Page 35

thirty-three

CAROLINE

Detroit, MI, USA

I walk through the arena doors and hand my ID to the security guard—Eddie, according to his name tag. He gives it a glazed-over glance, then double-takes, looking up.

“Barrett,” he says. “Jim Barrett’s… daughter?”

I nod. “Yep?—”

“Wait!” a young woman behind him gasps. She’s wearing a security jacket and sitting at the check-in table. “You’re married to Rhett Sutton, right?”

“Guilty,” I say with a tight smile.

“Oh my God,” she says, grinning behind her hand. “You guys are so cute?—”

“Maddy,” Eddie cuts in. “Can you get her a badge?”

“Oh!” she blurts, flustered. “Yes, of course.”

Eddie waves the metal detector around me while Maddy types quickly. A moment later, she peels a sticker from the printer and slaps it onto a lanyard.

“Aren’t you a reporter?” she asks as she hands it to me.

“Not tonight,” I say, slipping the lanyard over my head. The Storm’s game against Detroit is being aired nationally tonight, so the National Hockey Network’s broadcast team is covering it.

“I have the night off.”

I can’t say I mind either. We’ve been on the road for nearly three weeks, so it’s a welcome break. I love my job, but it’ll be nice to just watch tonight for a change.

“Well, enjoy the game!” Maddy chirps.

“I will, thanks.”

Eddie hands me back my purse after checking it, and I’m about to walk away when Maddy calls out again.

“Um… Mrs. Sutton?”

I freeze in place like I’m a robot that’s had a malfunction. “Barrett,” I gently correct. “Or Caroline. Caroline’s fine.”

She grins sheepishly and pulls out her phone. “Would you mind a quick selfie?”

“Oh.” I hesitate.

“Maddy,” Eddie warns.

“No, it’s okay,” I say, forcing a smile.

She squeals and spins toward me, lifting her phone to snap a few photos. I smile and nod through it.

Halfway down the tunnel, my phone buzzes. I glance at it—Maddy’s already posted.

@Maddy_in_Mich: Such an honor to meet the NHL’s newest WAG 3

I can’t help the little smile that tugs at my lips.

“You’re here.”

I spin around, finding Rhett standing in the locker room doorway.

“Where else would I be?”

I try to keep my tone casual—it’s about as nonchalant as Rhett’s awkward lean against the doorframe, which he nearly misses.

We haven’t said much lately. Not since the night of the gala. And well...

“NHN is doing the broadcast tonight, right?” he asks.

“They are,” I nod. “I’m just a fan tonight.”

“You didn’t want to do something else?”

“I don’t miss a game.”

“I know.” He pauses. “Just figured you might watch from the hotel. It’s been a long few weeks.”

“I thought about it,” I admit. “But it felt silly being across the street when I could be here.”

We’ve already spoken more in this moment than we have in weeks.

He’s not wrong—it has been a long few weeks.

Practice, travel, game, press, repeat. We’ve gotten through it by sitting beside each other on buses and planes with our headphones in, retreating to separate hotel rooms at night.

I’ve been logging overtime, watching footage twice over just to fill the silence.

And Rhett’s playing the best hockey I’ve seen from him in a while.

He’s got his grit back—playing like he’s angry, like there’s something he’s trying to sweat out.

Not that I’m proud of it, but hey—at least he can’t say I never did anything for him.

His gaze drifts down my body. It’s not the first time, but it feels different now. Less curious. More… haunted. Like he’s remembering, not imagining.

I straighten, smoothing my blouse and adjusting the badge around my neck. Rhett’s brow furrows.

“Did you file some paperwork I don’t know about?” he asks.

“What?”

He gestures at my badge.

I glance down at it, my mouth falling open when I see it reads Caroline Sutton .

I groan. “Maddy.”

“Who?”

“One of your fangirls was working security tonight. She was sweet—I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”

He steps closer, eyeing the badge.

“Doesn’t look too bad to me,” he says softly.

The energy shifts between us, and we both feel it, our gazes lifting to meet.

“Caroline?”

I jump at the voice behind me.

Dad.

Snatching the badge from Rhett’s hands, I turn it around and press it to my chest. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, hon. I wasn’t sure if you were coming.”

“I’m here,” I say with a smile.

“Well, you’re welcome to hang back here if you don’t want to sit in the suite. You can be on the bench for warm-ups too. We’ll be getting started in about twenty.”

“I’m gonna go stretch,” Rhett says.

“Okay. Good luck,” I offer.

He nods, tight-lipped, and disappears into the locker room.

“Ah, crap,” Dad mutters, pulling out his phone and stuffing a stack of papers under his arm. “Hang on one sec.”

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I made some last-minute tweaks to the lineup. Need to get the final up to the press box.”

I glance down at the page on top of the pile. “Is this it?”

He checks, then hands it over. “Yep.”

“I’ll take it up for you.”

“You sure?” he asks.

