Page 40 of The Fine Line
@PuckHound24:Damn, Cap! What a score. And I’m not talking about in the game ;)
@StormChaser_Sam:I know we call him Slutty Sutty, but Bear’s daughter? WOW.
@LoneStarPuckLife:She’s not even that pretty.
@HockeyMom1987:My own husband doesn’t look at me the way Rhett Sutton was just looking at “Care Bear.”
@StormZone_JR:Oh my God. She’s the coach’s daughter and hooking up with the team captain? No wonder she got that job. Must be nice!
I feel the backs of my eyes burn as I force myself to lock my phone. That wasn’t even scratching the surface, and the notifications are still coming in nonstop.
I shake my head. Count to three. And then I stand tall.
It’s fine.
I’m going to fix this.
I made it through the rest of the game just fine—and the Storm’s first loss of the season—remaining the perfect professional. I interviewed my dad during the second intermission, and even though he didn’t have good news to share, the segment went smoothly. I’m sure more people put two and two together that we’re related, but I haven’t let myself check social media again.
As for post-game media, I played fly on the wall, just listening to the players without needing to look at certain ones (one) I’d rather avoid.
The second I’m free, after the game and press conference wrap, I make a beeline for the broadcast office.
There wasn’t time to address what happened during the first intermission, and most people would probably rather pretend it didn’t happen. But that’s not how I operate. I’m not letting anyone make assumptions about me—especially when it comes to my career. I want to clear the air and move on.
When I reach the office, the door is locked. I knock three times. When there’s no answer, I knock harder. Halfway through my third—and loudest—round, the door swings open.
“Bryan,” I exhale, “can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Caroline,” he says, surprised. “Hi.” He studies my face, and there’s just enough of a pause before he speaks again to make my stomach turn. He steps out into the hall, gently closing the door behind him. “I figured you might be coming by.”
“Look, about the interview with Rhett—what happened?—”
He cuts me off with a small shake of his head. “Not ideal.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. He calls me these silly nicknames—he always has. He slipped up, and it caught me off guard. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t okay. And I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
Bryan crosses his arms. “You understand how that looked, right?”
“Yes,” I nod. “God—believe me, I do.”
He lets out a breath. “The good news is the online reaction isn’t as bad as it could’ve been. In fact, people are eating it up. But that’s not the point.”
I swallow hard. “There is nothing going on between me and Rhett. Nothing. Especially nothing like that. Not in a million years. Please, Bryan, you have to trust me.”
He watches me for a beat, then nods once. “I believe you. You’ve worked hard for this. You’ve earned it. But you have to know how it looks—how easy it would be for people to question your credibility, your professionalism. Especially because of your history and personal connection to the team.”
“I know,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “I get it.”
“This job puts you in a very visible position. Any hint of impropriety—even imagined—can undermine everything you’re building. I don’t think Rhett meant any harm. But that can’t happen again.”
“It won’t,” I promise. “I’ll set that boundary immediately.”
He studies me for another second, then his tone softens. “You did well tonight. Really well, all things considered. This was a tough first game, and you handled it.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Take the night,” he adds. “Try to shake it off. Go to Randall’s, celebrate a strong debut if you feel up to it. Just… stay mindful. You're under a different kind of spotlight now.”
