Page 17 of The Fine Line

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I blow out a breath.

And then I see movement out of the corner of my eye.

I tug the curtain an inch, peering through the blinds. Bennett’s outside. I assume he’s just getting some air. But then someone steps into the light.

Julia—one of my old friends from school.

“Interesting,” I mutter to myself.

My phone buzzes, dragging my attention away. I let the curtain fall and fish it from my pocket.

When I see the notification is a text from my father, my heart does a little leap in my chest.

Dad: “Well?”

He’s asking about the game.

Myfingers fly.

Me: Coach had me on the top line. Chemistry was great. I had an assist, two big checks, no penalties. Energy was strong. Especially for the first game. I’m feeling good.

The bubble pops up indicating that he’s typing a reply, and I stare at it unmoving until I see the message come through.

Dad: But did you win?

My stomach sinks.

Me: No. Bennett’s team was on fire. We just couldn’t catch them in the end.

Dad: Score?

Me: 5—3

Dad: So it wasn’t even close.

I start to reply, but?—

Dad: Good thing I didn’t waste my time coming.

And there it is.

Roger Sutton.

Dear old Dad.

Part of me wants to say I didn’t think it was an option anyway—that he had to go out of town. But I know better.

Me: We’ll do better next time. It was just the first game.

I wait for a reply.

Nothing.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and chug the rest of my beer.

Before I know it, I’ve downed three more. The house is packed now. Bennett’s gone. And that’s when things always shift.

Someone hands me a shot of God knows what from my dad’s liquor cabinet. I toss it back as I weave through the noise. Then I collapse onto the couch with a hard exhale. I can the room with blurred vision. A few familiar faces. A whole lot I’ve never seen in my life.

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