh?” Dad nods. “I like it. Good name for a team. The Alexandria Dominion. And they want to talk to you.” He claps his hands together. “That’s good news.”
I look at him, this man who raised me to be strong but who’s been struggling with a disease that’s stealing pieces of him every day. “They’ll want me in Alexandria full time.”
“Then you go.”
“Dad—” I could stay here and be on the Renegades. There’s nothing wrong with that choice at all. I think about Ollie and his happiness with his decision to stay in River City and play for the Renegades. No desire to move up, because he’s content.
“You go,” he repeats firmly. “You take the opportunity you’ve worked your whole life for and don’t look back.”
“I’d be leaving you alone.”
“Campbell.” His voice cuts through my spiral. “I’ve been managing this disease for a long time now. I’ve got doctors, medications, a support system. I’ve got Sawyer checking on me, neighbors who bring casseroles, and a son who’s taught me that I’m stronger than I thought I was.”
“But what if—”
“What if what? What if the world blows up? What if we all wake up tomorrow and no one even remembers ice hockey is a sport? What if…nothing. You think I want to be the reason you don’t chase your dreams?
You think your mother would want that?” His eyes get that soft look they always do when he mentions Mom.
“She’d tan both our hides if she thought we were letting fear of the future and what it ‘might hold’ make our decisions. ”
I know he’s right: Mom would have never let anyone make excuses, never accepted what if as a reason not to try.
“Besides,” Dad continues, “Alexandria’s what, two hours away? You could come home on days off. Bring that woman of yours around for dinner, if she’ll still have you after you figure out how to stop being an idiot about it.”
“She’s not—we’re not—”
“I may be sick, but I’m not blind. You light up when you talk about her. And from what Sawyer told me about everything she did during my emergency, she cares about you, too.”
Speaking of, my phone buzzes again. This time it’s Sawyer.
I did that favor you asked me to do the other night, and I’ve got intel for ya. When can I swing by?
Intel. He needs to step away from the procedural dramas he’s been watching all the time. I text Sawyer back:
Come over now if you can.
“You know what you need to do,” Dad says, watching me type.
“What’s that?”
“Put that phone down and go fight for what you want. Go get the woman, the life you actually deserve.” He reaches across and squeezes my hand with his swollen fingers. “Your mom and I didn’t raise you to be a coward, Campbell. Don’t start now.”
Twenty minutes later, Sawyer’s at our kitchen table with his phone out, looking like he’s about to deliver state secrets.
“So, I cornered that event photographer in the parking lot before he could leave the other night just like you wanted me to do.” Sawyer grins like he’s just won the lottery.
My pulse picks up, while my dad frowns.
“You cornered someone?” Dad asks.
I quickly fill my father in on the other night; how I’d found Victor in the corridor harassing some of the Renegades employees, but had first caught him in an unscrupulous position with a certain photographer in the parking lot.
“I was distracted dealing with Victor, so I had Sawyer see if he could catch up with the photographer and get him to clarify some things.”
“Yeah…and?”
“Well, turns out photographers get real chatty when they think they might be in trouble for trespassing on private property.” Sawyer taps his phone screen.
“Especially when they’ve been drinking and their judgment’s a little impaired, and they get circled by four or five hockey players on a winning buzz. ”
He holds up his phone, showing me a video file. “Want to see what our friend had to say when I asked him about his relationship with Victor Lawson?”
Dad leans forward, interested despite himself. “You recorded him? Brilliant.”
“Public parking lot, no expectation of privacy,” Sawyer says with a shrug. “Plus, the guy was practically bragging about it once he started talking.”
He presses play, and a voice fills our small kitchen, slightly slurred but perfectly audible: “Victor? Yeah, man, that guy’s been paying me for weeks.
Started right after that gala thing. Said he wanted documentation of any inappropriate interactions between the team owner and the Renegades players.
Paid me five hundred for the parking lot shots outside the pharmacy alone. ”
Sawyer’s voice comes through the speaker: “So Victor Lawson specifically asked you to follow Sutton Mahoney and Campbell Stockton?”
“Not just asked, man. Commissioned. Like, gave me a whole list of places they might be, times they might be together. Said he was doing it for the good of the team or some corporate bullcrap. Easy money, you know?”
“Good of the team?” Sawyer asks.
The guy snorts. “Yeah. Turns out he’s trying to buy the Renegades. Figured if he could make the current owner look bad, it’d clear the way. Promised me my own corporate box, too, if I helped him.”
The recording continues for another minute, with the photographer detailing payments, specific instructions from Victor, even admitting that some of the anonymous sources quoted in the gossip blogs were actually Victor feeding him information to pass along to reporters.
When it ends, our kitchen falls silent.
“Holy…” I start to breathe.
“Language,” Dad says automatically, cutting me off, his expression grim. “That man orchestrated an entire slander campaign against Sutton.”
“Every article, every blog post, every piece of speculation about all of it,” Sawyer confirms. “It all traces back to Victor paying this guy and feeding information to gossip sites.”
I stare at Sawyer’s phone, my mind racing. “This changes everything.”
“Because of Sutton?”
I nod. “She thinks she’s protecting me from legitimate media scrutiny.
She thinks the questions about our relationship are natural consequences of dating the boss.
” I stand up, pacing to the window. “But not when the scandal’s been conjured up.
This is the proof we needed that Victor created this whole narrative to damage her reputation and create problems for the team. ”
“To lower the value so he could swoop in and make a play,” Sawyer finishes.
Dad nods slowly. “So the woman you care about is sacrificing her happiness based on lies all while trying to protect everything she and her family have ever worked for.”
“Exactly.” I turn back to face them. “To be fair, Victor’s manufactured crisis feels real when you’re in the middle of it. But he’s planted every horrible word, every little whispered secret and rumor has come from his lips.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Sawyer asks.
I look at the phone containing the magical silver bullet of a confession, then at Dad, who’s watching me with that expression that says he already knows what I’m going to say.
“I’m going to listen to some advice a very wise man once gave me, and I’m going to fight for her,” I say. “I’m going to show her the truth, and then I’m going to prove that we’re worth more than Victor’s schemes.”
Dad smiles, the first real smile I’ve seen from him since his flare-up. “That’s my boy.”