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forty

CAROLINE

I find the bar tucked between a bakery and a bistro on Ninth and Thirty-Seventh. Dimly lit and polished, with music just loud enough to offer ambience but low enough to talk—it’s exactly the kind of place a New Yorker would pick to talk shop.

I spot Dave almost instantly—navy blazer, Titans pin on his lapel, seated at a high table with two other men, all nursing drinks that suggest they’ve been here a while.

I smooth my hands down the front of my blouse and don’t give myself a second to hesitate before walking over.

“Caroline,” Dave says, rising to greet me. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for the invitation,” I say, smiling as I shake his hand.

He gestures to the others. “This is Alan Cunningham, our senior producer, and Ethan Bower, our play-by-play broadcaster.”

They nod in turn—polite, but measured. Media men. I know the type.

“I have to say,” Alan begins as we all take our seats, “Tom Dunn isn’t exactly generous with his praise. ”

“He’s really not,” Dave agrees, lifting his glass. “So when he said you nailed the Detroit game, we knew we had to take a look for ourselves.”

“And he was right,” Ethan adds. “You’ve got command, timing, ease. That’s not easy to find—especially from someone so new to the field.”

I smile. “I appreciate that. It means a lot coming from you all.”

We keep talking as drinks are ordered—my background, career goals, the role they’re hiring for, Titans culture, current stats, hockey markets. The conversation flows. I manage to go beat for beat, even get a few laughs out of them. Everything at the table is going great.

But I keep glancing past Dave’s shoulder toward the window.

Two blocks away. That’s all. Ninth and Thirty-Fifth.

I can’t stop picturing it—Rhett at a table, jaw tight, a gin and tonic untouched in front of him while his father parades him around like a trophy, saying God knows what in between introductions.

It’s been tugging at me all evening—quiet, but constant.

I cross my legs under the table. Lace my fingers together in my lap.

“You’ve got one hell of a memory,” Ethan says, pulling me back in. “Between Detroit and the rinkside clips we saw, you’re recalling more stats from decades past than some of the guys I work with—guys who actually played back then. It’s seriously impressive.”

“Thank you,” I say again. And I mean it—I do. But the words feel distant. My stomach’s tightening, wound like a pulled string.

Dave glances down at my empty martini glass. “Can I get you another?”

It’s a kind offer. A normal way to continue what has been a promising conversation .

But instead of nodding, I shake my head. “I’d love that, but I actually have somewhere I need to be.”

He tilts his head—surprised, but understanding. “Of course. We appreciate you coming. I’ll be in touch soon.”

I smile, hoping he means it. “I look forward to it. Thanks again.”

I stand, shake their hands, grab my bag, and step out into the night.

The air is crisp with a touch of humidity. Charged. It pushes me forward.

I don’t check the time. I don’t second-guess.

I just turn south, toward Thirty-Fifth.

Toward Rhett.