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thirty-six

RHETT

Eleven Years Ago

Chicago, IL, USA

I never thought I’d be here.

Today’s the day I’ve looked forward to all season—hell, my whole life—but now that it’s here, I’m dreading it.

I’m in a bathroom stall, back against the wall, staring down at the two baggies in my hands.

I’m not ready.

I thought I would be. Marked the date with a red circle on the calendar in my empty apartment, right next to my bulletin board of bad headlines about myself, thinking it would motivate me.

It didn’t. If anything, it made everything worse.

I leaned harder into my habits, and now I’m in the worst shape I’ve ever been in.

I always swear I’ll stop—after brutal practices, after games where I either play like an unhinged enforcer or a washed-up nobody. I make promises to myself and break them the second I’m alone. The second the pain creeps back in.

One step forward, two steps back. Every fucking time.

It’s a disaster. But it’s worked. Mostly.

Today, it won’t.

We’re playing the Texas Storm. And their star rookie will be front and center on the starting line.

Bennett.

I haven’t seen him since before the season started. He’s been avoiding home, and I’ve been avoiding it too. Without him, there’s nothing there for me.

We might be best friends, but we’ve always been different. The way we live. The way we let things affect us. And the way we’ve handled our rookie seasons says it all.

Bennett’s heartbroken. I’m just broken. And look how the two of us have handled it.

He’s playing the best hockey of his life, pouring every ounce of himself into the game. Rising. And I’m flailing, throwing my energy everywhere except where it should be. Fading.

Three sharp knocks on the stall door jolt me upright, and I nearly drop both bags.

“Sutton! Get your ass out here!” Holt bellows. “Warm-ups in thirty seconds!”

“C—Coming!”

I worry for a second that he’ll wait for me to come out, but then I hear him walk off.

I exhale, shaking. Try to stand straight. But nausea claws at me at the same time sharp pain knifes through my skull.

“Fuck,” I grit, recognizing the feeling immediately. Too much booze. Not enough Oxy.

The arena music kicks up. Coach is yelling, “Let’s go, boys!” followed by the usual banging on lockers.

“Shit,” I mutter, heart pounding. My eyes lock on the bag of Percs in one hand, the coke in the other. I don’t even know which one would make me feel normal. I’m not sure I even remember what that feels like. My stomach turns. My hands shake.

“Okay,” I whisper to myself, swallowing dry. “Take it easy. You’ve got this.”

I down three Percs—too few, but all I’ll risk. I ball up the baggies, shove them into my dress shoe in my locker, and grab my stick.

I jog out of the locker room just as the last guy jumps onto the ice. Holt is waiting.

“Sorry, Cap, I was?—”

“I don’t care,” he cuts me off. “Get out there. We need you focused. I don’t give a shit if we’re playing your high school boyfriend.”

He slaps my back—harder than necessary—and I skate off, snagging a puck. I take a shot.

Dead center.

Maybe today won’t be a total disaster.

Then I crash into what feels like a brick wall.

“Jesus, Sutton,” Gregor hisses, shoving me off. “Watch it.”

I blink hard, dazed, the arena lights burning too bright.

“Rhett!”

I turn, seeing one of the team photographers skating up.

“The League wants a pic of you and James—old teammates, first game facing each other.”

When I just stare at him, he adds, “You and Bennett.”

Even through the haze, I spot him across the ice—locked in, mid-drill.

Then, as if he senses me, he turns. Eyes meet mine.

Shit.

The photographer looks impatient. “Just real quick?”

I rub the back of my neck, searching for an out. But then someone from the Storm bench gestures toward me, and Bennett looks again .

Double shit.

“Yeah, sure,” I mumble.

He skates over, smiling. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s close. Too close. And instantly I feel like the worst person alive. Because I haven’t been there for him. Not even a little. Not at all.

“Hey, Sutty,” he says, pulling me into a hug before I can finish saying his name.

The impact knocks the wind out of me. The ache radiates down my back. My bones feel brittle.

Get it together, I tell myself. You’ve got this.

I’m so focused on pretending that I don’t notice he’s already pulled back and is watching me too closely.

I blink. Right—smile. Shit.

I let out a forced laugh, pat his shoulder.

The photographer calls out, “Turn this way, please, gentlemen!”

I pivot fast. Bennett’s slower to follow, still watching me. When he finally drapes an arm around my shoulder, I flinch but force myself not to pull away.

I force a smile, holding it until the photographer finishes snapping shots.

