Page 24 of The Fine Line
I have a new job to prepare for.
And it starts tomorrow.
six
CAROLINE
Tomorrow comes entirely too quickly.
I lean back from the mirror, checking my work. A tiny smudge of nude lip liner clings to the corner of my mouth, so I wipe it away with a practiced flick. Then I run my hands through my chin-length blonde waves—making sure I’ve put just enough effort into my “effortless” look. Because, you know, women on TV are supposed to look drop-dead gorgeous, but not like they tried to be.
Just another layer to this career path I’ve chosen.
The only one I’d put up with all this bullshit for.
I glance down at the watch on my wrist. Fifteen minutes until I’m due to meet Courtney outside the Storm’s locker room. We ran through tonight’s talking points an hour ago with the rest of the broadcast team. I managed to get through the meeting without launching my heel at Mick Davis’s smug face, which frankly feels like a personal victory.
“Caroline Barrett? No way,” Mick said, tone practically oozing superiority. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
As if I don’t practically lived at this arena for the last fewyears. As if everyone in our master’s program didn’t know my one and only goal was to work for the Storm’s broadcast team.
“If only I could say the same about you, Dick,” I muttered.
“What was that?”
“Great to see you, Mick,” I replied, flashing my best fake smile.
He looked me up and down. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“I’m the rinkside reporter this season,” I said through gritted teeth. “Or will be once Courtney Evans goes on maternity leave. I’m shadowing her until then.”
“Huh,” he tutted. “Didn’t think you’d be into something like that.”
“And I didn’t think you were even into hockey.”
“It’s not exactly a requirement,” he said, adjusting his tie—which, of course, was the wrong shade of green for the Storm. “Gotta get your foot in the door somewhere, right?”
I bit my tongue—literally—to stop myself from telling him where I’d like to put my foot. Thankfully, Courtney arrived then, glowing and visibly pregnant, which meant the meeting could finally start.
I shove all that from my mind as I head toward the Storm’s locker room.
And then I see Rhett.
Down the hall, full gear minus the helmet—he never wears it for warm-ups—twirling his stick like it’s an extension of his hand. He’s leaning against the wall, Sutty smirk in place, charming two VIP women who are looking at him like he hung the moon.
He leans in, says something out of the corner of his mouth, and they both burst out laughing. Then, smooth as ever, he lifts the blonde’s badge to read her name and brushes the brunette’s hair off her shoulder.
Fifteen seconds, and I can see it happening.
That pull. That force field he carries without even trying.
I turn my body away, scowl locked in place.
New season, new title. Same old Rhett.
I don’t know why I would’ve expected anything different.
I pull out my phone, planning to review the stats I recorded last night and go over my notes from the broadcast meeting. That’s when I notice the time.
