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forty-five

RHETT

Chicago, IL, USA

She stayed at the office all day, not walking back through the door until fifteen minutes before we had to leave for the airport.

Then she stayed quiet the entire car ride.

Kept her headphones on the whole flight.

Went straight to her own hotel room once we got to Chicago and didn’t say a word to me about it.

Didn’t answer the door when I knocked last night or this morning.

Didn’t answer my calls. Didn’t reply to any of the dozen texts I sent her.

And I know exactly why.

I’m an idiot. I went against her wishes. I was greedy.

She asked me to wait. I promised her I would. But I couldn’t. I felt it building for so long—and the last two months, hell, the last two years—it’s been there, simmering.

And this morning, when I saw her—cheeks flushed, hair still tousled from the night before, blue eyes glassy with sleep—I just couldn’t hold it back.

I told her I loved her.

And now I think she hates me.

I fucked it up. Because I’m not good at taking instruction. Because I’m not good at waiting for the things I want. Because I’ve never had the willpower to just take a little. I took it too far, just like I always do.

Now I have to fix it. If she’ll let me.

She’s managed to dodge me all day. But now we’re at the Chicago arena. And if searching for her with every flicker of movement in my peripheral vision wasn’t already making me antsy, being back in this building has my pulse spiking through the roof.

It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been. Or how many games I’ve played since. Every time I walk through these doors, see the sea of red, step onto this ice, and come face to face with my past—I’m right back in it. Right back in the worst version of myself.

I always need her. But especially now. Especially today.

I need her to anchor me. To remind me I’m not that guy anymore. That I’m more than the kid who nearly burned his whole life down in this very building. That I’m capable of more. That someone can believe in me.

Anyone.

But she’s the one who matters most.

I’m pacing outside the locker room, running my hands through my hair, glancing down the tunnel every two seconds. Warmups start in fifteen minutes. She has to be here. She can’t avoid me forever.

I’m just about ready to rip my skates off and tear through the entire arena to find her when I see her.

Blonde hair. White blazer. Blue eyes.

My heart stutters.

“Cub,” I breathe. “Please. Can we talk? ”

She presses her lips together. “Actually, I was coming to find you to do just that.”

She reaches for my hand, her fingers slipping into mine before tugging me forward.

The knot in my chest loosens slightly. It’s not much, but it’s something. She’s letting me close enough to try.

I open my mouth to speak, but she’s already dragging me down the tunnel.

“They want to pre-record me asking you a few questions for the broadcast,” she says.

I blink, confused—until I spot the cameraman standing near the wall. He gives her a wave.

“Wait, this is why you wanted to talk to me?” I ask, slowing.

“Just doing my job,” she says lightly, letting go of my hand to smooth down the front of her blazer.

“Caroline, please?—”

She lifts a hand, cutting me off, her other hand pressed to her earpiece.

“Yeah, Bryan. I’m in position. One sec.”

She lowers her hand and glances at me. “I just need a minute to run through the questions.”

Before I can answer, she’s already turning her back, furiously typing into her phone. All business.

I step back, dragging both hands through my curls, staring at the ceiling, willing my heart to slow down. When I finally lower my gaze, my eyes land on the jumbotron.

And the breath leaves me.

A “fun fact” animation flashes across the screen: Rhett Sutton played his rookie season with the Chicago Blizzard.

Then the highlight reel begins. Clips of me. From that year.

Number nineteen in red. Loose puck control. Unnecessary fights. Sloppy hits. Then close-ups. My jittery hands. The sniffling. The frantic, hollow look in my eyes.

I don’t even recognize myself.

I feel bile rise in my throat.

“Rhett?”

I blink and turn at the sound of my name. It takes a few moments to place it.

“Tom.”

He smiles, reaching for a handshake. “How you been?”

I shake his hand automatically. “Good. Yeah. How about you?”

He nods. “Good, good.”

My brain still half-foggy, it takes a moment before it clicks. “NHN isn’t doing the broadcast tonight. What’re you doing here?”

“We’re covering Chicago vs. Nashville tomorrow. I got in early and thought I’d catch this game. Actually?—”

His eyes flicker past me toward Caroline, who’s still talking to Bryan.

“I stopped by to congratulate your wife, but I can see she’s busy.”

I tilt my head.

For her commentary during the Detroit game? That feels pretty delayed, but it makes sense that he would still be thinking about it.

“Yeah, she really was amazing on that Detroit broadcast,” I say.