“Thanks, guys,” the photographer calls.

I move to leave immediately, desperate for space.

“Hey, wait,” Bennett calls.

I stop. I don’t want to, but I do. “Yeah?”

He searches my face. “I thought you might want to?—”

Two voices scream my name, cutting him off. I turn—and freeze.

Shaunna and Teddy James. Smiling, waving, pounding the glass like it’s ten years ago.

The lump in my throat rises fast. I thought facing Bennett would wreck me—but this is worse. Because seeing his parents makes me feel truly ashamed .

“Thought you might want to say hi,” Bennett murmurs. “Not like you have a choice.”

I force a crooked smile. Nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

We skate over. Their words hit me fast—questions, greetings, jokes. All overlapping. All kind. All warm.

I blink, lost. “Um—I… it’s good to see you too.”

They wait for more. I have nothing. My mouth goes dry.

“I should—uh—I should get back to warm-ups,” I manage. “Thank you.”

I hope they know how much those two words mean. Even if they sound hollow.

I skate off. Heavy exhale.

A glove grabs my shoulder.

“Rhett, what’s going on?”

I turn. Bennett’s eyes are sharp and searching.

“What? I—Nothing,” I say too quickly. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head. “You seem totally out of it.”

“Oh.”

Fuck.

“I didn’t sleep great last night.”

He says nothing. I try a weak shrug and a lopsided smile.

“Rhett—”

“Sutton!”

We both look over. Holt’s losing it. “What are you doing? Get over here!”

“I gotta go, Jamesy,” I mumble. “I’ll… talk to you after the game.”

“Sutty—”

But I’m already skating away.

The last of warm-ups is a blur. I’m off. My body’s sluggish. My brain split in two—half of me screaming to stop, half too numb to care.

By the time we’re back in the locker room, I’m barely upright. I slide to the floor against my locker, head heavy, just waiting for this game to start so it can be over.

Coach Patrick bursts in, clapping to start his pre-game speech. I sigh and brace my hands behind me to stand—and my hand brushes my shoe.

The bags.

Don’t. Bad idea.

But then Bennett’s voice rings louder than my own inside my head.

You seem totally out of it.

I move on instinct. Snatch the coke. Pocket it. Wait for the end of the speech.

The second Coach finishes, I bolt.

Bathroom. Stall. Line.

One sharp inhale—and everything shifts.

I’ve got this.

I believe it.

And for a while, I’m right. First period—I fly. Score early. Feel invincible.

Until I’m not.

The crash comes fast. Too fast. I’m wired—then useless. By the buzzer, I’m getting booed.

So when we head into the locker room for the first intermission, I make a quick trip to the bathroom stall and hit another line before the second period.

Then the cycle repeats.

High—then crash.

By the end of the second, we’re losing 3–2. Holt demands to know what the hell is wrong with me. And Coach mutters something about me picking between playing like a bat out of hell or a half-asleep bull in a china shop.

So I make my choice .

I head back to the stall, dump the rest of the bag into two fat lines, and snort them both.

And that’s when shit really hits the fan.

I’m not just hyped up now. I’m pissed. Aggressive. Reckless.

I check everything that moves. Test the Storm’s patience by crowding their goalie every time we’re in their zone. Cuss out anyone who looks at me.

I fire a wild shot at the net. Holt tips it in. Tie game.

But then Bennett scores.

Coach calls a timeout. Holt takes the huddle.

I cut in. “Forget the perimeter. Pack the crease. They’ll feed James.”

Holt snaps his head toward me. “Excuse me?”

“He’s on fire. They’ll go to him. He never scores from long range. They’ll kill time with passes at the point while he sneaks in. Trust me?—”

“Sutton!” Holt barks, grabbing my shoulder pad. “Do you have a C on your chest?”

“No—”

“Exactly. And you never will. Because no one can trust you.”

My eyes scan over my teammates.

And I know he’s right.

Holt shakes his head and turns back to the huddle. I bite my tongue and skate to center ice alone.

If no one’s going to listen, I’ll do it myself.

The puck drops and I snatch it up, flying down the ice toward the Storm’s net. One of their defensemen stays on me hard, forcing me to make a wild pass.

My teammate’s not ready. He fumbles it completely.

I let out a frustrated grunt and turn—just in time to see the same defenseman skating past me with his back turned.

Something in me snaps.

I slam my shoulder into him full-force. No puck in sight. Just pure rage. His head cracks against the glass, and he collapses onto the ice.

