Page 63 of The Fine Line
“I just?—”
“No. Just don’t,” I cut him off, grabbing my things and turning away. I barely make it a few steps before he catches me again, spinning me back around.
“Cub, I just wanted to say?—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Not now. I’m going to be late, so please, let me go.”
“Baby B—” Rhett huffs.
“What?”
“You forgot this.”
I turn back. He’s holding out my bra. I must’ve dropped it when I scrambled to pick everything up. Mortification washes over me as I reach for it—and then it only multiplies when I catch a flash out of the corner of my eye.
My head snaps to the side. Giggles. Mutters.
Two girls, maybe late teens or early twenties. Phones out. Cameras pointed straight at us.
For a second, I’m confused. Then I see it—one of them is wearing a Texas Storm cap.
My mouth drops open as I slowly turn back to Rhett. He’s piecing it together too. Our gazes drop at the same time.
Rhett Sutton—Storm’s captain. Me—Caroline Barrett, coach’s daughter and the team’s newest rinkside reporter. Standing outside his building. He’s shirtless. I’m in boxer shorts and a Texas Storm shirt with his name on it. Last night’s makeup still smeared across my face. Clothes from last night in one hand. Bra in the other.
“Oh, shit,” Rhett breathes.
The camera flash goes off again.
fifteen
CAROLINE
A flash of panic shoots through me as I glance at the time—I’m four minutes late to the broadcast team meeting. And even though everyone is still mingling and it technically hasn’t started, I’m already angry at myself.
I slide into an empty seat at the long table, taking a moment to catch my breath and glance at my reflection in a compact mirror. My cheeks are flushed from rushing, my eyes still puffy from last night’s poor decisions, and the slicked-back low bun and swipe of lip gloss I barely had time for aren’t doing me any favors.
Bryan claps his hands to signal the start of the meeting, and I immediately shove everything under my seat except my notebook and pen, forcing myself to focus.
As the hour ticks by, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it never does.
Even when the Storm’s public relations manager, Linda, takes her turn to speak—and I’m literally biting my nails on the edge of my seat—the elephant in the room goes unacknowledged. No one mentions what happened between Rhett and meduring the interview, or the reaction it sparked on social media after the game.
Social media.
The image of those girls outside Rhett’s apartment flashes through my mind, just like it has a thousand times since I sprinted away from them—and from him. I know what I saw. I know what they saw. The only question is whether the universe is on my side today.
I haven’t had a second to check social media since they took that photo. Part of that is because I’m terrified to. But for now, I’m clinging to the fragile hope that I imagined it. Maybe it was just the reflection from a passing car. Maybe they didn’t take a photo. Or maybe—if they did—they’ll have the decency to keep it to themselves.
Or maybe they accidentally got hit by a bus—not fatally, of course—on their way home, and their phones were destroyed?—
“All right, I think that’ll do it for today,” Bryan says with another clap, snapping me from my spiral. “Thank you, everyone. We’ve got an exciting couple of days in Vegas coming up for the next game. Looking forward to it.”
Chairs scrape back as people stand, the room quickly filling with chatter. I’m just reaching for my bag when Bryan’s voice stops me.
“Caroline?”
