Page 187 of The Fine Line
“Thanks, Ray,” she says, her voice bright. “I’m here with Texas Storm captain Rhett Sutton. We’re halfway through the season, but this is the first match-up between the Storm and the Chicago Blizzard. As someone who started their career right here in this building but now leads the away team, how are you feeling heading into tonight’s game?”
I stare at her a beat too long. “Words can’t describe what I’m feeling right now.”
She hesitates, clearly expecting more, but when I don’t add anything, she presses on.
“I can imagine. It’s been quite the journey.”
You have no idea.
“Now, historically against the Blizzard, the Storm…” she continues, launching into a stat-heavy monologue.
I’m staring into her eyes as she speaks, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. I catch maybe a quarter of what she’s saying.
“How do you think the Storm will address that tonight?” she finishes.
“No idea,” I answer flatly.
Her eyebrows lift—just slightly—but she covers it with a quick, practiced laugh.
“Well, I’m sure you and the team will talk through that in the locker room.”
She wants this over. She wants me gone.
I don’t blame her.
She clears her throat softly, straightens her shoulders. “One last question before I let you go.”
I blink.
“Brendan Holt.”
The sound of his name alone turns my stomach. My blood slows in my veins like it’s thickened to ice.
“What about him?” I ask, voice low. Flat.
I can practically feel the tension pouring off me. Caroline feels it too—she doesn’t know why, but she knows. I see it in the way her thumb brushes the edge of the mic. In how her eyes flick to mine but don’t quite settle.
“He was captain here when you were drafted,” she says carefully. “And he’s still wearing the C ten seasons later.”
I nod once, my jaw so tight it hurts.
She tilts her head, choosing her words. “Is there anything from your time here with him that you still carry with you today?”
I exhale through my nose. The air feels sharp, cold. I glance up.
My eyes lock on a banner in the rafters. The man himself—Holt. Still larger than life. But different. The years have left their mark. The hair’s lighter now, shot through with gray. A scar slices through his left brow. The crooked line of a nose that never quite healed right.
My throat tightens. The weight of it presses against my ribs like a hand I can’t shove off.
“Yeah,” I mutter, voice little more than gravel. “Every day.”
Caroline shifts subtly.
“Anything you care to share?” she asks, tone careful but prying.
I shake my head once. “No.”
Her polite smile stays fixed, but I see it in her eyes—something sharper. Narrower.
