Page 160 of The Fine Line
He says nothing. I try a weak shrug and a lopsided smile.
“Rhett—”
“Sutton!”
We both look over. Holt’s losing it. “What are you doing? Get over here!”
“I gotta go, Jamesy,” I mumble. “I’ll… talk to you after the game.”
“Sutty—”
But I’m already skating away.
The last of warm-ups is a blur. I’m off. My body’s sluggish. My brain split in two—half of me screaming to stop, half too numb to care.
By the time we’re back in the locker room, I’m barely upright.I slide to the floor against my locker, head heavy, just waiting for this game to start so it can be over.
Coach Patrick bursts in, clapping to start his pre-game speech. I sigh and brace my hands behind me to stand—and my hand brushes my shoe.
The bags.
Don’t. Bad idea.
But then Bennett’s voice rings louder than my own inside my head.
You seem totally out of it.
I move on instinct. Snatch the coke. Pocket it. Wait for the end of the speech.
The second Coach finishes, I bolt.
Bathroom. Stall. Line.
One sharp inhale—and everything shifts.
I’ve got this.
I believe it.
And for a while, I’m right. First period—I fly. Score early. Feel invincible.
Until I’m not.
The crash comes fast. Too fast. I’m wired—then useless. By the buzzer, I’m getting booed.
So when we head into the locker room for the first intermission, I make a quick trip to the bathroom stall and hit another line before the second period.
Then the cycle repeats.
High—then crash.
By the end of the second, we’re losing 3–2. Holt demands to know what the hell is wrong with me. And Coach mutters something about me picking between playing like a bat out of hell or a half-asleep bull in a china shop.
So I make my choice.
I head back to the stall, dump the rest of the bag into two fat lines, and snort them both.
And that’s when shit really hits the fan.
