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fifty-one

CAROLINE

Lake Placid, NY, USA

The car slows to a stop outside a cozy log house perched right on the edge of the frozen lake. A string of old-fashioned bulbs glows warmly along the roofline, and I can just make out a skating path carved into the ice behind the house. It’s picturesque in a way that almost doesn’t seem real.

The front door swings open before we’ve even fully stepped out of the car, and a tall man with unruly brown curls poking out from under a backwards baseball cap and an easy grin leans against the doorframe.

“Well, look what the storm dragged in,” he calls, shaking his head.

“Guess it’s your lucky day, Di Fazio,” Rhett says, sliding out carefully on his crutches, the brace on his leg stiff and cumbersome. Even so, there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth—the most relaxed I’ve seen him in days.

Rhett’s old friend jogs down the porch steps and crosses the driveway in just a few strides, pulling him into a quick, one-armed hug, clapping his back. “You know, if you missed me this much, you could’ve just called. Didn’t have to go bloodying up a perfectly good rink.”

“You know I’ll never miss a chance to put on a show,” Rhett deadpans.

Blake chuckles. “Well, maybe skip the concussion next time. You need all the brain cells you can get.”

Rhett shoves at his shoulder, and I can’t help but smile at the easy banter between them.

Blake turns my way. “Good thing he has you.”

I accept his outstretched hand, smirking. “Well, I try to do charity work where I can.”

Blake laughs, looking at Rhett. “Oh, I like her.” He reaches down, taking my suitcase along with Rhett’s.

“Come on,” he says with a warm smile, waving us toward the porch.

“Evangeline’s finishing up the soup she’s been making all afternoon.

She’ll kill me if I don’t get you in there while it’s hot. ”

Inside, the house smells like cedar and something rich and savory simmering on the stove. It’s rustic but beautiful—stone fireplace, soft blankets draped over leather armchairs, wide windows overlooking the greenhouse in the backyard and the frozen lake.

Blake carries our bags to our room as a woman with soft caramel-colored hair and warm brown eyes appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s striking in a golden-hour kind of way, freckles dusted across her nose, her smile lighting up her whole face.

“You must be Caroline.”

“Hi,” I say, smiling back. “Evangeline?”

“You can call me Annie,” she says, reaching for me immediately. Her hug is surprisingly tight, genuine .

“And this,” she adds, turning toward the hallway, “is Jackson.”

A boy, maybe seven, peeks out from behind the wall. He’s all limbs and messy light brown curls, his green eyes shining with curiosity.

Rhett’s face softens immediately. “Hey, buddy,” he says, crouching slightly despite the crutches.

Jackson steps forward shyly, a sketchbook and pencils tucked at his side.

“What have we got here?” Rhett asks, gently tugging on the book.

Jackson hands it over, and Rhett starts flipping through the meticulously illustrated pages full of drawings—lakes, plants, snowflakes, and toward the most recent pages, hockey gear.

“Dad says you used to kick his ass in rollerblade races,” Jackson says.

“Jacks!” Annie groans, palming her forehead. “Language.”

“Good to know your daddy’s honest with you.” Rhett chuckles. “And by the way, I still would.”

“Even with that?” Jackson points at the brace.

“Even with one leg,” Rhett whispers, and the kid giggles.

I watch the whole exchange, something soft blooming in my chest.

We settle around the kitchen table, eating Annie’s incredible soup and chatting about her and Blake’s love story and Blake and Rhett’s summer memories growing up, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight pressing down on me—the stress, the tension, the mess we left back in Chicago—feels just a little bit lighter.

And I wonder, as I watch Rhett smile at his old friend and ruffle Jacks’ hair with easy affection, if maybe this is what healing is supposed to look like.

Later, when the sun has set and the Di Fazios have gone off to bed, I find him alone.

The house is hushed, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional groan of the old wood beams in the ceiling. I’m fresh from a hot shower, my hair damp, an oversized sweatshirt falling to mid-thigh. The warmth still clings to my skin as I step quietly into the living room.

Rhett is sitting on the couch, his leg propped up, the brace jutting awkwardly over a throw blanket.

He’s staring out the wide glass windows at the frozen lake beyond—nothing but black night and silver moonlight reflected off the ice.

His expression is distant. Empty in a way that makes my chest tighten.

“Hey,” I say softly. “You ready to go to bed?”

His eyes flicker toward me, then back to the window. He shakes his head. “Not just yet.”

