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twenty-eight

RHETT

Austin, TX, USA

I still don’t believe it.

“Are you ready?” I call out.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Lauren: You in town? Let’s get together some time this week.

I swipe the notification away, along with the rest.

“Almost. One sec,” she replies from behind the door.

Three words.

I pocket my phone.

“Okay, sounds good.”

That’s about all we’ve said to each other this past week. Three words at a time. Max.

Not since the flight back from Toronto—the one where she nearly came apart in my hands, fully clothed, her fingers gripping my shoulders, her body pressed to mine like she needed the contact just to breathe. Like she had always belonged there.

The same flight where, not even a second after she slipped out the bathroom door, I found myself hunched over the sink, trying to get myself under control like a goddamn teenage boy. Desperate. Unraveled. Reckless.

I wanted to follow her. Ignore her instructions, catch her by the wrist, drag her right back inside that ridiculous excuse for a bathroom to finish what she started.

But her dad had come for her. He’d see it. So instead, I gritted my teeth, replaced the image of her in my head with hockey plays, and prayed I could keep it together—for my pride and for the sake of my favorite Tom Ford dress pants.

And still, even now—seven days later—the memory plays in perfect detail. A highlight reel I didn’t ask for but can’t stop watching. Every movement, every sound, every look she gave me etched into my mind like a carving in ice.

It’s enough to stir something again. I shift against the kitchen island, willing my thoughts not to go too far.

I shake my head, turn the faucet on cold, and splash water over my face.

As I dry off, I catch sight of a half-full glass of wine on the counter—one Caroline must’ve poured before getting ready and then completely forgotten about. One of her many quirks.

Like the way she bites her lip when she’s about to?—

I turn the tap back on. Splash more water.

Jesus Christ.

How the hell am I going to get through tonight?

Without thinking, I grab the wine and down it in two gulps, setting the glass back on the counter.

I brace myself over the island, trying to focus.

The puck’s on the boards. Defender’s closing in.

Can’t rush it. Wait for Rags. Let him pull the D .

Fake right. Cut left.

Send it off the glass behind the net. R2 picks it up, fakes the one-timer, slips it back.

I’m flying into the left circle.

The goalie’s not ready.

I rip it top shelf.

The lamp lights.

I spin.

She’s there.

She’s screaming my name.

She’s—

“Okay, I’m ready.”

I raise my head.

I blink.

And just like that, every bit of effort to pull myself together disappears.

Caroline is standing in my kitchen— our kitchen—wearing a white satin cocktail dress that floats over her like it was stitched by moonlight. The neckline dips just enough to catch the eye—and to make me question why I never thought of collarbones as sexy before.

The fabric clings to her waist, then parts at her thigh in a slit that feels like an invitation—or a dare.

I grit my teeth.

No. Not now. Keep it together.

I force my gaze upward, to her face.

Her short, ice-blonde hair is curled in soft waves, one side pinned back with a silver clip dotted with pearls. Her eyelids shimmer faintly, catching the light like frost. Her cheeks and lips are dusted in the palest pink, like winter kissed her on the way out the door.

She’s glowing. Fucking radiant. A goddamn snow angel.

And all I want to do is melt into her .

“Are you okay?”

Her voice cuts through the haze.

I run a hand over my mouth, steadying myself.

“You look incredible.”

Three more words. Nowhere near enough.

She glances down. “Oh. Thank you.”

She may have stared straight into my soul that night on the plane, but since then, she’s barely looked at me. Like eye contact might break whatever walls she’s managed to rebuild between us in the last seven days. I don’t know if it’s her intention—but it feels like she’s punishing me.

I stay quiet, hoping she’ll look at me again. Hoping something will shift in those glassy blue eyes, and I’ll finally see what she’s not saying.

But instead, she fusses with her tiny white handbag, rearranging things that don’t need rearranging.

“Ready to go?” she asks.

“Whenever you are.”

After an almost entirely silent car ride—Caroline staring out the window, me playing through a whole period of hockey in my head just to keep myself in check—we pull up to the Texas Storm’s annual charity gala.

“Wait a sec,” I say as the valet moves to open our doors.

Caroline’s brows knit, but she pauses, letting me walk around the front of the Rover and offer her my hand.

The cameras flash the second she steps out. Her cheeks look a little pinker now than they did in the apartment—though it might just be the lights. Either way, she doesn’t let go of my hand .

“Nice touch, Sutton,” she mutters behind her photo-op smile.

We stay linked long enough to get inside.

The gala has always made for an interesting night. It’s basically a fancy party that donors and rich fans pay a small fortune to get into so that they can dress up, play socialite, and hang around with the Storm players for the night while they wine, dine, and throw money at a good cause.

All the other years I’ve been here, I just had to show up, smile for photos, schmooze, and let donors’ wives and daughters try to find out how bendable the “no touching” rule really was.

It usually only took about five minutes before I had to start dodging numbers being dropped into my pocket—or my drink.

But this year’s different.

This year, I’m the team captain. The guy everyone’s looking for. And the most beautiful girl in the building is already going home with me. But something tells me that won’t stop others from trying.

“Here goes nothing,” I mutter under my breath as we walk through the venue doors.

Within seconds, we’re swarmed—donors, fans, press, teammates. Everyone wants a piece of us. Of me. Photos, congratulations, small talk, marriage questions.

Most people would hate this part. But this? This is the easiest thing in the world to me. Chaos helps me clear my head. And people? They’re predictable. They all want the same thing—attention, power, and praise. Give them that, and you’ll have them in the palm of your hand.

