Chapter 25
CAMPBELL
The lot outside the Renegades Arena hums with game-night energy—engines idling, the faint echo of fans filtering through the concrete. My pulse beats in time with it, steady but sharp, like I’ve been holding my breath all stinking day.
I’m parked in VIP, engine off, headlights dimmed. Waiting.
Ben gave me the green light. Do what you need to do. His words still ring in my head. After everything Sawyer and I handed him—the footage, the statements—there was no going back.
So yeah. I’m doing what needs to be done.
Headlights flare at the entrance, cutting through the dusk. There he is.
Victor Lawson, in his shiny imported car, stepping out like he owns the place. Expensive suit, smug smile. Same arrogance that’s fueled every stunt he’s ever pulled.
I push open my door and climb out of the truck, the slam echoing a little too loudly in the quiet lot. It’s the kind of stillness you only get in places built for noise—like even the concrete’s waiting for the crowd to return.
When his eyes land on me, that smirk widens. “Well, well. Greeted by one Campbell Stockton. What are you doing here? Here to defend Sutton’s honor? Or maybe play hero for the cameras?”
I step forward, jaw tight and every muscle coiled tight. “Making sure you don’t make it past the parking lot.”
He chuckles, low and venomous. “Careful, son. You don’t want to start something you can’t finish.”
“Oh, I already finished it.” My voice comes out cold. Certain.
His smirk falters—just a flicker, but I catch it. And that’s when Sawyer materializes beside me, silent as a shadow, phone in hand. He doesn’t say a word at first, just stands there radiating that calm, lethal energy that that turns defensemen into brick walls and legends.
Victor’s eyes dart between us. “What is this?”
“This,” Sawyer says, voice smooth as glass but just as sharp, “is the end of your run.” He holds up his phone. “We already sent this to the NHL execs. League officials. Every contact that matters.”
He presses play.
From the tiny speaker, a voice spills out into the night—the photographer Victor hired, drunk and confessional, laying it all bare.
The setup. The staged photos. The harassment campaign designed to destroy Sutton’s reputation and mine.
The plan to tank the team’s value so Victor could swoop in and buy the Renegades for pennies on the dollar. Every ugly, calculated move.
Victor’s face drains of color, his tan suddenly sallow under the parking lot lights. His jaw works, but no sound comes out.
“You don’t have a leg to stand on, Victor.” Sawyer’s voice is smooth, but his eyes are ice.
Then, like something out of a movie, engines cut off around us.
Doors slam in succession—thunk, thunk, thunk—a symphony of solidarity.
One by one, the team emerges from their vehicles.
Renegades jerseys under their street clothes, game faces already on.
Sawyer is already next to me, arms crossed over his chest. Owen on my right, silent but immovable.
Then the rest—Ollie, Maxwell, the rookies—all of them forming a wall behind me.
A brotherhood.
Victor spins, taking in the sight, and I watch realization crash over him like a bucket of ice water. He’s cornered. Outnumbered. Out of moves.
“What the…Stockton, what are you doing?” His voice cracks just slightly.
I take another step forward, close enough to see the sweat beading at his hairline. “This is consequences.”
“You think you can—”
I take a step closer, voice even. “Oh, and Victor?”
He freezes.
“This is Marcus Webb.” I tilt my head toward a man holding a camera behind the line of players. “Local blogger. One hundred and forty thousand followers and growing. He’s got the exclusive. So smile pretty for the camera.”
Flash.
The light captures everything—Victor’s pale face, the team standing united behind me, the moment his empire crumbles.
“You can leave now,” I tell him quietly. “Preferably before security escorts you out. Or before I stop being professional.”
Behind me, someone—I think it’s Ollie—cracks his knuckles. The sound echoes like a gunshot.
For a heartbeat, Victor just stands there, ego and fury wrestling across his features. His hands curl into fists. His jaw flexes. But there’s nowhere to go, no play to make.
Finally, he turns on his heel and stalks back to his car, movements jerky with rage. The engine roars to life. Tires squeal as he peels out of the lot, leaving rubber and the stench of burning brake pads in his wake.
Silence settles over us—thick, heavy, charged with adrenaline and triumph. Then Sawyer’s hand lands on my shoulder, firm and grounding. “We did it.”
Owen nods. “Yeah, we did.”
Maxwell steps up, bumps his fist against mine. “We’ve got your back. Always.”
The others echo it—some verbal, some just a nod or a hand on my shoulder as they pass. But I feel every gesture down to my bones. This isn’t just about hockey anymore. It never really was.
This is family.
As we head toward the arena entrance, the noise of the crowd swells like a living thing, the lights getting brighter with every step.
My hand drifts unconsciously to my forearm, fingers tracing the tattoo there—the mountain range with the compass overlay, the ink that’s been with me through every trade, every city, every moment I felt lost.
North. That’s what it always meant. Finding true north when everything else was chaos.
I glance at Sawyer walking beside me, solid and steady. At the guys surrounding us, moving like a unit. And I think of Sutton—her sharp wit, her fearless heart, the way she looks at me like I’m more than just a hockey player with a reputation.
For the first time in years, I’m not just searching for direction.
I’ve found it.