I keep going.

But I don’t get far.

A body slams into me, shoving me into the boards.

I shove back—only to be slammed again, even harder.

“What the fuck was that?”

I look up.

It’s Bennett.

His eyes are blazing.

“What are you doing?” he demands, voice tight with fury. If I were anyone else, I’d be eating a fist right now. I deserve it. That hit was dirty. The dirtiest kind of dirty.

I open my mouth, but before I can speak, I feel something wet trickle over my lip. Taste something metallic.

Bennett’s eyes flick down. His brows furrow.

I wipe my glove across my face. Blood.

I drop the glove, bring my bare hand to my nose. More blood.

I swallow hard, trying to say something—anything.

Then the announcer’s voice booms over the speaker:

“Five-minute major penalty on number nineteen of the Chicago Blizzard.”

Bennett lets me go.

With a five-minute penalty and only two and a half minutes left on the clock, I skate off the ice.

Locker room. Gear off. Clothes on.

I leave.

I skip post-game. Skip press. I know I’ll get fined. I don’t care. I just have to get out.

On my way home, my phone starts buzzing, and when I see it’s an incoming call from Bennett. I decline it.

When he calls again, I shut my phone off.

At home, I dump my gear. Take a scalding shower. Then drop to my knees at the coffee table. I flip open the jewelry box, pulling out one of the baggies of pink pills and the mini paperweight I keep in it.

I crush up the pills inside of the bag and then dump the powder out on the table’s surface. Just as I begin snorting it—there’s a loud bang at my door.

“One sec!” I call, continuing the line. Another knock—louder this time.

“ Goddammit, Sid —yes, I want to go out!” I rip open the door. “Just give me a fucking?—”

It’s not Sid.

It’s Bennett.

“Who’s Sid?”

“No one. I—I thought you were someone else,” I say fast. Scratch the back of my head. “How did you even?—”

“You texted me your address. For Mom’s Christmas card.”

“Right.”

Shit.

His eyes flick over me. “You were in a daze before the game.”

“I told you—I was tired.”

“Then you came out wired.”

“Yeah, well.” I sniff. “Game-time adrenaline.”

Bennett takes a step forward. “You’ve lost weight. You’re pale. Your eyes are bloodshot. You look like you haven’t slept in?—”

“Are we doing a Twilight reenactment here? Because I’m fresh out of body glitter?—”

“Your nose was bleeding, Rhett,” Bennett snaps. “And no one even touched you.”

I falter, trying with everything in me to keep his eye contact, but my eyes just keep darting away on their own.

“It was me,” I mutter.

“What?” he questions me .

“I hit my nose,” I lie. “When I shoved your d-man.”

He watches me.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “And after you got tossed, you ran home to snort baby powder to stop the bleeding, right?”

My spine steels.

I attempt a casual wipe of my nose. Feel the gritty powder still there.

Fuck.

“Sutty, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t—”

He stops. His eyes flick over my shoulder. Before I can stop him, he pushes past me.

“What the fuck is all this?”

“It’s nothing.” I slam the jewelry box shut.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Maybe you need your eyes checked. You’ve been seeing things all night.”

“Don’t,” he says, jaw locked. “Not with me.”

We stare. The air burns.

“Rhett, please,” he says softly.

“No.” My voice cracks sharp. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you feel sorry for me. Like I’m some broken toy you want to fix.”

He steps closer. “I just want to help?—”

“God, do you not get it? I don’t need your help, Bennett! I didn’t ask for it and I don’t want it. Okay? So just stop. Just fucking worry about yourself for once.”

He stops dead in his tracks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I exhale hard. “I know your peaceful, quiet life gets boring sometimes, but people aren’t your charity projects. Not me. Not Julia?—”

“That’s where you’re going?” His face hardens. “Are you serious?”

I shake my head. “I’m sure it’s hard for you to just exist without trying to be a savior.

With your calm, cool, collected, never-shaken demeanor, your picture-perfect family, and your fucking Christmas cards—but I never asked for this.

All I ever wanted was a friend. I don’t need your pity and I don’t want your help. ”

My chest heaves as silence settles heavy between us.

Bennett nods slowly. “Fine. Loud and clear. You don’t need me.”

“I didn’t say?—”

“Done.” His hand cuts through the air. His voice is flat. Final. “See you on the ice.”

“Jamesy—”

“I’m done,” he says again. And walks out.

The door slams.

And I’m alone.