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RHETT

Fourteen Years Ago

Toronto, ON, CA

The same familiar sounds find my ears as I exit the rink.

“Great game, son.”

“Yes, honey, we’re so proud of you.”

The corner of my mouth twitches into a grin.

And then the family in front of me steps out of view, walking into the parking lot.

The dad’s arm slung around his son’s shoulders, the mom leaning in to kiss the side of his head.

The kid pulls away, scrunching up his face like it’s the worst thing in the world.

Which, of course, only makes his mom laugh and pull him in for another kiss—this one landing right on his cheek, leaving a pink lipstick mark behind.

The whole family bursts into chuckles as they head toward their car. Probably on their way to a restaurant, where they’ll sit down for dinner and recap the game. His parents will ask about his day. They’ll talk and eat and laugh. Then they’ll do it all over again next week.

I pull my phone from my bag and unlock it. The same message thread from before the game is still open, staring back at me like a reminder.

Me: Hey, Dad. Just a reminder. First game is Friday at 7 p.m.

Me: I can get tickets for you and Mom if you need.

Me: Do you think you can make it Friday?

Me: I got tickets for you and Mom. I left them on the kitchen counter.

Me: Looking forward to tomorrow!

Me: Big day! Can’t lie, I’m really excited about this one.

Me: I put the tickets in an envelope and taped them to the front door so you can’t miss them.

Me: Do you think you guys can make it?

I blow out a breath, the last of my smile fading as I reread the reply that came through fifteen minutes before puck drop.

Dad: Rhett, your mother and I have an event out of town this weekend. Don’t you remember?

I didn’t remember. Because they never told me.

But it’s not like that’s unusual.

Me: Right, my bad .

And because this kind of thing with my parents is routine, I already know what would happen if I pushed back. If I said anything. So I swallow the lump in my throat and swipe to another thread.

The group chat.

The one I started fourteen minutes before the game.

Me: Party at Chateau Sutty tonight. I’ll be there around 9:30. Get there whenever. Door’s open.

It always is.

I’m from a small town just outside Toronto. Nothing bad ever happens here.

I shove my phone back into my bag and glance around the parking lot again, even though I know I won’t see my family. I’m already turning away when something stops me.

Or rather—someone.

Because I spot the closest thing to family I’ve got.

A grin breaks across my face, and my feet are already moving before I can think better of it.

“James!”

My hand lands on his shoulder, and he turns with his usual furrowed brows—until his golden-brown eyes light up with recognition.

“Sutty,” he says, clapping my hand with his. “How’s it going, man?”

“Better if you hadn’t wiped the floor with us back there,” I tell him honestly.

“You win some, you lose some.”

“Yeah, right. Except for you.” I roll my eyes. “You win them all, dick.”

It’s a joke. Mostly.

But not really.

Jamesy may have gotten the W tonight, but we’ve been on the same side more often than not—playing together outside of school for most of our lives.

He shrugs, that classic subtle smugness Bennett James wears so well flickering across his face.

“You’re a prick,” I tell him.

Hockey’s basically a religion where we’re from. And at this level, the deeper you go, the smaller the world gets. You run into the same people over and over. They either become your fiercest rivals—or your ride-or-dies.

Bennett’s the latter. Even if we’re opposites. Even if I drive him crazy most days.

Somehow, I think I managed to trick him into letting me be his best friend.

He’s definitely mine.

“I’m throwing a party at my place tonight,” I say. “Wanna come?”

I kinda hold my breath after I ask, already bracing for the look of hesitation. It’s always the same. He starts to answer, then doesn’t. Glances past my shoulder…

Bennett isn’t like me. People drain him the way they charge me. Or at least that’s what I like to tell myself.

But if I’m being honest?

I’m not sure my battery really charges at all.

Because when the crowd clears and the noise dies down?

I’m back to zero.

Back to empty.

So yeah. Maybe people aren’t a power source. Maybe they’re just a distraction. A buffer between night and day.

Most of the time, it doesn’t matter who’s around—just someone. As many someones as possible.

But if I had a choice?

I’d like to have someone around tonight that I know gives a damn about me. One person who actually sees me .

I try not to let it show on my face how much it would really mean to me.

I try not to let it show how much that would really mean to me.

I don’t know if I succeed.

But when Bennett meets my eyes again, something in my chest unclenches.

“I’m down,” he says.

And forty-five minutes later, he’s patting me on the shoulder as I open the fridge to let me know he’s arrived. I give him a quick smirk and a nod as I squat down to check the selection of drinks, which—as always—is abundant.

It occurred to me sometime in my first year of high school that every time my parents disappeared for the weekend—some event, a last-minute vacation, an early start to work trip—the fridge and liquor cabinet magically filled with every form of alcohol a teenager could want.

By sophomore year, I realized they never noticed when it went missing. By junior year, I wondered if they left it for me on purpose. Now? Senior year?

I know the truth.

They just don’t care.

As long as I’m entertained, not causing trouble, not ending up in jail, they’re fine with whatever keeps me out of their way.

“Hey, Sutty.”

I turn and find Bella smiling down at me. Chocolate brown hair. Big blue eyes. Long legs. Strappy sandals.

Total knockout. Everyone knows it.

“Hey, you,” I say, grabbing two beers and standing, handing her one.

“I knew I could count on you,” she purrs.

I pop both bottles open with the opener from my back pocket, and we clink. She takes a polite sip. I down half of mine .

