Page 11

eleven

CAROLINE

I don’t waste a second before turning away and taking off for the door.

“Cub, wait,” Rhett calls after me.

Even though he couldn’t stop me if he tried, my steps slow when a waitress steps into my path, balancing a tray of orange shots.

“Excuse me,” I say to her. “Are those on the Davis tab?”

She nods with a smile. “I’m bringing them over to the group right now.”

“Great.” I pluck one off the tray just as Rhett catches up.

“Cub?”

“And one for him,” I add, tipping my chin toward him and grabbing a second. “Thanks.”

As soon as she moves past us, I down both shots, dropping the empty glasses on a nearby table as I keep walking.

“Cub, would you just wait?—”

I spin around. “What do you want, Rhett?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I’ve been worried. ”

I let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah. You looked real torn up back there.”

“What?” His brow furrows.

“You looked really concerned, sandwiched between your fan club. Any of them interested in your shoe store pitch?”

“Cub, come on. It wasn’t like that.”

“It’s always like that,” I say flatly. “Save it for someone who still buys what you’re selling.”

“Okay, hold on,” Rhett retorts, but I’m already walking away.

I only make it a few steps before he’s in front of me again, blocking my path.

I cross my arms, glaring up at him. “Move.”

He holds his hands up. “Where’s the fire, Smokey?”

I glare harder.

Smokey Bear? Is he actually serious?

“Oh wait, I know,” Rhett continues, glancing down. “It’s in your pants.”

“Excuse me?”

“Or on your pants. Whatever.” He pauses. “You lied.”

I blink, completely thrown. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You didn’t get the TV analyst job,” he says.

I pull my head back, stunned. “No, Rhett. I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because they gave it to Dick Davis instead,” I snap, throwing my hands in the air, stepping to move past him.

“No,” he says firmly, stepping in front of me again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I glance past him, spot the waitress heading back to the bar. “Excuse me!” I call. “Could we get two more of those shots, please?”

If I’m being forced to have this conversation, I’m doing it with more alcohol .

She eyes us with mild suspicion. “Mr. Davis said they weren’t for you. So what tab is it going to be on?”

“The Sutton tab,” Rhett says without hesitation. “Whatever she wants.”

She gives us both a long look, then walks off.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I mutter.

“I know. I wanted to. Most people would just say thank you.”

“And most people would have taken a hint by now,” I shoot back. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“God, you never give me an inch,” he mutters, raking a hand through his curls.

“Because you’ll take a mile. I know your game.”

“There’s no game,” he says, voice steady. “Not with you.”

I hold his gaze, chest tight. I start to say something, but the waitress reappears, setting down two fresh shots. I stare at mine, regretting it already.

Then Rhett says quietly, “I’m sorry about the interview.”

The shot goes down like water.

“I had no idea you’d be down there. You told me you got the analyst gig?—”

“I never said that,” I cut in.

“But you didn’t not say it,” he counters. “You ambushed me in the middle of my first game?—”

He doesn’t say “as captain,” but it hangs there between us.

“You shoved a mic in my face and smiled at me like you didn’t hate me for once?—”

“Well, that’s why they pay me the big bucks,” I deadpan, nodding to his untouched shot. “You gonna drink that?”

He hands it over wordlessly. I down it too.

“It just slipped out,” he says.

“Sorry, which part? The flirty shoe line or the nickname? Actually, never mind. Doesn’t matter. Both made me look like a joke. So, RIP my career, I guess. Goodnight?— ”

“Whoa, hold on,” Rhett says, reaching to stop me.

He doesn’t have to try hard. My heel catches on a table leg and I stumble—straight into his chest.

I gasp as his arms catch me. I look up, ready to tell him off, but I freeze.

We’re close. Too close. His hands are warm on my arms. My breath catches when my eyes meet his—flecks of green and gold I never noticed before.

I should step back. I don’t.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But then I hear Mick’s laugh across the room, and the spell shatters. I straighten sharply and pull away, glancing over my shoulder. He’s facing his group, not looking at us.

I tuck my hair behind my ear. “I gotta go.”

I barely get two steps before Rhett blocks me again.

“I know you’re not giving up that easily.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Why are you leaving?” he asks, glancing toward the group. “Who are they?”

“How should I know?”

He tilts his head. “Baby Bear, you say you see through me. Don’t be surprised I can see through you too.”

He steps closer.

“Don’t bullshit me.”

