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forty-seven

RHETT

Eleven Years Ago

Chicago, IL, USA

I stare down at my phone, eyelids heavy, watching the three-dot typing bubble flicker on and off.

“ Dammit, Sid ,” I mutter, dropping the phone onto the high-top table and pressing my palms to my eyes.

“You good, Sutty?”

I blink up at my goalie, Jimmy, until his face comes into focus.

“Yeah. All good,” I lie.

“You get something to drink?”

“Yep.”

And that’s exactly the problem.

I hold up my glass full of ice that used to have tequila in it. “Was just about to head to the bar for a refill.”

My phone buzzes. I don’t check it right away. Jimmy’s always been decent to me—one of the few who’s even tried. I don’t want to be a total asshole. Especially when my current friend count hovers around half of one.

“Okay, good,” Jimmy nods, scanning the room. Silence settles between us. Another buzz comes from my phone. I almost reach for it when he speaks again.

“Tough game tonight.”

Like all of them lately.

But this one cut extra deep.

Last game of the season. Home crowd. And still, we couldn’t pull it off.

“Yeah, it was.”

“Hey, babe,” a blonde appears behind him, kissing his cheek.

Right.

Holt encouraged everyone to bring their partners to this “end-of-season celebration.” I was already dreading the teammates. The plus-ones just doubled the landmines.

Another buzz. This time I glance.

Brandi Blue Eyes.

Tall Natalie.

Rachel Vodka Red Bull.

Goddamn it.

“Hi, Rhett,” Jimmy’s girlfriend says.

“Hey…you,” I offer, having no idea what her name is.

“Good game,” she lies.

“Yeah, you played well tonight,” Jimmy adds, lying right along with her.

I force a lazy smile. “Thanks. You t?—”

Sid .

I shoot to my feet, snatching my phone. “Sorry, I—Ex—’scuse me,” I mutter, already moving.

When I hear, “ Hi, Brendan! ” from Jimmy’s girlfriend, I pick up speed—then stumble as a dizzy spell slams into me. I grab the back of a chair to steady myself .

“Fuck,” I mutter.

“Sutton,” Holt’s voice bites through the noise. “We’ve been here twenty minutes. Leave some of the bar for the rest of us.”

I turn to find him joining Jimmy and his girlfriend.

“Hey, Shelly,” he says, giving her a side hug.

Shelly. Or Shelby. Or maybe just Ellie? Whatever.

“Just stood up too fast,” I say, forcing a laugh. “Got a little dizzy.”

“Right.” He raises his glass. “Guess you were standing up from the bench too fast all season then?”

I swallow.

He knows.

He hasn’t said it outright, but we both know he knows. And he knows I know he knows.

But he won’t rat me out. Not directly. He’s a decent captain—an asshole, but a good leader.

He just wants me gone.

“I get a little over-excited,” I say. “I’m working on it.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got an extra-long offseason. Best you take advantage of it.”

“That’s the plan, Cap.”

It isn’t.

My phone buzzes.

“Is Nettie coming?” Jimmy asks.

“She texted me a bit ago,” Shelly replies. “Should be here soon.”

Sid: I’m outside.

Sid: Alley around the corner.

Thank God.

I duck out the front, avoiding every player in sight. I turn the corner and spot the silhouette—beanie and all .

“Hey,” I say, moving toward him. My vision doubles, and I brace myself against the brick wall.

Sid’s eyes narrow. “You look like shit.”

“Still better looking than you,” I slur. “Did you bring it?”

He crosses his arms. “How many Oxys did you have today?”

“A few.”

A lie. I lost count.

“And how much have you had to drink?”

“Some.” My voice is clipped. “Did you bring it?”

“Liquor or?—”

“ Sid . Did you bring the fucking coke or not?” I push off the wall, swallowing a wave of nausea.

He frowns. “You know, Sutty, I’m not your mom. And I’m not loving this arrangement lately.”

“I’m sorry.” I soften my tone. “I just... miscalculated. I need a pick-me-up. Please.”

A beat. Then a sigh. “Fine.”

He unzips his bag and pulls out a two-gram baggie. I reach for it, but he yanks it back.

“Four hundred.”

“ Four? ” I choke. “What happened to two?”

“Delivery fee.”

Whatever. I pull out four crisp hundreds and shove them at him.

He hands over the coke. “See you later?”

I’m already halfway back inside. “Maybe,” I call over my shoulder. knowing damn well I will be stopping at his place on the way home.

I cut through the crowd, beeline to the private bathroom, and lock the door. In seconds, I’m lining the coke on the counter, snorting it fast and hard.