“Great game, by the way,” Bella says.

“Oh, thanks.”

“Really,” she insists. “You guys killed it out there.”

I lean back. “We lost.”

“Oh.” She wilts slightly.

I squint at her. “Did you even go?”

She drops her eyes, picking at the label. “Had some homework.”

The front door slams open again. Twelfth time in five minutes. Another crowd. Volume spikes. The new group floods the kitchen, pushing Bella to the corner.

I step in front of her, hand between her shoulders to steer her aside. “Here,” I say, tilting my chin toward the back door. “Wanna go somewhere quieter?”

Bella blinks, scanning the room. “Um… sure,” she says brightly, though her expression doesn’t quite match.

“Wait!” she blurts before I can move. “Could I just grab a few more beers?”

Her smile snaps back into place. Batting her lashes like she plays the Majors.

“For my friends,” she adds, glancing over my shoulder.

I turn. Three girls ten feet away. They all wave like synchronized robots.

“For my friends,” she adds.

I turn. Three girls wave from across the room.

I press my tongue to my bottom lip, sighing softly.

Then I snap back into form. Shoulders squared. Usual grin in place.

“Sure, of course.”

I should know better by now. Should’ve stopped hoping.

But it’s wired into me somehow—that stupid flicker of belief that maybe this time someone actually wants me.

Not something from me .

Bella beams as I open the fridge and liquor cabinet.

“Grab whatever you want,” I say.

“Thanks, Sutty,” she coos, kissing my cheek before heading to her friends. “You’re the best.”

Am I? At what?

“Didn’t I tell you girls he’s the best?” she calls, already digging through bottles.

They nod, giggling.

I mutter, “No problem,” and turn away just in time to catch Bella pouting, like she’s suddenly disappointed I’m not paying her more attention.

I know that’s all she ever really wanted.

Maybe later.

I drift toward the living room where a few of my teammates are playing table hockey. I lean back against the wall, head tipping up, eyes closing.

I blow out a breath.

And then I see movement out of the corner of my eye.

I tug the curtain an inch, peering through the blinds. Bennett’s outside. I assume he’s just getting some air. But then someone steps into the light.

Julia—one of my old friends from school.

“Interesting,” I mutter to myself.

My phone buzzes, dragging my attention away. I let the curtain fall and fish it from my pocket.

When I see the notification is a text from my father, my heart does a little leap in my chest.

Dad: “Well?”

He’s asking about the game.

My fingers fly.

Me: Coach had me on the top line. Chemistry was great. I had an assist, two big checks, no penalties. Energy was strong. Especially for the first game. I’m feeling good.

The bubble pops up indicating that he’s typing a reply, and I stare at it unmoving until I see the message come through.

Dad: But did you win?

My stomach sinks.

Me: No. Bennett’s team was on fire. We just couldn’t catch them in the end.

Dad: Score?

Me: 5—3

Dad: So it wasn’t even close.

I start to reply, but?—

Dad: Good thing I didn’t waste my time coming.

And there it is.

Roger Sutton.

Dear old Dad.

Part of me wants to say I didn’t think it was an option anyway—that he had to go out of town. But I know better.

Me: We’ll do better next time. It was just the first game.

I wait for a reply.

Nothing .

I shove my phone back into my pocket and chug the rest of my beer.

Before I know it, I’ve downed three more. The house is packed now. Bennett’s gone. And that’s when things always shift.

Someone hands me a shot of God knows what from my dad’s liquor cabinet. I toss it back as I weave through the noise. Then I collapse onto the couch with a hard exhale. I can the room with blurred vision. A few familiar faces. A whole lot I’ve never seen in my life.

And then I hear it.

Wonderwall by Oasis.

It hits harder than anything else has tonight.

And then it’s one of those odd blurry moments when you’re beyond drunk and start to think about doing something only to realize you’ve already done it.

My phone’s in my hand. The number is dialed. The phone’s ringing.

Then her voice answers. One I know by heart.

And one that doesn’t sound happy to hear from me.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom,” I breathe.

“Rhett?”

“Mhm.”

Beat of silence.

“Is the house on fire?”

I glance around. “No.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

I rub my face. “Just wanted to tell you the game went well.”

“That’s not what I heard from your father.”

My throat closes. “Is he there? Can I talk to him?”

There’s a clatter in the background, muffled voices. Then her voice again.

“No, he’s not. He had to turn in early. Had some work to get done.”

Of course.

“Okay.”

Three seconds of dead air.

“Was there anything else?”

I exhale. “I guess not?—”

“We’ll be back Sunday. Late. You have money for food.”

Click.

She’s gone.

I drop the phone. It bounces, clatters under the couch.

I don’t bother retrieving it.

Who would I call, anyway?

My head drops forward, and my gaze lands on Bella across the room. She’s swaying to the music with her friends, but her eyes are locked on me. And even though I’m only half-functioning right now, my body knows this dance by heart.

My lips curl into a smirk. I lift a finger.

She comes.

Her arms go around my neck. Mine loop around her waist.

Her lips finds mine.

We stumble to the door to my parents’ room. I kick it open. We fall through the doorway.

“I like you, Sutty,” Bella whispers.

I blink. “Really?”

She frowns, like it’s strange I’d ask. “Yeah, of course.”

She kisses me again.

And like the dumbass I am—I believe her.

But when I wake up the next morning, she’s gone.

Of course she is.

Because why would she stay?

What good am I to her, anyway?