Page 42 of The Fine Line
“You don’t even care about hockey, Mick. You never have.”
He chuckles low. “We both know you didn’t storm into this bar, guns blazing, just because hockey isn’t my favorite sport. So come on—what’s the real reason? One sentence.”
“I know about the donation,” I grit out. “I know your family made a sizable contribution to the Texas Storm Foundation, and that’s what got you this job. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the last decade pouring everything I have into chasing this exact opportunity?—”
“I said one sentence, Barrett. Tell me why I don’t deserve this job.”
“You only got it because of your father,” I snap, throwing my hands up. “Some of us have to break down doors just to be considered, and you were handed a master key—and it’s bullshit.”
Mick just stares. And the second I hear my own words echo back in my head, a lump rises in my throat.
“Right,” he says flatly. “Because I’m sure your father being the Texas Storm’s head coach for over a decade hasn’t helped you at all.”
“That’s not the same,” I argue, my voice suddenly hoarse. “I’ve earned my spot.”
“And I haven’t?”
“Not in hockey. My dad never bought me an opportunity.”
He gives a smug half-smile. “You want to believe we’re different. But we’re not.”
“We are?—”
“And two,” he cuts in, raising a second finger, “I didn’t have to try to make your career into a joke.”
My brows pull together. “What?”
“Because let’s be honest,” he says with mock sympathy, “it already is.”
“Excuse me?” I breathe.
“C’mon, Caroline. You’ve got the face for TV—any guy can see that. But you were always going to be ‘Coach Barrett’s daughter.’ And now?” He leans in, voice lower. “You’re also Slutty Sutty’s puck bunny.”
“I told you?—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs. “Because that’s what they already think. And now they’ll never take you seriously.”
I swallow hard, refusing to drop his gaze even as my eyes sting. I tip my chin up to stop the tear threatening to fall.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” I mutter.
“Liar,” Mick mouths with a smirk.
I open my mouth to fire back, but a waitress appears with another one of his cocktails. He takes it with an easy smile, raises it toward his lips—then pauses.
“Here,” he says, offering the glass to me. “Looks like you need this more than I do.”
My hand takes it before my brain catches up. I’m too stunned, too furious to stop it.
“Word of advice, Care Bear,” Mick says, leaning in one last time. “Stick to rinkside reporting, paint on your pretty smile, askyour softball questions, and stay out of my way. This isn’t school anymore. This is the real world. And you don’t stand a chance.”
He steps back and claps his hands. “Alright, boys! Shots on me.”
The scene around me blurs as he disappears into the crowd, our classmates trailing after him. I look down at the glass in my hand, my knuckles white as I grip it tighter. Tighter.
Count to three.
Stand tall.
