Page 177 of The Fine Line
Every day feels exciting. New. Special.
And today, just a little more so.
It’s Rhett’s birthday. There’s no game tonight, no press, no obligations. Just time.
I asked him this morning how he’d spend the day if he could do anything. He didn’t hesitate.
So now we’re here, at a roller rink on the edge of Austin that looks like it hasn’t changed since 1985—equal parts disco ball and neon fever dream.
“Is this everything you dreamed of, birthday boy?” I ask, tugging on my rollerblades. I barely reach for one of the straps before Rhett kneels in front of me and takes over, his fingers fast and practiced.
“Oh yeah,” he grins. “I went to a place just like this all the time growing up.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“Hockey,” he answers without pause.
“Obviously,” I say. “What about during summer?”
“More hockey,” he shrugs. “In Lake Placid.”
“Yeah?” My brows lift. “When were you there?”
“Every summer from when I was eight until I left for U of T. I actually rollerbladed a ton there too. Good cardio.”
I smile. “That’s cute.”
“Iamcute,” he replies easily, finishing the last strap. He glances up, that soft mischief in his eyes. “Crazy it took you so long to realize it.”
I lean down, brushing a kiss against his mouth. “Aren’t you going to ask what I spent my time doing?”
“I already know.” He stands, offering me his hand. “Being a nerd.”
“Shut up.” I roll my eyes but take his hand anyway as he helps me up.
“Am I wrong?” he laughs as we wobble toward the rink.
“No. But still—shut up.” I swat at his chest playfully, and he easily dodges me.
“I think what matters more,” he murmurs, leaning in close, “is that I know what you like spending your time doing thesedays.”
I open my mouth to respond, but his voice drops to a whisper right against my ear. “Actually, I thought I might take a little extra time tonight doing?—”
“Rhett Sutton!”
We’re cut off by a wave of energy—half a dozen boys skating toward him like he’s Santa Claus and a Marvel superhero rolled into one. Rhett straightens, laughing as they swarm him. They ask for everything from autographs to photos to hockey advice. He signs everything passed his way with a careful hand. Answers every question like it’s the first one he’s ever heard. Listens like they’re telling him the greatest secrets in the world.
I drift to the edge of the rink, watching.
There’s something about the way he crouches to their level. The way he ruffles their hair. The way he looks them in the eye the same way he would a respected elder.
Just as the last boy skates away, one more approaches with his father. His eyes go wide.
“O–oh my God,” he stammers. “Can I please take a picture with you, Mr. Sutton?”
“Of course,” Rhett says, winking. “As long as you get my good side.”
The dad snaps the photo, then one of himself and Rhett. “Thanks, man. And hey—good luck against Chicago this weekend.”
