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thirty-four

RHETT

“We’ve got to get on the same page here, boys. I know you’re giving your all, but I need you to give me even more.”

I’m the last one into the locker room, just as Bear starts his intermission speech. The first period against Detroit is over.

Fucking Detroit. Every year they find a way to be a thorn in our side.

I rip off my helmet and swipe a towel from the equipment cart, dragging it over my face as I take my place at the front beside Bear.

“We’ve been here before,” he goes on. “We know their game. But they also know ours. We need to switch it up. Control the pace. Quick transitions, stretch passes?—”

His voice starts to blur around the edges, fading into white noise. I can feel the sweat cooling on my skin, my heartbeat slowing, but my head is still racing.

We’re playing hard. I know that. We had what—fifteen, sixteen shots on goal in that period?

But nothing to show for it. Detroit’s giving us hell.

And even though I’ve logged more minutes than anyone out there, I feel like I’m skating in circles, chasing shadows.

Like I’m around the game instead of in it.

I’m in my own way.

And yeah, I know exactly when that started.

Right before puck drop. Right before stepping onto the ice. When I looked up and saw her.

Caroline.

God.

I bury my face in the towel, but it’s useless. I can’t wipe away the image of her standing there—fitted blazer, my last name pinned to her chest—like she hadn’t already undone me just by being in the same building.

God, I miss her.

I fucking live with her, and I miss her.

We’ve barely talked. Shared space, sure. Shared air. But our conversations have shrunk to nods and passing glances. Nothing has been the same since that night. I mean, how could it be?

I’ve replayed that night more times than I can count. I remember every look, every word, every time I told myself to walk away when all I wanted to do was stay. I’ve questioned myself a thousand times—what the hell I was thinking, denying Caroline Barrett after wanting her for so long.

But every time I come back to the same conclusion:

I didn’t want just a night.

I wanted every night.

And all the days too.

But it looks like my determination to do right by her has backfired. Because with where we’ve landed—I’m not sure I have her at all anymore.

I can tell Bear’s speech is winding down, which means he’s about to ask me if I have anything to add. I know I have to say something. It’s my job to say something. Anything.

But the only thing on my mind is her .

“Rhett, anything to add?”

I nod, trying to muster something halfway competent. “Uh… yeah. Good job out there so far, guys. We’re shooting like crazy. We just need to find the back of the net.”

Rags snorts. “They need to start calling that Brittwall kid Brick Wall. He’s not letting anything through.”

“Yeah,” R2 sighs, “we can’t seem to beat him. We gotta switch something up.” He looks to me, hopeful. “Whatcha think, Cap? What do we need to do?”

I rub the back of my neck, trying to think like the leader they expect me to be. But my brain’s fog.

“Well, I think… I think that we need to…”

And then I hear her.

“The Storm need to back off the blue paint. Scott Brittwall has been rock-solid tonight in proving he’ll win a battle at the net time after time. But if you take a step back, he’s leaving the top shelf every time…”

I freeze. My spine goes rigid, like my whole body’s just snapped to attention.

“…If they haven’t already, the Storm need to notice that quickly and take full advantage of it. I think if they just open up their shooting lanes and get a little more strategic with their plays, they can break through and get something going here.”

That voice. Clear, confident, razor-sharp.

I lift my eyes and realize everyone’s looking past me now, over my head toward the TV mounted in the corner of the locker room.

“What?” Bear barks, turning to follow their gazes. “What is everyone—Oh my God.”

“Sutty,” Buck says, nodding toward the screen. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

I turn.

And there she is .

Caroline. In a headset, sitting in the NHN broadcast booth like she owns the damn place. Fire in her eyes. Poise in her posture. She’s speaking with Tom Dunn like she’s been doing this her whole life—and for all intents and purposes, she has.

I don’t know how she got up there. I don’t know why she’s up there. But holy hell.

Then I hear Dunn ask, “I know you obviously have some bias, but how do you feel about the captain’s performance so far tonight?”

And Caroline answers, “Rhett will be the first to tell you—I never sugarcoat anything when it comes to his game. I’m his most critical fan.

He’s playing hard, but I’d like to see him clean it up.

When the intensity ramps up, he tends to overthink.

He gets more aggressive, but he stops trusting himself.

With that opening in goal, his signature slapshot from the left point is exactly what the team needs right now.

If he can just get there—and trust his team to feed him the puck—I think that’s all it’ll take to get the Storm rolling. ”

My chest pulls tight.

“That’s my girl,” Bear mutters beside me.

Mine too.