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thirty-nine

CAROLINE

New York, NY, USA

“Back to you, Mick.”

I hold my smile until the red light on the camera clicks off, then exhale, swiping a hand down my skirt and willing myself to relax. The second period has been pure chaos—end-to-end breakaways, blocked shots, and tension thick enough to buzz in my ears.

But it’s not just the game making me antsy.

I’m meeting Dave Mercer afterward. Just drinks, he said. A casual conversation. But casual conversations don’t usually come with an open commentator seat for an NHL franchise on the line.

One thing at a time, I tell myself.

When the announcer calls one minute remaining in the period, I take it as my cue. I begin to make my way toward the Storm’s tunnel, prepping to grab Ronan for his intermission interview. I’m mentally running through my list of questions when the crowd suddenly erupts.

I crane my neck to see what caused the commotion—and immediately spot Rhett tearing down the ice, seconds from a one-on-one with the Titans’ goalie.

Even at full speed, it’s obvious the Titan’s defense has given up. Because everyone in this arena knows the same thing: Rhett Sutton doesn’t miss. Not in this situation. There’s a reason he’s always first in the shootout lineup.

And right on cue, he proves it again.

Rhett makes a sharp cut left as he approaches the net, sending the goaltender sprawling, only to stop on a dime and shift right, sliding the puck straight through the goalie’s legs.

The horn blares. The crowd explodes. I cheer before I even realize I’m doing it, clapping as the Storm players catch up and swarm him in celebration.

I keep moving, glancing up at the scoreboard—5–4 Storm—then catch the replay flashing on the jumbotron. I tilt my head, watching the slow-motion close-up, so locked in that I almost miss the voice.

“Caroline.”

My head snaps down. A man leans against the tunnel entrance like he’s been waiting.

I’ve never seen him before, yet there’s something familiar about him that prickles under my skin.

He’s tall, polished, and radiates the unsettling calm of someone used to getting exactly what he wants.

His charcoal suit is perfectly tailored to broad shoulders and long legs, the coat open to reveal a dress shirt unbuttoned just enough.

Curls peppered with gray. Warm eyes that make me question whether I should feel charmed or on guard.

“Even more beautiful in person,” he says with a slow, knowing smile. And the chill his voice sends up my spine answers my question—screaming caution.

“Sorry,” I say, stepping back slightly. “Do I know you?”

He chuckles—low, smooth, practiced. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” He offers his hand. I hesitate, then shake it.

“I have to admit,” he says, eyes sliding over me, “I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“Men have gone to war over women like you.”

The period-ending horn cuts through the air. I pull my hand away.

Skates scrape on concrete behind me, but I’m still stuck in this man’s gravity. Still stuck on the strange, buzzing tension in my chest.

“Who are you?” I ask.

His smile deepens. “You don’t know?”

And then he glances past me.

I turn just as Rhett steps off the ice, helmet in hand, curls sweat-dampened to his forehead. His eyes land on us—and he freezes.

“Dad?”

The word knocks the air out of me.

I glance down at the badge hanging around the man’s neck.

Roger Sutton.

The resemblance is unmistakable now—the grin, the posture, the energy that commands a room without trying. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve heard it.

How is this the same man I spoke to on the phone? The one whose voice made my blood run cold?

“Hey, son,” Roger says, as casually as if this were any other reunion.

Rhett closes the distance fast, shoulders squared, jaw set tight. His eyes flick between us, unreadable.

“How did you get in?” he asks, voice low.

“I’m your father.”

Delivered like that’s explanation enough.

Roger shrugs. “I’m in town on business. Your mother’s with me.”

“And where is she?”

“Around.” He waves the question off. “Anyway. Thought you could join us for a drink after the game. Me, your mother, a few colleagues.”

Rhett doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes are hard, cautious.

“And,” Roger adds with a grin, “why not bring your lovely wife?”

Rhett’s eyes flick to mine. He hesitates.

“She’s got plans,” he says quietly.

I nod, clearing my throat. “Yeah, I—actually have a meeting.”

Rhett doesn’t know that I really do—with Dave. He thinks I’m just playing along. That I’m taking the out he’s willingly giving me.

Still, something twists in my stomach when he nods, like I’ve just let go of something important.

Maybe it’s the tension radiating off him. The way his father makes him seem… smaller. Or maybe it’s that voice on the phone, echoing in my head again from months ago.

Whatever it is, I feel it. This tight pull to stay. To ask more. To protect what I don’t fully understand.

Instead, I stay still. Silent.

“Shame,” Roger says, a slight frown tilting his lips, faux regret in his voice. He turns back to Rhett. “Empire Bar. Ninth and Thirty-Fifth. After the game.”

Rhett nods once, jaw clenched. “Alright.”

“Looking forward to it.” Roger claps him on the shoulder—more like a coach than a father .

Bryan’s voice suddenly crackles in my ear, reminding me of the reason I’m in the tunnel in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back. “I need to find Ronan. It was… nice to meet you, Mr. Sutton.”

He shifts his weight, slow and deliberate, eyes following me as I move. I’m halfway turned when he replies.

“Likewise, Mrs. Sutton.”

I stop in place. Almost correct him.

But then I see the look on Rhett’s face. The stillness. The fight not to flinch. And I can’t bring myself to say a word.

I turn, walking away, glancing back once to see them still standing there—Rhett rigid, Roger grinning.

Something’s not right.

But I don’t know what.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever find out.