It’s a lot, but I thrive in this environment. I’m built for it. And, by the look of it, so is Caroline.

“Hey, you two!” a familiar voice calls out.

I turn to find Kelly Wisneski, all sparkles and red lipstick, tugging her husband—and my teammate—John along behind her.

Kelly hugs us both. “I’ve got to say, it is just so crazy knowing you two are married now,” she says with a bright laugh. “I don’t think my jaw’s ever hit the floor harder than when John told me.”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Caroline laughs.

“Oh, not at all,” Kelly replies.

“Huh?” I ask, at the same time Caroline says, “Really?”

Kelly waves her drink like it’s nothing. “Please. The tension between you two has been obvious for years. I figured five years down the line, you’d either be married or kill each other. Couldn’t tell which.”

She leans into John, who presses a kiss to her temple.

At the same time, Caroline and I shift closer—just a hair.

I raise my arm to wrap around her shoulder.

She lifts hers at the same time. We fumble, collide, and end up tangled awkwardly before finally managing to settle next to each other, stiff as mannequins.

“Well, neither could I, honestly,” I say, eyes on Caroline. “From her side, at least.”

She looks up at me, surprised.

“My Care Bear sure knows how to play hard to get. But I’m a patient man.”

Kelly beams. “How romantic. I had money on this being the outcome all along. I’m just glad to know it was love after all.”

Caroline’s throat bobs, her eyes flicking away. “Well, you know what they say. There’s a fine line between hate and love.”

My hand slides to the small of her back. She shivers.

“Is that so, Cub?”

She lifts her gaze to mine slowly. Her lips part?—

“Excuse me, Rhett?”

Caroline flinches slightly as one of the Storm’s event planners taps me on the shoulder .

“Sorry to interrupt, but they’d like you to say a few words before we open the dance floor.”

“Oh, right. Sure,” I say, already being dragged toward the stage by the wrist.

Coach is already up there when I arrive. He does most of the talking; I just chime in when needed, thanking everyone and smiling through the rest.

The whole time, I squint past the lights trying to find Caroline in the crowd, but I can’t seem to spot her.

When I finally make it back over to Kelly and John, they let me know she slipped off to the restroom.

I take the opportunity to hit the bar, sliding a couple of bills into the tip jar before grabbing a gin and tonic for myself and a martini for her.

I turn to head toward the restrooms, hoping to catch her as she comes out—only to nearly crash into someone already waiting for me.

A woman. She claps her hands, eyes sparkling, lips already tilted into a smirk. She grabs the martini right out of my hand.

“Well, looky there,” she purrs. “You remembered.”

I blink. “I…did?”

“Mhmm.” She takes a long sip. “We bonded over gin last year, remember? Said it brought out our freaky sides.” She licks her lips slowly, dragging a finger down my chest.

Sudden clarity hits—her mouth on me, her voice echoing off tile in the men’s restroom at last year’s gala.

I grip her wrist and pull her hand away as I walk us back a few steps, trying to keep us from drawing eyes.

“Sorry,” I say firmly. “You’ve got it wrong. A lot has changed.”

I flash my ring. “I’m married now.”

She laughs. “So are half the men I sleep with.”

Jesus.

“Last year was...” I shake my head. “I appreciated it then. But I’m not interested now.”

She leans in, her voice low and laced with mischief. “Really? Because your body’s telling me something different.” Her gaze flicks down to where my hand is still gripping her wrist.

I stop. Let go of her completely.

“Clearly, it stuck with you,” she says, smiling.

“Darlin’,” I shake my head, “I don’t even remember your name.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She winds an arm around my neck, leaning in, her breath warm against my ear. “Because clearly you remember where I was screaming yours.”

“What do you?—”

The words die when I glance up and realize we’ve stopped just outside the men’s restroom.

“N–no,” I stammer. “That’s not?—”

I cut off with a sharp hiss as she bites down on my earlobe.

My body jolts, instinctively stumbling forward.

My palm slaps against the wall to catch myself, but she stumbles with me, her other arm wrapping around my neck for balance.

Now we’re chest-to-chest, my hand braced beside her head, her leg nudging between mine.

“No,” I grit, jaw locked tight as I slide both hands to her waist and try to put space between us. “Enough.”

I push off the wall and turn—and that’s when I see her.

Caroline.

Standing in the doorway of the women’s restroom, just a few feet away.

Frozen. Watching.

Her eyes move from the girl’s arms around me to my hand still hovering near her hip. Then to the martini glass clutched in the blonde’s hand. Then back to me.

I hold up my hands, panicked. “Cub, I can explain?— ”

“What are you doing?” she asks, low and sharp.

“I… I was getting you a drink.”

Her eyes drop to the martini in the woman’s hand. Something flashes across her face before she lifts her icy gaze to mine. “A decent attempt for you, I guess.”

“Baby, I?—”

“No, it’s okay,” she cuts in. “I know how easily all your blondes blur together. I’ll make sure to wear a number on my back next time.”

“Cub—”

She’s already storming off toward the dance floor.

I start after her, but then I see Linda out of the corner of my eye. She notices me immediately, raising one brow, mid-conversation.

I pause. Straighten my tie. Force my shoulders to relax before turning and continuing to walk like I’m calm and collected.

It only takes a second to spot Caroline.

She’s standing on the edge of the dance floor, head bent as she whispers something to someone, her arm looped around theirs.

She pulls them onto the dance floor, dragging them into the lights.

And that’s when I realize?—

It’s Mick Davis.