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eighteen

CAROLINE

Austin, TX, USA

Never in my life have I fucked up like this. Not in a way that leaves me totally out of control of my future. And the longer I’ve sat here alone in my apartment, the deeper I’ve spiraled into a pit of emotional turmoil.

I don’t want to admit it, but I keep wondering if all these years have been for nothing.

All the effort I’ve poured into achieving this insanely competitive dream—always being the most knowledgeable person in the room, walking the razor-thin line between confident and brash that women are allowed, never giving anyone a reason to doubt me—wiped out in a single twenty-four-hour period.

And the worst part? It’s my fault. Dad was right. Everything that happened is because I put myself in a position to let it. That’s what kills me most.

I came straight home after the meeting with Rhett and did everything I could to distract myself from the choice—that’s not even really a choice—that I’m supposed to make by the end of the night.

I watched highlights from yesterday’s games (except the Storm’s), jogged on the treadmill, did a virtual Pilates class, showered, did laundry, cleaned the dishes, reorganized my closet, decluttered my desk drawers, and scrubbed the apartment from top to bottom.

Now it’s nearly dinnertime, my ADHD meds (which I didn’t get to take with this morning’s events) are long gone from my system, and I’m curled up on the couch crocheting while Sex And The City plays in the background. It’s not working. My head feels like it might explode.

I spend twenty minutes debating where to go, but I already know the answer. The only place I want to be is at my desk in the Storm headquarters, studying updated team and player stats. Especially if it’s only mine for a few more hours.

So I change into business casual clothes, throw my laptop and notebook into a tote bag, and head out.

The building is nearly empty when I arrive, just a few janitors and a Zamboni driver resurfacing the practice rink ice.

I couldn’t be happier. I head straight to my office, open my laptop, and lose myself in numbers until a sudden clap of thunder jolts me out of my focus.

I look out the window, finding the night sky pitch black.

Lightning flashes, and I shoot out of my chair.

“ Shit ,” I mutter, grabbing my phone, stunned I didn’t notice the time or the incoming storm.

9:42 PM. Rain in eleven minutes.

I slam my laptop closed, shove it in my bag, and head for the exit.

But I only make it a few steps before thunder cracks again—loud enough to shake the building.

I yelp, instinctively ducking and covering my head.

Then another crack hits. I cower—but then register the sound.

It comes again. Blunt and repetitive. Not thunder .

I slowly straighten and turn my head. Through the glass, I see Rhett on the practice rink, over a dozen pucks scattered on the ice in front of him as he takes slap shot after slap shot.

Another puck misses the net, ricocheting off the glass behind it and making the exact sound I mistook for thunder.

Rhett curses at his missed shot, resting his stick on his shoulders and spinning around. His gaze lands square on me, and I freeze. But then another boom of real thunder sounds, and I flinch, my hand flying to my chest.

When I’ve steadied, Rhett is still looking at me, one brow raised. After a pause, he tilts his head back in a motion that says: come in .

I exhale, glance at my phone. No way I’m beating the rain now. With nothing better to do, I obey his request.

I set my bag on the bench as Rhett lines up another shot. It pings off the crossbar.

He goes still, staring at the net. Then, without warning, he snaps—slamming his stick on the ice and splitting it clean in two. He chucks it aside and skates toward me, grabbing a spare from behind the bench.

“Hi,” he says, like nothing just happened.

“Hi,” I echo, brows raised.

“What are you doing here so late?”

“Reviewing stats.”

“And that had to be done here?”

“No, but… I didn’t really want to be at home.”

He studies me for a beat. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

He skates back out. I call after him, “What are you doing here?”

He fires three shots. One dings off the post, one bounces into the net, the third slams the glass hard enough to leave a rubber mark .

He bends over, breathing heavily. “My slap shot’s been off since preseason.”

“Oh, yeah.” I pause. “I noticed.”

Three-quarters of Rhett’s goals are slap shots he rips from the left point. Hard not to notice.

He takes another shot.

Crossbar. Again.

“Dammit.”

“You’re overgripping. And holding too high on the shaft with your bottom hand. It’s throwing off your balance.”

He blinks, surprised.

“Here.” I step inside the rink. “Move your left hand down.” He obeys. I adjust it a little more and shake his elbow. “Loosen up.”

I take a step back. “Try now.”

He watches me, then rears back and takes a shot.

The puck rockets cleanly into the net.

“And you’re back,” I say, arms crossed.

He fires off the rest. All on target.

He skates back, almost laughing in disbelief.

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something—when another thunderclap rattles the roof.

I gasp, startled. I can feel my heartbeat under my left hand where it rests against my chest, but it takes me a moment to register that my right hand… is gripping Rhett’s forearm.

I blink down and quickly let go. “Sorry,” I mutter, brushing off my sweater and tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

When I meet Rhett’s gaze again, I find he hasn’t moved back an inch from where I pulled him close.

“I’m just not the biggest fan of storms,” I admit, my voice softer than I meant.

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “You’re not the biggest fan of me,” he says, “and I can barely get you to acknowledge my existence half the time. You must really hate storms.”

I start to deflect, but another sharp boom makes me flinch again.

Rhett’s expression shifts, the playful spark dimming as his eyes linger on my face, reading something deeper.

“So there is something that scares you,” he says quietly. “Didn’t think anything did.”

“I’m scared of plenty,” I murmur, leaning against the bench wall. “Today I’ve realized… there’s more than I want to admit.”

Silence stretches.

