Page 157 of The Fine Line
The air between us turns heavy. Loaded.
“I have limits,” he murmurs. “And you’re dangerously close to all of them.”
I stare at him, my brows pulling together.
“What?” he asks softly.
“I owe you more credit,” I say.
His lips tug into a sad half-smile. “No, you don’t.”
And then he’s gone—leaving me alone with a bouquet, a teddy bear, a hundred unanswered questions, and a slow, unfamiliar ache for a man I never thought I could feel anything for.
thirty-six
RHETT
Eleven Years Ago
Chicago, IL, USA
I never thought I’d be here.
Today’s the day I’ve looked forward to all season—hell, my whole life—but now that it’s here, I’m dreading it.
I’m in a bathroom stall, back against the wall, staring down at the two baggies in my hands.
I’m not ready.
I thought I would be. Marked the date with a red circle on the calendar in my empty apartment, right next to my bulletin board of bad headlines about myself, thinking it would motivate me. It didn’t. If anything, it made everything worse. I leaned harder into my habits, and now I’m in the worst shape I’ve ever been in.
I always swear I’ll stop—after brutal practices, after games where I either play like an unhinged enforcer or a washed-up nobody. I make promises to myself and break them the second I’m alone. The second the paincreeps back in.
One step forward, two steps back. Every fucking time.
It’s a disaster. But it’s worked. Mostly.
Today, it won’t.
We’re playing the Texas Storm. And their star rookie will be front and center on the starting line.
Bennett.
I haven’t seen him since before the season started. He’s been avoiding home, and I’ve been avoiding it too. Without him, there’s nothing there for me.
We might be best friends, but we’ve always been different. The way we live. The way we let things affect us. And the way we’ve handled our rookie seasons says it all.
Bennett’s heartbroken. I’m just broken. And look how the two of us have handled it.
He’s playing the best hockey of his life, pouring every ounce of himself into the game. Rising. And I’m flailing, throwing my energy everywhere except where it should be. Fading.
Three sharp knocks on the stall door jolt me upright, and I nearly drop both bags.
“Sutton! Get your ass out here!” Holt bellows. “Warm-ups in thirty seconds!”
“C—Coming!”
I worry for a second that he’ll wait for me to come out, but then I hear him walk off.
