Chapter 26
SUTTON
I hover outside the press room doors, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Through the small window, I can see the familiar faces of local sports reporters, a few national correspondents, bloggers with their phones recording everything.
The same people who’ve been dissecting my personal life for weeks.
Eighteen hours ago, Elle and Gavin convinced me to stop hiding. Six hours ago, I made the decision to come to tonight’s game. Two hours ago, I watched Campbell play like a man possessed, scoring three goals that had the arena on its feet and scouts taking frantic notes.
Now I’m about to walk into that press room and either save my relationship or destroy my reputation.
Possibly both.
Ben’s wrapping up a question about the power play when I push through the doors.
The room goes dead silent. It’s the kind of silence that reminds me of walking outside after a huge snowstorm, when all the world is muffled and you feel like a lone alien in your backyard staring at the vast white tundra around you.
Every head turns toward me, some slowly, some snap quickly, while cameras swivel in my direction, and I can practically see the reporters’ minds racing.
Sutton Mahoney. In the press room. After weeks of radio silence.
This is about to get interesting.
Ben spots me and his eyebrows raise slightly, but his expression remains neutral. “Ms. Mahoney has joined us,” he says simply, stepping back from the podium.
I walk to the front of the room on legs that feel steadier than they have any right to, my heels clicking against the floor in the sudden quiet. When I reach the podium, I adjust the microphone and look out at the sea of faces—some curious, some predatory, all waiting.
“I know you have questions,” I begin, my voice carrying clearly through the room. “And I’m here to answer them.”
A dozen hands shoot up immediately, voices calling out over each other:
“Ms. Mahoney, are you in a relationship with Campbell Stockton?”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Are you concerned about the ethics of dating a player?”
I hold up a hand, and somehow—miraculously—the room quiets.
“One at a time,” I say. “And yes, I’ll start with the obvious question.” I look directly at the reporter from the Richmond Times, a woman named Sarah Chen who’s covered the team fairly for two years. “Sarah?”
“Ms. Mahoney, can you confirm or deny the reports about your relationship with Captain Stockton?”
This is it. The moment where I either protect my carefully cultivated image or tell the truth and deal with whatever comes next.
I think about Campbell’s smile, about the way he looked at me in that elevator, about Gavin and Elle refusing to let me sabotage my own happiness.
I think about the woman I used to be before I learned to be afraid.
“Yes,” I say clearly. “Campbell and I are…well, we’re navigating that relationship while maintaining our professional responsibilities.”
The room erupts. Cameras flash, reporters shout follow-up questions, phones appear as people start live-tweeting. I wait for the initial chaos to die down before continuing.
“I know that raises questions about professionalism, about ethics, about my judgment as an owner. So let me address those directly.”
I take a breath, finding my center the way I learned to do in boardrooms full of men who thought I didn’t belong there.
“I am a thirty-five-year-old woman who owns and operates a successful professional hockey team. I have increased this organization’s revenue by three hundred percent, improved our win-loss record, and built relationships with sponsors and community partners that have transformed the Renegades into one of the most talked-about teams in the league. ”
My voice gets stronger with each word, and true to who I am, my Southern accent is vibing really high as it does when I get stressed or serious. Today, I’m serious.
“I have done all of this while being questioned, second-guessed, and scrutinized in ways that my male counterparts never experience. I’ve had my decisions analyzed not for their merit, but for whether they prove I’m too emotional, too inexperienced, or too female to do this job effectively.”
A few reporters are actually taking notes instead of just recording for sound bites. Sarah Chen is nodding slightly, and I see a sparkle in her eyes.
“So when I tell you that Campbell Stockton and I have developed feelings for each other, I’m not confessing to some scandal. I’m telling you that two adults who work together have found something worth exploring, and we’re doing so with full awareness of our professional obligations.”
A reporter from Sports Illustrated raises his hand. “But aren’t you concerned about the appearance of impropriety? The power dynamic?”
I look directly at him, my voice steady.
“I’m more concerned about people who create controversy where none should exist. People who are more interested in scandal than substance.”
I continue before anyone can ask follow-up questions.
“Here’s what I want you to understand: Campbell Stockton earned his position as captain through talent, leadership, and dedication. Every goal he’s scored, every game he’s won, every moment of respect he’s earned from his teammates—none of that has anything to do with me.”
My voice rises slightly, passion bleeding through my professional composure.
“And if you think a man of his caliber, his integrity, and his strength, would compromise his career for personal gain, then you don’t know Campbell Stockton at all.”
The room is quieter now, reporters listening instead of just waiting for their turn to pounce.
“I’m not going to apologize for caring about someone who stayed late to help me when my car broke down. I’m not going to apologize for being impressed by a man who puts his team first, who leads by example, and one who treats everyone around him with respect and kindness.”
I pause, letting that sink in.
“And I’m not going to apologize for refusing to let other people’s discomfort with successful women dictate how I live my life.”
Sarah Chen raises her hand again. “What about the NHL interest in Captain Stockton? Some people are suggesting that your relationship might influence those opportunities.”
“NHL scouts evaluate players based on performance, character, and potential. Campbell’s hat trick tonight spoke for itself. His leadership of this team speaks for itself. His work ethic and dedication speak for themselves.”
I lean forward slightly, making eye contact with as many reporters as I can.
“If anyone in the NHL is more interested in gossiping about his personal life than recognizing his talent, that says more about them than it does about Campbell.”
The questions keep coming—about the team’s future, about the Alexandria affiliation, about how long Campbell and I have been involved—but the tone has shifted. Less predatory, more professional.
When a reporter from ESPN asks about the challenges of being a woman in professional sports leadership, I feel the conversation turn toward something more meaningful.
“The biggest challenge isn’t the work itself,” I say. “It’s the assumption that I need to be perfect in ways men don’t. That one mistake, one personal decision, one moment of being human instead of being a flawless representation of female leadership will undo everything I’ve accomplished.”
I look around the room, meeting eyes, holding gazes.
“I’m not perfect. I’m a woman who works hard, who cares about this team and these players, and who happens to have feelings for someone I respect enormously. If anyone thinks that makes me unfit to own a hockey team, then the problem isn’t with me.”
The press conference winds down after another ten minutes, but I can tell something has shifted. The questions become more thoughtful, more focused on hockey and business rather than scandal and speculation.
As reporters start filing out, Sarah Chen approaches the podium.
“That took guts,” she says quietly. “Not many owners would face the music like that.”
“Not many owners are women who have to,” I reply.
She nods and heads for the door, already typing on her phone.
I’m gathering my things when movement in my peripheral vision makes me pause. Someone’s still here. My eyes lift to the back row, and my breath catches. My heart stops, then starts again at double time.
Campbell.
He’s showered and changed into street clothes—dark jeans and a fitted Henley that does nothing to hide what hours of training have built.
His hair is still damp, pushed back from his face.
He’s watching me with an intensity that sends heat crawling up my neck, an expression I can’t quite read but can definitely feel.
The room suddenly feels smaller. Quieter. The fluorescent lights seem too bright.
How long has he been sitting there?
He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. Just holds my gaze across the empty space between us like he’s waiting for something.
My fingers tighten around my clipboard. I should leave. I should definitely leave.
I don’t move. Instead, something passes between us—understanding, maybe, or possibility, or the recognition that everything just changed.
Again.