Relief hits like a wave.

No—bliss .

I stare at my reflection. Color’s back in my face. My eyes don’t look dead anymore.

A knock.

“Just a sec!” I call, wiping under my nose. I shove the baggie and card into my pockets, smooth my jacket, and unlock the door.

“All yours,” I say with a grin, feeling like myself again.

But the grin freezes.

Then doubles.

“You,” she says, eyes wide.

“You,” I echo.

Coffee shop girl.

“Sorry,” she smirks. “Heard someone ordered a sweet blonde double shot of espresso?”

The coke has me buzzing, but she’s the spark that might ignite the whole system.

I lean on the doorframe. “And to think I was just thinking this bathroom was missing something.”

She laughs, fingers grazing her glossy lips. “And that’s me?”

“That’s you,” I breathe.

“I should get back to my girlfriends,” she says, gaze flicking to my mouth.

“I think you should get in here.” I drop my voice. “Only if you want to.”

She doesn’t move. I take a step past her.

“Have a good night, Espresso?—”

Her hand wraps around my bicep. Before I can blink, she yanks me back into the bathroom. The door slams shut, the lock is clicked, and my mouth is on hers.

“You’ve got five minutes,” she whispers.

“All the time in the world,” I reply, lips on her neck, hand between her thighs .

I just get my first of what I know will be many moans out of her when someone knocks on the door.

“It’s in use!” I bark.

She conceals her giggle, reaching down and undoing my belt.

Another knock.

I snap. Slam my fist against the wall—nowhere near her, but she jumps. Something clatters to the floor.

“ Door’s locked! It’s fucking occupied! ” I shout.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she mutters, crouching to pick something up.

I glance downwards, realizing it was the button from my pants. Must’ve popped when she flinched.

“Couldn’t care less,” I say, lifting and pressing her against the wall.

I capture her lips with mine once more as her hands slide inside my pants, pushing them down. She strokes me. I slip her panties to the side. And just like that, she’s sinking onto me.

“ Fuck —”

Knock. Knock.

“ Goddammit! ” I growl. Fuming, I drop her to the ground, spin around, and throw open the door without a second thought. “ It’s taken. Do you fucking mind? ”

“Shit—Sorry, man. Door had been locked for awhile?—”

The guy turning away from the bathroom door cuts off as he does a double take. And that’s when I realize.

It’s Holt.

“Sutton? Jesus, there you are. We all thought you left.”

“Can a guy take a leak?”

“Sure, yeah.” He shakes his head. “I just wanted the team together. Thought you bailed.”

I open my mouth to respond, but I’m cut off by a loud clatter. I turn my head to see coffee shop girl bent over with her purse halfway off her arm and her makeup compact between us on the bathroom floor.

“What was that?” Holt steps forward.

“Nothing.” I close the door most of the way. “If you don’t mind?—”

Clunk.

I turn. She’s on the floor now, looking up at me wide-eyed, purse contents everywhere.

“Nettie?”

My head swivels back, and I find Holt standing mere inches away from me now, his face blank as his gaze trains on her.

“Brendan,” she breathes, scrambling to her feet.

And suddenly, it clicks.

Jennette.

Nettie.

The woman Jimmy was asking about.

“You two know each other?” I ask.

Holt laughs, dead and hollow. “Yeah. She’s my wife.”

I stumble back. “Your... what?”

“And how the fuck do you know her?”

Silence.

“We don’t,” she says at the same time I mutter, “Coffee shop.”

His gaze drops. My undone pants. No button.

“Holt, I?—”

His fist cracks into my jaw.

“No. You don’t say a fucking word. You’re lower than I possibly could’ve thought, Sutton. You’ve crossed a line there’s no coming back from.”

“I didn’t?—”

He shoves me into the wall.

“Brendan!” she yells.

But he doesn’t stop .

“You know, I always figured it had to be somewhat of a show you were putting on. But no,” he spits, grabbing two fistfuls of my shirt.

“You really think you’re hot shit. That you’ve got the entire world in the palm of your fucking hand.

That you can just do whatever you want— take whatever you want.

No consequences. Well, this is your wake-up call. ”

“Holt, I swear—I didn’t know she was your wife?—”

I’m silenced with a jarring blow to my face. This time across my cheekbone. I feel the slice of his wedding band tear skin.

“I—”

Another punch. My nose erupts.

“You’re nothing more than a worthless fucking prick, Sutton. A pretty face on skates. You’re a strung-out, pathetic disappointment. A junkie. A fucking joke?—”

Something in me snaps.

And that’s when I lose it.