“I’m scared too,” he says, barely audible.

I glance at him. “Of what?”

He presses his lips together like he’s thinking—but before he can answer, his phone rings from behind me.

I pick it up off the bench.

“ Austin Blonde #9 ?” I read, flashing him the screen. “Really, Rhett?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Just send it to voicemail.”

“You sure? She might tell Austin Brunette #4 what a jerk you are.”

“They’re not friends—” He stops when I raise my brows.

“You’re unbelievable,” I say, ending the call.

I set his phone down and grab my bag.

“Hey,” he calls as I turn to leave.

I stop, letting out a sigh before I face him again. “Yes?”

“Thank you. You fixed my slap shot.”

“I just told you what I saw.”

“You see more than most.”

“Well, it’s kinda my job—” I start, then falter. We’re both thinking it.

It was my job.

And I was going to be damn good at it .

“But it’s more than that,” Rhett says. “It’s not just a job. It’s in your blood.”

“Yeah, well, my blood is half the reason it’s slipping through my fingers.” I swallow hard.

“Cub?”

“Yeah?”

He skates closer. “You don’t have to give it up.”

“Well, it’s not like I have a choice.”

“But… you do.”

“I do?” I say, the irony landing hard. I shake my head. “No. No, I don’t.”

He doesn’t look away.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you might actually suggest what I think you’re about to.”

He exhales. “Care Bear… I just… I don’t ever want to be one of the reasons you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared of you,” I say, but my voice is weaker than I want. My chest flutters.

“Then prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Prove it. Don’t give up.”

“How am I giving up?”

“You have a choice.”

My eyes narrow. “Are you seriously suggesting we do this? Go along with their plan?”

“I can think of worse things I could be forced to do.”

“Rhett, no?—”

“I got us into this mess. I’ll do whatever it takes to fix it?—”

“Getting married is not a fix. And it’s not equal punishment for the crime.” I sigh. “Besides, it’s not entirely your fault. I’m the one who got wasted?— ”

“Because of the interview?—”

“Which only happened because I was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t get the analyst job.”

Silence.

“You deserved that job,” he says. “You still do.”

“Rhett—”

“People can think what they want about me. I’ve been in the game a long time. But you’re just getting started. I’m not letting you throw it all away. Not because of me.”

“So the only solution is sacrificing three to five years of our lives for a fake PR marriage?”

“Cub, we don’t have to give up our lives. I’ve been thinking about it all day. We’re both so busy. Eight months of the year, it’s hockey. Between traveling, me playing, you working, and offseasons however we want… three to five years will go by in a blink.”

I stare at him for a long time. “You’re… actually serious about this?”

“Look, it’s a shit situation we’ve been put in. And I am so fucking sorry that we’re in it. But it doesn’t have to be a prison sentence. It can be… whatever we want it to be.”

“Whatever we want it to be,” I repeat flatly.

“Yeah. We don’t have to be anything more than what we already are,” he says, voice low. “It doesn’t have to change anything. Just… on paper.”

“Everything would change, Rhett.”

“The change doesn’t have to be bad. We can play our part, please the Storm…

then you can stay here, keep your job… and I’ll salvage whatever’s possible of my image.

Try to be the captain I’m supposed to be.

” He rubs the back of his neck. “Look, Cub, I know it’s insane… but I think it’s what’s best.”

I take a step closer, crossing my arms. “Why would you do this for me?”

“Because it’s you. And the truth is, there could’ve been a hundred other people in that conference room today, and all of their disdain and disappointment in me combined wouldn’t have hurt me as much as knowing I let you down has. And I know you never believe a word I say, but that’s the truth.”

I’m speechless, still processing.

“I have a lot to make up for in life,” Rhett murmurs. “And after today, that especially includes you. So whatever you need from me, I’m there. No questions asked.”

“And what would Blonde #9 think?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know?—”

“I’m not here to be your Blonde #10, Rhett?—”

“I know that. I would never want you to be.”

My lips press together. “If we did this, I’m not changing who I am.”

“I would never expect you to.”

“I can smile for the cameras when they’re around, but in private, nothing would change. And I’m not going to fawn all over you or follow you to every bar and nightclub you want as your arm candy.”

“Okay.”

“But you also can’t allow other women to do that either. Not if everyone thinks we’re married. I won’t let you embarrass me?—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He glances away. “Not again.”

“It would need to be believable,” I say. “There would have to be rules. Boundaries. Trust.”

“I can do rules.”

He looks down at me. And as much as my brain is screaming at me to run, there’s something steady in his eyes that makes me pause. Makes me want to believe him.

The silence stretches—until my phone rings, slicing through it. I reach into my tote bag and pull it out.

“It’s Linda. ”

“She’s early,” Rhett says.

I bite my bottom lip. “I know she wants an answer.”

“Do we have one?”

I lift my head, finding Rhett’s face closer than I expect. I zero in on his eyes again. Because I don’t have a choice. Because—somehow—they’re the only thing keeping me from unraveling.

“Do you really want to do this?” I ask.

“I want to do whatever you want to do.”

“I don’t want this.” My voice cracks, barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“I had a plan. I was so close.”

“I know,” he says again, softer.

A long beat passes. I stare at the screen, the phone still buzzing in my hand. My thumb hovers over the green button. I glance back up at Rhett.

“But I can’t just give up, can I?”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at me, open in a way I’m not used to.

“Not on my watch.”

The words echo between us. I close my eyes. Blow out a breath—long and slow.

And then I answer the call.