“She sure was. And she’ll be incredible in New York next season.”

I pull my head back.

What?

Tom lowers his voice. “I know, the hire hasn’t been announced, but I heard it through the grapevine. I just have to say, I’m so proud of her. I knew she had it in her, but I’m glad she took my advice. Everyone’s talking about it already. She’s going to be fantastic.”

I stare. “Oh.”

“I know the timing’s not ideal. But she’s got to do what’s best for her. You’ll make it work.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Anyway. Pass along my congrats, would you?”

My mouth is open, but no words come out.

I think my tongue may have just been ripped out with my heart.

Tom’s watch beeps, and he glances down. “Sorry, I’ve gotta head up. But please pass along my congrats to Caroline.”

I think my head lowers—because I can’t hold it up anymore—but Tom takes it as a nod. He gives me a quick wave and disappears.

I stand frozen, staring blankly ahead. My head’s no longer attached. My heart’s somewhere on the floor. There’s a buzzing in my ears. My mind flips through every memory of the last two months like flashcards on fire.

Tom gives me a quick wave and disappears. I stand frozen. There’s this buzzing in my ears. My mind flips through every memory of the last two months like flashcards on fire.

“Rhett?”

A hand touches my shoulder.

I flinch, spinning. Caroline stands in front of me—poised, composed, holding the microphone.

“You ready?”

I don’t answer.

The cameraman lifts the lens. His fingers start to count down. Five. Four.

Between three and two, she transforms. Lifts her chin. Paints on the smile. Puts her mask in place .

We’re no longer us. Not that I even know what that means anymore.

Now we are simply reporter and player.

“Thanks, Ray,” she says, her voice bright.

“I’m here with Texas Storm captain Rhett Sutton.

We’re halfway through the season, but this is the first match-up between the Storm and the Chicago Blizzard.

As someone who started their career right here in this building but now leads the away team, how are you feeling heading into tonight’s game? ”

I stare at her a beat too long. “Words can’t describe what I’m feeling right now.”

She hesitates, clearly expecting more, but when I don’t add anything, she presses on.

“I can imagine. It’s been quite the journey.”

You have no idea.

“Now, historically against the Blizzard, the Storm…” she continues, launching into a stat-heavy monologue.

I’m staring into her eyes as she speaks, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. I catch maybe a quarter of what she’s saying.

“How do you think the Storm will address that tonight?” she finishes.

“No idea,” I answer flatly.

Her eyebrows lift—just slightly—but she covers it with a quick, practiced laugh.

“Well, I’m sure you and the team will talk through that in the locker room.”

She wants this over. She wants me gone.

I don’t blame her.

She clears her throat softly, straightens her shoulders. “One last question before I let you go.”

I blink.

“Brendan Holt. ”

The sound of his name alone turns my stomach. My blood slows in my veins like it’s thickened to ice.

“What about him?” I ask, voice low. Flat.

I can practically feel the tension pouring off me. Caroline feels it too—she doesn’t know why, but she knows. I see it in the way her thumb brushes the edge of the mic. In how her eyes flick to mine but don’t quite settle.

“He was captain here when you were drafted,” she says carefully. “And he’s still wearing the C ten seasons later.”

I nod once, my jaw so tight it hurts.

She tilts her head, choosing her words. “Is there anything from your time here with him that you still carry with you today?”

I exhale through my nose. The air feels sharp, cold. I glance up.

My eyes lock on a banner in the rafters. The man himself—Holt. Still larger than life. But different. The years have left their mark. The hair’s lighter now, shot through with gray. A scar slices through his left brow. The crooked line of a nose that never quite healed right.

My throat tightens. The weight of it presses against my ribs like a hand I can’t shove off.

“Yeah,” I mutter, voice little more than gravel. “Every day.”

Caroline shifts subtly.

“Anything you care to share?” she asks, tone careful but prying.

I shake my head once. “No.”

Her polite smile stays fixed, but I see it in her eyes—something sharper. Narrower.

“Well,” she says. “Thank you for the time, Rhett. Good luck tonight.”

The camera light blinks off. She lowers the microphone, still looking at me .

But I’m not looking back. I’m already turning. Already walking.

My fists clench on their own. My chest tightens with every step. My head grows heavier. The sound of the arena blurs, static roaring in my ears until it’s all just noise.

Too loud to think.

I barely register the hand on my arm until it tugs me back.

“Rhett?”