I lunge forward with a strength I didn’t even know I had, tackling Holt to the ground. I register a scream to my side, but it doesn’t phase me. I unleash. Fists flying. Years of pain, shame, frustration—all of it pours into every punch.

The sounds around me all meld together, from every crack and crunch of my fists to Holt’s sputters and gasps to the stomps of feet and voices becoming louder and more frantic as they approach.

I have no idea where the line blurs between me mentally seeing red and physically seeing it. Blood smears. His face splits open. I bust his eyebrow clean through and break his nose. I don’t stop. I can’t.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Sutty, stop it!

“Nettie?”

“Oh my God, Cap!”

“Rhett, what the fuck are you doing? ”

“Sutton’s killing Holt!”

“Get off him!”

Hands tear me off.

“Holt, Jesus ? —”

I’m dazed. Panting. The blur in my vision slowly starts to clear.

“Oh my God,” I mutter.

I shake my head. Try to apologize.

“I’m sorry?—”

Holt spits blood, doesn’t get up.

“Go home,” he wheezes. “Pack your bags. You’re done.”

“ W–what? No– I–”

“What? No?—”

Someone’s hand grabs my shoulder. My pants fall. The coke and Oxy baggies spill out.

Half conscious, Holt turns his head, spotting them.

“And there it is.”

“Fuck. Holt, I?—”

“You’re done,” he murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it”

Several hands grab me all at one. Yank me to my feet. Drag me through the bar. Throw me outside into the rain.

The door slams shut behind me. It’s pouring now—cold and relentless. I stumble into the alley behind the bar, chest heaving, blood dripping from my nose and mouth. My hands tremble, scraped and raw. My whole body’s shaking, from adrenaline or drugs or shame—I don’t even know anymore.

What I do know? Reality is crashing down on me with every step.

I start running.

Where to?

No fucking clue.

I don’t have anywhere to go .

But I keep running. Until my knees buckle and my legs give out.

I drop to the ground against a dumpster and bury my face in my hands.

“Fuck!” I shout, grabbing two fistfuls of my hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I stay like that for a while—just rocking, soaking wet, trying to breathe. Trying to stop the spiral.

Eventually, I fumble for my phone in my pocket, my fingers stiff and clumsy. I stare at the screen through blurry eyes, blood and rain streaking my face. I don’t know who I’m calling. I just hit the name I’ve always hit first.

Mom.

It rings. And rings.

Voicemail.

I hang up without listening.

I scroll to the next name.

Dad.

He answers on the second ring.

“I messed up,” I say hoarsely, the words barely audible through the tightness in my throat. “I think I’m off the team. I—I failed.”

A pause. Then his voice, calm and cutting.

“It’s okay, son.”

My breath catches. “Really?”

“I already knew you would. It was just a matter of when.”

I go still.

“The house is being renovated for the next month. Your mother and I are in Muskoka for the summer. You’ll have to find somewhere else to go.”

He hangs up.

Just like that.

I stare at the screen. It stays lit for a second longer before dimming, and I let it fall from my hand into my lap. My fingers are still curled around nothing.

Alone.

I sit there in the pouring rain, completely untethered, trying to swallow the taste of blood and humiliation. My brain is short-circuiting, my heart threatening to cave in.

Then, without even thinking, I pick the phone back up. My hands are shaking so bad I nearly drop it again as I scroll through my contacts.

I stop on a name.

Bennett James.

I stare at it.

We haven’t talked in months. Not since the game. Not since everything went to hell.

But I hit call.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times?—

Then clicks.

“Hello?”

I don’t say anything at first. My throat closes. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Then, softer this time?—

“Are you okay?”

It’s him. His voice. Familiar and steady. Like a life preserver.

“I…” My voice breaks. “I’m not.”

“Tell me what’s wrong, Rhett.”

“I’m in trouble.”

“Are you hurt?”

Silence.

“Rhett. Are you hurt?”

“No,” I croak.

Not really. The physical pain doesn’t even compare.

“What happened?”

I squeeze my eyes shut .

“I did,” I whisper. “I fucked up.”

He’s quiet. For a second I expect the sigh. The disappointment. The I told you so.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead:

“We’ll fix it.”

“No. You don’t get it.” My voice cracks again. “I’m done. I fucked everything. I can’t fix it. Not this time.”

“That’s why I said we will.”

Tears burn my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I choke. “I’m so fucking sorry, Jamesy.”

“You’re not done,” he says firmly. “I won’t let you be.”

I press the heel of my hand to my eyes, shoulders shaking.

“Come home.”

He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

A long beat passes.

“Come home. We’ll fix it.”