I sigh. “Former classmates,” I admit, motioning to the group. “Including my all-time favorite, Dick Davis… I have no clue how he found out about this place.”

“Wait,” Rhett says, frowning. “You mean Mick? The new TV guy?”

My eyes narrow. “Yes. The new TV analyst.”

His face twists. “Oh. Uh… I might’ve invited him.”

I blink. “Of course you did. ”

“I didn’t know not to. He came up after the game, introduced himself, seemed cool—I mentioned we’d be here?—”

“He seemed cool,” I repeat flatly. “Of course he did.”

“Cub, I?—”

“Hey, kids,” a deep voice interrupts from behind us.

We both turn to see Randall, the bar’s owner, smiling kindly as he sets down a tray with two mojitos.

“Double-made an order,” he says. “All yours. On the house.”

“Thanks, Randall,” we both say in unison, managing polite smiles until he walks away.

“Well, that was sweet of him,” I say. “But I’m not going to be needing this, so it’s all yours, Sutton.”

I try to sidestep him again, but he shifts, blocking me effortlessly.

“Goddammit,” I grumble, swatting at his chest. “Why are you so?—”

“So what?”

Irritating. Arrogant. Maddening. Impossible.

But what slips out is: “Big.”

“Big?” Rhett repeats, eyebrows lifting, amused.

“Yes,” I huff, actually stomping my foot. “Why are you so big? And… irri—frustrat—ddening.”

I slap my hand over my face.

“Sorry?” Rhett laughs.

“I changed my mind. You can’t have this anymore,” I mutter, grabbing one of the mojitos and taking a long sip. I try for another, but nothing comes through the straw.

When I open my eyes, Rhett’s holding the straw shut between his fingers.

“Excuse you,” I scoff.

“Do you think maybe you’ve had enough?” he asks gently.

“Not if I’m still having to talk to you,” I mutter. “And besides, I tried to leave. You won’t let me. ”

“Because you shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you need to show all those people that you’re unfazed. That you don’t give a shit what they think—just like you always do.”

I lower my glass slowly. His hand falls away.

“I am unfazed,” I say.

He nods.

“And I don’t give a shit what they think.”

Another nod.

“But that would be a lot easier if you hadn’t made all of them think you’re fucking me tonight.”

Rhett winces, muttering, “Jesus,” as he scrubs a hand over his face.

“Care Bear?—”

“Yep,” I nod. “That’ll do it.”

“Fuck, I didn’t mean—dammit. Caroline, I’m sorry?—”

“Save it,” I snap, turning away.

“No.” His hand catches my shoulder, gentle but firm. “I don’t want to save it. Because I don’t deserve to.”

I glance back, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice.

“I’m so sorry. I really, truly am. There were a million expectations on me tonight, and out of all the ones I failed at, this is the one I’m most ashamed of.

I’d lose the first game of the season all over again—freeze up in the locker room, look like a flop in front of my team—but messing up your first interview? That’s the one that kills me.”

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. For once, I have nothing to say.

“I care more that I fucked up your night than mine,” he says softly. “If I could take it back, I would. And I swear, if anyone tries to discredit your work because of something related to me—or at all—I’ll set them straight. Okay? ”

I swallow. “Okay.”

He holds my gaze. “Please—tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

I shake my head. “I just… I just want you to leave. Or at least leave me alone.”

His eyes search mine. “If I leave, will you stay?”

“What?”

“If I leave, will you stay?” he repeats.

“Will you pull out that confidence I know is tucked right beneath the surface—because you’re never without it—and show every prick in this place that there’s nothing they can say or do that would ever shake you?

If I leave, will you have a good fucking night without me? ”

I hesitate, then nod. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

“Done,” he says simply, stepping back with a crooked grin. “Have a good night, Baby Bear.”

And just like that, he walks away—doesn’t look back once as he pushes through the front door and disappears into the night.

I stare after him long after the door swings shut. Blink a few times. Wonder if I dreamed the whole thing.

Then I press my lips together, lift my chin, and turn toward the growing noise. I spot a few familiar faces—girls I wasn’t exactly close with but knew well enough to make conversation.

I glance down at the mojito still in my hand, then tip it back, skipping the straw and chugging the rest. I grab Rhett’s abandoned beer from the table and start walking. My steps are shaky. My resolve is not.

Because in my head, I hear it again.

You’re having a good fucking night.