I hesitate, then cross the room and lower myself onto the couch beside him. Not touching. Close, but not too close. Things between us still feel… fragile. The air between us charged and uncertain, like the wrong word could shatter the whole thing.

“Blake’s really nice,” I offer, voice quiet.

Rhett huffs a breath, the barest curve of a smile on his lips. “He’s alright.”

I glance at him sidelong. “Annie’s amazing too,” I add. “I can see why he waited his whole life for her.”

Something in his face shifts at that. His fingers drum restlessly against the seam of the couch cushion. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “A good woman can make a man strong enough to do just about anything…”

I swallow. The words settle heavy between us, carrying more weight than they seem to on the surface. For a long moment, neither of us says anything, just the pop of the fire filling the silence.

Then—at the same time—we both speak.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Caroline, I’m?—”

We stop. He laughs under his breath. I do too, but mine comes out shaky.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell him, shifting to look at him properly.

His eyes meet mine, dark and heavy with something I can’t quite place. Regret maybe. Or exhaustion. “I should’ve told you,” he says softly. “About Lauren. About therapy. I wasn’t trying to hide it. I just… I’m not used to having anyone under the same roof who cares about my problems.”

Something inside me aches. I drop my gaze to where his fingers are resting on the couch. “That makes me sad.”

He breathes out slowly. “I’m not trying to make you sad, Cub.”

“You’re strong,” I say. “You’re stronger than you think.”

He shakes his head faintly. “I wasn’t always.”

I wait, watching him carefully, the way his eyes drift back toward the lake like he’s seeing something far older than tonight.

“Blake isn’t the only one I spent my summers with here,” he says eventually. His voice is quiet. Worn. “Holt was there too.”

I blink. “Brendan Holt?”

“Yeah. Same camp.” He shakes his head. “Different teams.”

My brows pull together. “What do you mean?”

“I was always good at hiding things,” he murmurs.

“But he could see it. The cracks. He saw through my shit before my shit even really started. And he wasn’t shy about calling it out.

He knew how to get under my skin. I don’t know if he was threatened by me or just plain hated me.

But he didn’t make my life easy. And then when I got drafted by Chicago…

and it wasn’t just a few weeks of my summer having to deal with him, but a whole career having to play under him with no one else in my corner… ”

I don’t speak, my eyes on him. He swallows thickly, eyes still on the dark stretch of lake.

“I was so lost. So lonely. And then I got hurt… just an ankle sprain that I could’ve gotten through in a week’s time.

But then I was introduced to Oxycodone. And for the first time, there was something that just made it all…

go away. All the pain. The stuff no one could see.

I got hooked. Started with the Oxy. Then the coke.

Then before I knew it, I was out every night chasing…

I don’t even know what. Hoping one of the girls would stay.

That one of them would… I don’t know… fill whatever was missing. ”

He shifts, wincing slightly as he adjusts his brace. His fingers tighten on the blanket. “And then one night, I picked the wrong girl. The very wrong one.”

My stomach drops. “What do you mean?”

His jaw works. “She was married.”

“Oh,” I mutter.

“To him,” he says, his eyes finally shifting to meet mine. “To Holt.”

“ Oh .” I cover my mouth with my hand, a sharp breath leaving me. “Rhett…”

He shakes his head, voice distant, raw. “I didn’t know.

I barely knew what planet I was on most days back then, much less that Holt was even married.

Then we were celebrating our last game of the season.

Everyone was drinking. I was crossfaded beyond belief.

The lowest of my lows. I ran into her. And then we ended up in the bathroom and…

” His voice fades. He presses a hand to his eyes, dragging it down his face.

“He walked in on us. And I was so far gone. So fucking twisted up, I didn’t even stop.

I didn’t think. I just… I snapped. I beat him so bad he ended up in the hospital.

I fucked his wife and I nearly killed him, and I didn’t even recognize the person I’d become. ”

The weight of the confession hits me like a stone. My hand drops from my mouth, but I can’t find any words. I just stare.

“I was done,” he murmurs. “Knew it before they even said it. I was off the team. No home. No friends. No future. Nothing.”

I find my voice somehow. “And then?”

He nods faintly. “Bennett gave me a second chance. Texas gave me a second chance. I wanted to be different. Better. I stayed clean. Mostly. A few slips. But nothing like before.”

The flames from the fire cast shadows across his face, painting him in amber and gold. He looks… tired. Wrecked. But still so heartbreakingly beautiful it almost hurts.