Page 200 of The Fine Line
forty-nine
RHETT
Three Years Ago
Austin, TX, USA
“Get the hell away from me, Sutty.”
Bennett’s voice bounces off the glass, sharp with breathless frustration. He’s grinning, but there’s heat behind it—the kind that only shows up when I’m winning.
I smirk, knocking my helmet back with the heel of my glove. “Aw, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Jamesy.”
Adrenaline is still buzzing in my blood. I live for this—the speed, the burn in my lungs, the thrill of the chase. The moments it all feels worth it. When I feel worth it.
Bennett shoves me lightly, but I skate out of reach. “Fuck off,” he chuckles.
Regularly, I’d do the opposite, but the tape on my stick is shredded to hell, and I know when to call it. “Your wish is my command,” I call over my shoulder, lifting my stick in a lazysalute as I coast toward the boards. “Consider yourself safe for the next five minutes.”
I hop over the wall and land on solid ground, already peeling my gloves off as I head for the locker room. My head’s still half in the drill when I hear it:
“Rhett Sutton.”
I stop. Dead.
The voice doesn’t belong here. It’s soft, but commanding. Steady.
I turn, and for a second, I swear my heart just… stalls.
She’s standing just outside the rink. Legs for days, long pale hair that looks like it was spun from ice, eyes bluer than the lines I skate on. She doesn’t look real. She looks… like something dropped straight out of the sky.
And she’s staring right at me.
I blink. “Wow.”
It slips out before I can stop it. Before I can remember who the hell I’m supposed to be.
She lifts one eyebrow, unimpressed.
Right. Game face. I recover, flashing the grin I know works nine times out of ten. “You know they don’t usually let fans back here,” I say, voice dropping into easy charm, “but I think I can make an exception for you.”
She tips her head, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. “Do you actually have the power to do that?”
I step closer, licking my lips. “Depends who’s asking.”
Her eyes stay steady on mine, cool as hell. “There’s no need.”
I blink again. “No?”
Her lips curve, just slightly. “I’m not interested.”
The words knock the wind out of me.
I let out a short laugh, disbelieving. “Come on. Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she says, and somehow she manages to soundboth amused and entirely unbothered. “And for the record? I’m not a fan.”
That hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore. But I don’t show it.
