Page 166 of The Fine Line
I keep moving, glancing up at the scoreboard—5–4 Storm—then catch the replay flashing on the jumbotron. I tilt my head, watching the slow-motion close-up, so locked in that I almost miss the voice.
“Caroline.”
My head snaps down. A man leans against the tunnel entrance like he’s been waiting.
I’ve never seen him before, yet there’s something familiar about him that prickles under my skin. He’s tall, polished, and radiates the unsettling calm of someone used to getting exactly what he wants. His charcoal suit is perfectly tailored to broad shoulders and long legs, the coat open to reveal a dress shirt unbuttoned just enough. Curls peppered with gray. Warm eyes that make me question whether I should feel charmed or on guard.
“Even more beautiful in person,” he says with a slow,knowing smile. And the chill his voice sends up my spine answers my question—screamingcaution.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping back slightly. “Do I know you?”
He chuckles—low, smooth, practiced. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” He offers his hand. I hesitate, then shake it.
“I have to admit,” he says, eyes sliding over me, “I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“Men have gone to war over women like you.”
The period-ending horn cuts through the air. I pull my hand away.
Skates scrape on concrete behind me, but I’m still stuck in this man’s gravity. Still stuck on the strange, buzzing tension in my chest.
“Who are you?” I ask.
His smile deepens. “You don’t know?”
And then he glances past me.
I turn just as Rhett steps off the ice, helmet in hand, curls sweat-dampened to his forehead. His eyes land on us—and he freezes.
“Dad?”
The word knocks the air out of me.
I glance down at the badge hanging around the man’s neck.
Roger Sutton.
The resemblance is unmistakable now—the grin, the posture, the energy that commands a room without trying. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve heard it.
How is this the same man I spoke to on the phone? The one whose voice made my blood run cold?
“Hey, son,” Roger says, as casually as if this were any other reunion.
Rhett closes the distance fast, shoulders squared, jaw set tight. His eyes flick between us,unreadable.
“How did you get in?” he asks, voice low.
“I’m your father.”
Delivered like that’s explanation enough.
Roger shrugs. “I’m in town on business. Your mother’s with me.”
“And where is she?”
“Around.” He waves the question off. “Anyway. Thought you could join us for a drink after the game. Me, your mother, a few colleagues.”
