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twenty-five

CAROLINE

Toronto, ON, CA

Rhett and I haven’t spoken.

Not during the flight to Toronto. Not at the rink. Not once all day.

I should be grateful for the quiet. Our rooms were booked before this marriage circus started, so Linda agreed—reluctantly—to let us keep the separate hotel accommodations for this trip. I thought I’d savor the solitude. But instead of enjoying it, I spent the entire night thinking about him.

I kept replaying the performance we gave on the plane. The way Rags and Buck looked at us like we were something real. The flicker—just for a moment—when I wondered what it might actually feel like to let it be real.

And then I remembered the phone call. The voice on the other end. The things I heard. And the way Rhett looked right after—like his mask slipped and, for the first time, I saw the real him. I don’t even know what that means, exactly. But I know I can’t stop thinking about it.

This morning, like always, he was back to normal. Smiling, joking, lighting up every room he walked into. But even from a distance, I could see it—the smile not quite reaching his eyes.

The game itself was a blur. The arena buzzed with that special kind of electricity only Toronto knows how to create.

Rhett was unstoppable—fast, sharp, laser-focused.

He scored early, teammates swarmed him, and for a second I felt it too.

The surge of pride, the glow of something bigger than the noise around us.

The loudest of that noise, though—almost breaking through it all—was two people on the glass in the stands wearing number 19 Storm jerseys.

It was Teddy and Shaunna James—Bennett’s parents.

Familiar faces I’ve known since I was a teenager, beaming with the kind of warmth you don’t fake.

When I passed by to set up an intermission clip with them, Shaunna hugged me like family.

They called Rhett their second son. The one they “should have had.”

But the two people who actually raised him?

Nowhere to be seen.

And I can’t stop wondering about that either.

The Storm won 4–2. Rhett was named first star of the game. The post-game press conferences wrapped. And I practically ran to the hotel snack bar for something—anything—to take the edge off my buzzing brain.

That’s where Ronan found me.

“Hey, Caroline.”

“Hey yourself, R2.”

“Whatcha got there?”

I hold up my bag of candy and bottle of Dr. Pepper as we both head toward the elevators. “A little pick-me-up. ”

“Nice, same,” he replies, lifting the glass of red wine in his hand.

“Yours is a little classier than mine,” I chuckle.

“Nah,” he grins. “This is for heart health. Yours is for the soul.” He hits the up button on the elevator. “Sutty had a great game tonight.”

“He really did.”

“Is he already in bed sleeping it off?”

I’m about to ask how I’d know, but then remember—we’re supposed to be sharing a room.

“Yep, he sure is,” I say.

“Well, good. He deserves it. Besides, we’ve got kind of an early flight back tomorrow.”

“We’re taking off at 11 a.m., Ronan.”

“Really?” he questions. “Damn, even earlier than I thought.”

I laugh, shaking my head just as the elevator dings.

We both step forward when the doors begin to slide open—then I freeze.

Rhett’s standing inside.

He stiffens when he sees us but recovers fast. “Hey, baby,” he says smoothly, like he’s been waiting for me.

“Hi,” I blurt, stepping into the elevator. Ronan follows. I flick a look at Rhett, silently begging him to play along. “You told me you were in bed… babe.”

Rhett squints for half a second before catching on. “Oh. No, I said I was heading to bed. Or at least, that’s what I meant.” His gaze drops to the bag in my hand. “Are those… gummy bears?”

“Yep,” I mutter.

He stares at me, a disbelieving smirk appearing. “Are you kidding?”

“I wish,” I say, already mentally preparing for the new nickname that’s definitely coming.

Things go quiet for a moment as Rhett and I awkwardly avoid each other’s eyes, trying not to make anything seem off in front of Ronan.

The ride is awkward. Silent. I’m too aware of Ronan standing beside me, of Rhett’s weight beside us, of the tension stretching thin between us. I let out a silent sigh of relief when the elevator dings again. When the doors open, Rhett steps out.

“Goodnight,” he says.

The doors begin to close—until Ronan’s arm shoots out, stopping them. I glance up at him.

“Aren’t you getting off?” he asks.

I blink. “Oh—right.” I force a laugh and step out. “Night, R2. See you bright and early tomorrow.”

