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CAROLINE

What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Then again.

And again.

By the time I’m back down the tunnel, it’s buzzing so constantly it might as well be humming.

I close my eyes and let out a long breath as I dig it out.

“It can’t be that bad,” I lie to myself.

I know it’s delusional the second I say it—but that doesn’t make it any less crushing when I see what’s waiting for me.

A flood of social media notifications lights up my screen exactly the way I feared.

@TX_HockeyAddict: Um, what did I just watch happen during the Storm’s intermission??

@StormGirl_19: Are Sutty and the rinkside reporter a thing?

@GoTXStorm: Care Bear?? Excuse me?

@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.”

Randall’s Tavern.

The little hole-in-the-wall bar where the Storm players usually go after home games.

It’s a far cry from the upscale spots downtown near the arena, but that’s the point.

Low profile. No fans hounding them. I’ve shown up there plenty of times myself.

But tonight? After everything that happened—and without Addie here anymore as my buffer—I’m not exactly dying to join.

I let out a breath and take a small step back as he locks the office door behind him.

“Mick actually said he was headed to Randall’s just before you showed up,” he adds.

My spine stiffens. “Mick?”

“Yeah. He said something about meeting your classmates there to celebrate.”

Of course he did.

I pull out my phone, and sure enough, the group chat is blowing up. Someone congratulated us on our new jobs and suggested a meet-up. And Mick, naturally, jumped in right away to say we’d be at Randall’s with the players.

Which means I absolutely have to go.

He probably thinks I’ll slink off and hide after what happened earlier.

And I refuse to let him think he has that kind of power over me.

I couldn’t confront him on live television .

But I definitely can now.

I intend to make my appearance short and sweet.

Well—short, at least.

Which is why I’m thrilled when I clock Mick’s tall frame and golden hair the moment I step into Randall’s Tavern. He’s leaning against the bar, sipping what I know is his usual overly complicated cocktail order I couldn’t repeat back if I tried, surrounded by a semi-circle of our former classmates.

Locked on my target, I don’t waste a second. I head straight for him, cutting through the crowd like I’m parting the sea—fully interrupting whatever story he’s feeding them with animated hand gestures and fake charm.

“You,” I hiss under my breath when I reach him.

A smug grin spreads across his face. “Hey, Barrett,” he says, raising his glass. “Can I get you a drink?—”

“Sure, thanks,” I cut him off, plucking the glass from his hand and downing the rest of it in one burning gulp. I slam it back into his chest. The alcohol scorches my throat, but it’s got nothing on the fire in my gut right now.

“Whoa, okay.” Mick chuckles, holding up his hands. “Care Bear’s feeling extra feisty tonight.”

“Don’t you dare call me that,” I grit out.

“Oh, sorry. Is that nickname reserved for your loverboy?”

My face burns, but I refuse to flinch—even as I feel heads turn and eyes linger, people trying to listen in.

“There is nothing going on between me and Rhett,” I say, sharp and steady.

“If you knew anything about him, you’d know he’s a smooth talker who speaks faster than he thinks.

The name just slipped. I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

But you made everything ten times worse by repeating it on air. ”

Mick laughs, clearly not taking me seriously. “Everybody already heard it. Me repeating it just made the segment more entertaining. My job is to entertain?—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I scoff. “You know, they do open-mic night on Tuesdays at the comedy club down the street. If you're just looking to entertain, why don’t you give that a try instead of fumbling your way through this job you know you don’t deserve and playing with my career for your attempt at a joke? ”

“Okay, two things.” Mick steps closer, holding up a finger. “One—what makes you think I don’t deserve this job?”

I blink. “Are you seriously asking me?”

“Yes, Caroline. Go on.”

“You don’t even care about hockey, Mick. You never have.”

He chuckles low. “We both know you didn’t storm into this bar, guns blazing, just because hockey isn’t my favorite sport. So come on—what’s the real reason? One sentence.”

“I know about the donation,” I grit out. “I know your family made a sizable contribution to the Texas Storm Foundation, and that’s what got you this job. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the last decade pouring everything I have into chasing this exact opportunity?—”

“I said one sentence, Barrett. Tell me why I don’t deserve this job.”

“You only got it because of your father,” I snap, throwing my hands up. “Some of us have to break down doors just to be considered, and you were handed a master key—and it’s bullshit.”

Mick just stares. And the second I hear my own words echo back in my head, a lump rises in my throat.

“Right,” he says flatly. “Because I’m sure your father being the Texas Storm’s head coach for over a decade hasn’t helped you at all. ”

“That’s not the same,” I argue, my voice suddenly hoarse. “I’ve earned my spot.”

“And I haven’t?”

“Not in hockey. My dad never bought me an opportunity.”

He gives a smug half-smile. “You want to believe we’re different. But we’re not.”

“We are?—”

“And two,” he cuts in, raising a second finger, “I didn’t have to try to make your career into a joke.”

My brows pull together. “What?”

“Because let’s be honest,” he says with mock sympathy, “it already is.”

“Excuse me?” I breathe.

“C’mon, Caroline. You’ve got the face for TV—any guy can see that. But you were always going to be ‘Coach Barrett’s daughter.’ And now?” He leans in, voice lower. “You’re also Slutty Sutty’s puck bunny.”

“I told you?—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs. “Because that’s what they already think. And now they’ll never take you seriously.”

I swallow hard, refusing to drop his gaze even as my eyes sting. I tip my chin up to stop the tear threatening to fall.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” I mutter.

“Liar,” Mick mouths with a smirk.

I open my mouth to fire back, but a waitress appears with another one of his cocktails. He takes it with an easy smile, raises it toward his lips—then pauses.

“Here,” he says, offering the glass to me. “Looks like you need this more than I do.”

My hand takes it before my brain catches up. I’m too stunned, too furious to stop it.

“Word of advice, Care Bear,” Mick says, leaning in one last time. “Stick to rinkside reporting, paint on your pretty smile, ask your softball questions, and stay out of my way. This isn’t school anymore. This is the real world. And you don’t stand a chance.”

He steps back and claps his hands. “Alright, boys! Shots on me.”

The scene around me blurs as he disappears into the crowd, our classmates trailing after him. I look down at the glass in my hand, my knuckles white as I grip it tighter. Tighter.

Count to three.

Stand tall.

Move on.

Don’t let them see they got to you.

I start to set the drink down. Then I change my mind. I raise it to my lips and throw it back in one sharp gulp, slamming the empty glass onto the bar.

I turn to leave—back exit, now—but only make it a few steps before a voice stops me cold.

“Hey—hey, wait!”

I freeze.

Of course.

I fully intend to keep walking. But—against my better judgment—I turn. Slowly.

And there he is.

Rhett. Drink in hand, slouched in the center of a leather couch, surrounded by at least five women draped around him from every angle.

He moves to stand, struggling to untangle his arm from behind one of them, nearly spilling his drink in the process.

They cling to him, buzzing around like bees to a hive full of honey.

And I just… stare.

Because sometimes, the most unbelievable thing…

Is how believable it really is.