Page 49 of The Fine Line
A few seconds pass. Bennett doesn’t budge.
“Can you just, like… get out? Please?” Carly tries again.
He steps back slightly, crossing his arms. “Tell your man to get out of bed. Once his feet are on the floor, I’m gone.”
“My man isn’t great at taking instruction.”
That gets my attention. I lift my head, something sparking in my chest at hearing her call me that. “That’s not true.”
“Totally is,” Carly grins, brushing curls off my forehead. “But it’s one of the main reasons I like you.”
A smirk tugs at my lips.
I like her too.
A lot, I think.
“Well, one of the main reasons I like you is your killer slapshot,” Bennett deadpans. “But you’re not using it if you’re not at the rink.”
Before I can reply, he hooks an arm around mine and hauls me out of bed.
“Okay, okay—geez,” I sputter, holding up my hands. “I’m up, Jamesy.”
He lets go abruptly, and I nearly stumble. My legs feel like noodles.
“I’ll be in the car,” he says. “Five minutes.”
“Yeah,” I nod, rubbing my face. “Just… give me a sec.”
Bennett turns to leave but pauses in the doorway. The look he gives me isn’t just annoyance—it’s a cocktail of frustration, concern, and something else.
Sadness?
Whatever it is, I don’t like the way it makes me feel. Something in my chest tightens, and it sticks with me, even after he’s gone—a weight I can’t shake, no matter how fast I move to get dressed.
“There he is!”
I freeze.
Dammit.
So much for slipping into the bar quietly. I just wanted one drink before facing anyone, but luck’s not on my side tonight.
I exhale, paste on a smile, and turn.
“Hey there, son!”
“Hi,” I say to the older man in a suit I don’t recognize. He’s beaming at me like I’m a star. My actual father, standing beside him, is silent and stiff, nursing a scotch with a barely-there smile.
“You’ve had a fantastic season,” another suited man chimes in. They’re a circle—probably all know each other. And my father.
Some faces seem vaguely familiar. But Dad only shows up at games when these types are there too.
“Thank you,” I say, glancing at him. He won’t look at me—just stares into his glass, swirling the scotch.
“I’ve never seen anyone skate like you,” a third man adds. “Not at the college level.”
I start to thank him, but the man nearest my dad cuts in. “You’ve done well with this one, Roger.”
