Page 121 of The Fine Line
That’s about all we’ve said to each other this past week. Three words at a time. Max.
Not since the flight back from Toronto—the one where she nearly came apart in my hands, fully clothed, her fingersgripping my shoulders, her body pressed to mine like she needed the contact just to breathe. Like she had always belonged there.
The same flight where, not even a second after she slipped out the bathroom door, I found myself hunched over the sink, trying to get myself under control like a goddamn teenage boy. Desperate. Unraveled. Reckless.
I wanted to follow her. Ignore her instructions, catch her by the wrist, drag her right back inside that ridiculous excuse for a bathroom to finish what she started.
But her dad had come for her. He’d see it. So instead, I gritted my teeth, replaced the image of her in my head with hockey plays, and prayed I could keep it together—for my pride and for the sake of my favorite Tom Ford dress pants.
And still, even now—seven days later—the memory plays in perfect detail. A highlight reel I didn’t ask for but can’t stop watching. Every movement, every sound, every look she gave me etched into my mind like a carving in ice.
It’s enough to stir something again. I shift against the kitchen island, willing my thoughts not to go too far.
I shake my head, turn the faucet on cold, and splash water over my face.
As I dry off, I catch sight of a half-full glass of wine on the counter—one Caroline must’ve poured before getting ready and then completely forgotten about. One of her many quirks.
Like the way she bites her lip when she’s about to?—
I turn the tap back on. Splash more water.
Jesus Christ.
How the hell am I going to get through tonight?
Without thinking, I grab the wine and down it in two gulps, setting the glass back on the counter.
I brace myself over the island, trying to focus.
The puck’s on the boards. Defender’s closing in.
Can’t rush it. Wait for Rags. Let him pull the D.
Fake right. Cut left.
Send it off the glass behind the net. R2 picks it up, fakes the one-timer, slips it back.
I’m flying into the left circle.
The goalie’s not ready.
I rip it top shelf.
The lamp lights.
I spin.
She’s there.
She’s screaming my name.
She’s—
“Okay, I’m ready.”
I raise my head.
I blink.