I begin following Rhett toward “our” room.

“Don’t we take off at eleven?” he asks.

“Yep,” I say, voice flat.

The elevator doors close behind us—separating us from Ronan, from the rest of the world, and from any reason to be together any longer. Our feet slow to a stop.

“Well,” I clear my throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I start to turn, but Rhett’s voice stops me.

“I saw your interview,” he says.

I face him again. “With Teddy and Shaunna?”

He nods. “In the locker room.”

“They were nice,” I say.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “They’re great.”

“They care about you,” I press. “A lot.”

“Mmm.”

“They called you the second son they should have had.”

That makes him look at me.

“What did they mean by that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Why didn’t you ask them during your interview? ”

“Because they think I’m your wife who already knows everything about you.”

His gaze darts away. “You know what you need to know.”

“Do I?” I step closer.

“Yes.”

“What about what I want to know?”

“Look, I’m beat,” he says. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

“Why weren’t your parents at the game tonight, Rhett?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, jaw ticking. “They’re out of town.”

“Which is it?”

“Which is what?”

“You don’t know?” I ask. “Or they were out of town?”

He exhales hard through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me,” I say softly.

He shakes his head, already turning. “Goodnight, C?—”

“Don’t you want to know what your dad said on the phone?”

That stops him. He freezes.

“If I did,” he says, voice low, “I’d answer his calls.”

“Did something happen between you two?”

“Not today.”

“You know what I mean, Rhett.”

He meets my eyes, then looks away again. His fingers flex at his side. “I don’t think you know what you mean.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You don’t even know what question you’re asking.”

“Well, explain it to me,” I say, stepping closer. “What did your dad do?”

His gaze locks on mine now. “Why would you assume my dad did anything?”

I pause. “Did your mom do something?”

His mouth twitches. “Did yours? ”

“How is that relevant?”

“I don’t know. How is any part of this conversation relevant?”

“Because… it has to do with you.”

“And?” he asks. “So that means it has to do with you?”

“Well, kinda.”

He drags a hand down his face, pressing his tongue into his cheek. Then he lets out a low laugh.

“What is so funny?”

“Just that I’ve had to practically beg for your attention for years, but this is what suddenly sparks your interest.”

“What do you?—”

“I mean, what is it?” he snaps. “Are you looking for another fun fact for your back pocket? Another bullet point for your script?”

“What? Rhett, no. I just want to understand?—”

“Yeah, well, you don’t need to understand everything.”

“I know that… I just don’t understa— I mean?—”

He exhales hard and turns away, taking off. “I’m going to bed.”

“Does this have something to do with Chicago?”

He stops. Doesn’t move. His back stays to me.

“Why would you ask that?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it.

I swallow. “Your dad… on the phone. Right before you came back, he started to say something about Chicago…”

A beat. Two. No reaction.

“Rhett, what really happened when you were there? There are so many rumors, but nobody really knows.”

His shoulders rise slightly—just enough to notice—and stay there. Held breath. Locked tension.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve already made up your mind. ”

“No.” I shake my head, even though he can’t see it. “I want you to tell me.”

I might have had theories at one point. But they were about a different Rhett. Not this one. The simple one I thought I knew.

He says nothing. He doesn’t move a muscle.

“Rhett?”

I take a step forward, then another, slow and cautious. Like I’m approaching a wild animal. I reach out and gently touch his shoulder.

“Rhett, just talk to me?—”

“I don’t want to, Cub,” he explodes, spinning around so fast my hand drops. “Not about that. Not about any of that. So just drop it, will you? I don’t?—”

He breaks off, chest heaving.

“You don’t what?”

One fist clenches at his side, the other shoots up into his hair, tugging hard like he’s trying to silence whatever’s clawing its way out. Then, like a switch, the fight drains from his face. His voice drops cold.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

The words land hard. Too hard.

I stare up at him. For a second, I think I see regret flicker in his expression—but if it’s there, it’s gone in the blink of an eye.

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Don’t worry, Rhett. I won’t be talking to you about it again. Or anything else.”

He nods once, sharp and stiff like it costs him something. Then he turns. Walks away.

I do the same.

My pulse thuds in my ears until it’s drowned out by a door slamming in the distance.