“Positive. ”

“All right then. I’d appreciate it. Thanks, hon.”

He hands me the paper, and a few minutes and a couple of badge flashes later, I’m standing outside the press box door.

I give it two loud knocks, waiting a beat before opening it—just in case I’m interrupting something.

But the second the door swings open, I realize there’s no way I could interrupt anything.

It’s chaos.

A dozen men in suits all talking at once—some barking at each other, others on frantic phone calls, a few muttering to themselves as they pace or tear through stacks of paper.

It only takes me a second to spot Bryan near the edge of the room, orbiting multiple conversations at once. Even though I’m not really sure why he’s here, given The Storm isn’t broadcasting tonight, I approach and tap his shoulder.

“Bryan?”

He doesn’t react. I tap him again. Then once more. He finally spins around.

“Oh—Caroline. Hi,” he clips, distracted.

“Hi. Sorry to interrupt. I’m just dropping off the final lineup.”

I hold out the sheet. He blinks at it, then drags a hand down his face and nods. “Right. Thank you.”

He takes it, and I hesitate. “Is… everything okay?”

He meets my eyes. “Honestly? No.”

“What happen?—”

“Bryan! Any update on Davis?” someone interrupts.

Bryan checks his phone, then turns. “No. And at this point, even if he was on his way, he wouldn’t make it in time to go on—let alone prep.”

Davis? I blink. “Mick?” I ask aloud.

Bryan nods, turning back to the other man. “He won’t be any help to us. ”

Mick and Ray both have the night off since NHN is covering. Why would they be trying to reach either of them?

“Is there something I can do to help?” I ask.

Bryan opens his mouth, but the other man cuts in with a dry laugh. “Unless you can conjure a hockey commentator out of thin air, I don’t think so, honey.”

My shoulders stiffen. “Wait—are you saying you don’t have commentators?”

Bryan sighs. “We have one. Tom Dunn. He does?—”

“The play-by-play,” I finish for him. He’s the narrator. The one calling every pass and shot.

“Exactly. But we’re missing Marc Bouchard. He was flying in from Montreal, but there’s a massive snowstorm. He’s grounded.”

“So you need a color commentator,” I say.

The analyst. The one adding insights, context, and personality.

“Correct,” the other man grits out, hammering at his phone.

“Ray would’ve been a no-brainer,” Bryan adds. “But he flew home early for his daughter’s wedding. We thought maybe Tom could switch roles and Mick could fill in—but Mick had plans downtown and isn’t answering.”

“I can do it.”

The words come out before I can think better of it. But there’s no time to think. Warm-ups start in fifteen minutes.

“I can do color. Bryan, I’ve got it.”

“You?” the other man asks, skeptical. “Who are you?”

“Joseph, this is Caroline Barrett,” Bryan cuts in. “Storm’s rinkside reporter.”

“And you think you can handle color commentary? Live? On a national broadcast?”

“I know I can.”

Another man snorts as he joins in. “Her? Who even is she? ”

“The best option you’ve got in this building,” I reply.

He scoffs. “There’s no way?—”

“Enough,” Joseph says, lifting a hand. He narrows his eyes at me. “What do you know about this game?”

“Hockey?”

“Tonight’s game. Give me some commentary.”

I take a breath. “The Storm have won seven of their last eight games?—”

“Okay, gold star,” the other guy snorts. “My five-year-old knows that. Maybe we should get him a headset.”

I keep going. “But they haven’t beaten Detroit on the road in three seasons.”

Now I have their attention.

“What do the Storm need to do to change that?” Joseph asks.

“Detroit’s penalty kill has been solid—82% over the last ten games.

Normally that would give them a huge edge, but Texas has the best power play in the league right now.

They’re converting at 28.7%. And with Rhett Sutton riding a four-game goal streak, they need to stay aggressive and force Detroit into the box. ”

Joseph lifts an eyebrow.

“They also need to watch out for Alex Isaksson. He’s already hit the 20-goal mark for the fourth straight season, and he’s got nine points in his last five games against Texas.”

“And goaltending?” Joseph presses.

“That’s where it gets interesting. Kennedy’s been lights-out at home—1.

89 GAA, .932 save percentage—but after his lower body injury in Ottawa on Thursday, Detroit’s backup is starting.

Brittwall’s promising—5-1-1 so far—but he’s never played Texas.

Total wildcard. On the other side, Buckner’s coming off a shutout, and in six years, he’s never lost the game immediately after a shutout. ”

“Is that right?” Joseph asks .

“I’ll check?—”

“You don’t need to,” I tell the man. “It’s right.”

Joseph studies me. “You’re Jim Barrett’s daughter, aren’t you? And Sutton’s wife?”

I shrug. “I’m Caroline.”

He nods. “Well, Caroline—we’re live in eleven minutes. And it seems you’re the only option I’ve got. Whether you’re the best? I guess we’ll find out. Grab a headset. Let’s get you and Tom on the same page.