Page 75 of The Fine Line
“...from the University of Toronto, Bennett James.”
And now it’s my turn to stand. To drag my friend from his seat and wrap him in a hug I don’t think either of us will ever forget. At least not me.
Because this is the beginning.
But it’s also the end.
The end of the two of us being teammates. Over a decade of it. And it’s the first time it’s actually occurred to me that I’m going to be doing this without him. That I’ll have to.
That I’m really on my own now.
That I’m alone.
With no one to stop me from fucking it all up.
eighteen
CAROLINE
Austin, TX, USA
Never in my life have I fucked up like this. Not in a way that leaves me totally out of control of my future. And the longer I’ve sat here alone in my apartment, the deeper I’ve spiraled into a pit of emotional turmoil.
I don’t want to admit it, but I keep wondering if all these years have been for nothing. All the effort I’ve poured into achieving this insanely competitive dream—always being the most knowledgeable person in the room, walking the razor-thin line between confident and brash that women are allowed, never giving anyone a reason to doubt me—wiped out in a single twenty-four-hour period.
And the worst part? It’s my fault. Dad was right. Everything that happened is because I put myself in a position to let it. That’s what kills me most.
I came straight home after the meeting with Rhett and did everything I could to distract myself from the choice—that’snot even really a choice—that I’m supposed to make by the end of the night. I watched highlights from yesterday’s games (except the Storm’s), jogged on the treadmill, did a virtual Pilates class, showered, did laundry, cleaned the dishes, reorganized my closet, decluttered my desk drawers, and scrubbed the apartment from top to bottom.
Now it’s nearly dinnertime, my ADHD meds (which I didn’t get to take with this morning’s events) are long gone from my system, and I’m curled up on the couch crocheting whileSex And The Cityplays in the background. It’s not working. My head feels like it might explode.
I spend twenty minutes debating where to go, but I already know the answer. The only place I want to be is at my desk in the Storm headquarters, studying updated team and player stats. Especially if it’s only mine for a few more hours.
So I change into business casual clothes, throw my laptop and notebook into a tote bag, and head out.
The building is nearly empty when I arrive, just a few janitors and a Zamboni driver resurfacing the practice rink ice. I couldn’t be happier. I head straight to my office, open my laptop, and lose myself in numbers until a sudden clap of thunder jolts me out of my focus. I look out the window, finding the night sky pitch black.
Lightning flashes, and I shoot out of my chair.
“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing my phone, stunned I didn’t notice the time or the incoming storm.
9:42 PM. Rain in eleven minutes.
I slam my laptop closed, shove it in my bag, and head for the exit. But I only make it a few steps before thunder cracks again—loud enough to shake the building. I yelp, instinctively ducking and covering my head. Then another crack hits. I cower—but then register the sound. It comes again. Blunt and repetitive. Not thunder.
I slowly straighten and turn my head. Through the glass, I see Rhett on the practice rink, over a dozen pucks scattered on the ice in front of him as he takes slap shot after slap shot. Another puck misses the net, ricocheting off the glass behind it and making the exact sound I mistook for thunder.
Rhett curses at his missed shot, resting his stick on his shoulders and spinning around. His gaze lands square on me, and I freeze. But then another boom of real thunder sounds, and I flinch, my hand flying to my chest.
When I’ve steadied, Rhett is still looking at me, one brow raised. After a pause, he tilts his head back in a motion that says:come in.
I exhale, glance at my phone. No way I’m beating the rain now. With nothing better to do, I obey his request.
I set my bag on the bench as Rhett lines up another shot. It pings off the crossbar.
He goes still, staring at the net. Then, without warning, he snaps—slamming his stick on the ice and splitting it clean in two. He chucks it aside and skates toward me, grabbing a spare from behind the bench.
“Hi,” he says, like nothing just happened.
