Page 172 of The Fine Line
He turns back to me. Smile gone. “This drink isn’t really satisfying me. Going to grab a new one. Why don’t you join me at the bar?”
I don’t answer.
“Let’s go,” he says, already rising.
I push back my chair and follow him to the far end of the bar, near the exit sign glowing red above a hallway.
He turns on me the second we’re out of earshot.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.
I clench my jaw, fingers twitching in my jacket pocket.
“Did that little comment make you feel real big?” His voice drops to a snarl. “You think mouthing off to me like that makes you a man?”
“I just told the truth.”
“Oh, please.” He barks a laugh. “Because that girl out there made you something, right? Every skate, every coach, every damn door opened for you—was paid for by me. You forget you wouldn’t be anything without me.”
“How could I forget?” I snap. “It’s the only thing you ever bring up. You think buying gear and pulling strings is the same as being a dad? Then you act offended that I don’t claim you as family when you’ve spent my entire life pretending your own son doesn’t exist until it’s convenient for you.”
“Son?” he scoffs. “You know what I see when I look at you?”
He steps closer, lip curling.
“A soft, weak coward that crumbles the second things gethard. A pathetic child that’s always one wrong move away from disaster. A boy who had the world handed to him and still managed to screw it up.”
The words hit like a punch, but I stand strong.
“Always folding under pressure. Always looking for something to hide behind—your image, your friends…”
He leans in. “Your dope.”
The word slams into me, and I rear back.
“What, you think I don’t know? You think the world doesn’t know? That trainwreck of a rookie year? You think everyone believes you were just off your game? Even you couldn’t be that much of a disappointing mess all on your own.”
My throat tightens.
“And now, what? You’ve got a girl doing your fighting for you?”
“Rhett?”
We both turn.
Caroline’s standing at the end of the hall. Arms crossed. Unflinching.
“Perfect timing,” my dad says, amused. “You got something to say for him, sweetheart?”
“For him?” she says calmly. “No. Even though I like hearing my own voice as much as you clearly do, I know Rhett can speak for himself.”
She smiles thinly, stepping closer. “But for me? Call mesweetheartagain, and you’ll get a lot more than words from me.”
He sneers. “You really think you know him?”
“I know enough.”
“You don’t know anything. You see the version he wants you to see. But I’ve seen what’s underneath. I made him.”
