Page 7

seven

RHETT

Fourteen Years Ago

Lake Placid, NY, USA

The mask falls the second the door opens.

The weight of it all hits me as I cross the threshold.

All the bullshit I’ve swallowed for the last hour—or maybe the last week, the last year—rises like a wave I can’t stop.

I turn, slam the door shut with both hands, then kick it.

Once. Twice. A third time, hard enough to make my shin scream.

“Fuck!”

That’s going to make practice even more pleasant tomorrow.

After about ten seconds, the pain dulls and my pulse starts to settle. I drop my head, blow out a long breath, then square my stance and turn toward the full light of day for the first time today.

And goddamn, it’s beautiful.

Just like it has been every summer for the past decade of my life.

I suppose there are worse places to get shipped off to for two months than Lake Placid.

This town pulls in the best of the best. Every serious player would kill to train at the Olympic Center—the same place that birthed the Miracle on Ice in 1980—even for just a day.

I mean, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. No one would turn it down.

Not even an eight-year-old kid who was scared out of his mind when his parents suggested (and by “suggested,” I mean told him) that he’d be spending his entire summer in another country at an elite hockey camp here.

And that same kid kept coming back. Every single year.

My parents said if I wanted to be the best, this is where I needed to be. No distractions. No excuses.

Not even…them. No visits. No calls. Just focus.

I used to question it. Not anymore. No point.

So I do what I came here for. I train. I play. And I kick ass doing it.

I can’t say they were wrong. Spending my summers in peak form while other guys my age took time off? It’s a big part of why I’m the star forward I am now—and why I’m heading to the University of Toronto this fall on a full-ride scholarship I locked down at fifteen.

But first, one last summer in Lake Placid.

I thought about skipping camp this year—finally giving myself one normal summer. But that idea died quickly.

One: my dad wasn’t hearing it. At all.

Two: my best friend’s coming to U of T anyway. Whether it’s to play hockey with me again or to be closer to Julia—who he’s been absolutely whipped for since my party last fall—, I’ll be seeing Bennett for a few more years to come. A couple months apart won’t kill us.

So here I am. Finishing what I started.

At a place that feels more like home than home ever did.

And with how this summer’s already going... I can say that for more reasons than one.

It’s been a hell of a day, but I’m not ready to head back to my room. Even after eight straight hours of hockey, I still need to blow off steam.

I jog down the Olympic Center steps and across to Lake Placid High. I reach the gate, let myself in, and keep running until I hit the outdoor skating loop—one of the perks of training in a town built for winter sports.

I drop my bag, dig out my rollerblades, and I’m barely lacing the first one when I spot the back of a familiar head. Brown curls spilling from under a cap I’d recognize from a hundred meters away.

He’s locked in, taking this lap fast. I finish lacing in record time, dash behind a pole, and jump out right as he passes.

“Jesus!” he gasps, clutching his chest as he tries to shove me. I dodge him, smirking.

“What the hell, Rhett?”

“On your left, Di Fazio.” I spin around, skating backward in front of him.

He scowls. “Is summer over yet?”

“Not quite,” I say, mouth curling. “But it’s my last one here. After this, you’ll never have to see my face again.”

Blake tilts his head, mock-frowning. “But it’s such a pretty face.”

“I know. Tragic,” I sigh. “You’ll get over it.”

Blake Di Fazio is probably one of the only real friends I have—wild, considering I only see him in the summer.

He’s from here. Small town. Only child. Another athlete. He plays baseball, and we both use outdoor workouts to clear our heads.

We crossed paths as kids and just… kept crossing. Somewhere along the way, it turned into real conversations. The kind that stick.

He rolls his eyes, trying not to smile. “So. You wanna talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Your bad day?”

I slow down. “What makes you think I had a bad day?”

“Camp let out,” he checks his watch, “nine minutes ago. And you’re already here.”

“Maybe I just missed you.”

“Maybe you’re full of shit.”

I laugh under my breath, spin around, and slow until we’re skating side by side.

“Wanna race a lap?” I ask.

He scoffs. “You just want an ego boost.”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

He flips his hat backward with a sigh. “Fine. On three?”

We count down, then take off—full throttle.

Less than a minute later, we finish the loop—way less for me—but we’re both breathless by the end.

I drop onto my back, hands above my head, gulping air. Blake joins me a second later.

“What happened today?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“Words, Rhett.”

“It was nothing.”

Silence stretches.

“Was it Holt?”

I sigh, eyes falling shut.

And just like that, it all floods back.

“ Don’t choke, Sutton. ”

I grit my teeth as Brendan Holt breathes down my neck, matching me stride for stride as I break away with the puck.

We’ve been at this for years. He’s the only other player here who hasn’t missed a summer in the last decade. He knows my game. I know his. And right when I think I’ve got him, he reads me perfectly—shuts me down, steals the puck, and blazes toward our goal.

I grunt, spinning around. One of my forwards is already standing at the bench, waiting to sub in. I start to skate off, but something twists in my chest when I look back and see Holt flying down the ice.

I stop.

Then I bolt after him.

“Sutton!” one of the coaches calls, but I’m already locked in.

I check him hard in the back, and I hear the breath whoosh out of him like music to my ears.

Before he can even attempt to recover, I slip my stick between his legs and snag the puck back.

I never touch him in the process, but he still loses his balance in surprise.

He goes down nearly face-first, and I hear the sharp crack of his hockey stick snapping beneath him.

I’d love to savor the moment, but I don’t have time. I pass, then break for the net. The puck comes back to me, and I score—glove side, top shelf.

We’re up by one with twenty-three seconds left in the period.

I barely get my hands in the air before Holt slams me into the boards.

“ The hell was that, Sutton? ”

“Oh, buddy, that was a goal.” I spin to face him, grinning. “Did you forget? I know it’s been a long summer. Can’t remember the last time you scored one?— ”

He grabs a fistful of my jersey, yanking me close. “That was a dirty fucking play.”

“That was hockey.”

“Break it up, boys!” one of the coaches calls from up the ice.

“You could’ve seriously injured me, you prick?—”

“It was clean,” I shrug. You’ve been up my ass all day?—”

He cuts me off with a cold laugh.

I pull back, brows knitting. “What’s so funny?”

He stares down at me, shaking his head, and I curse the one damn inch he has on my six-two frame as he pats my cheek.

“You think you’re hot shit, Sutton.”

I pat his cheek right back. “Joke’s on you. I don’t think at all.”

He shoves my glove away and gives me a harder push into the boards.

“Let me tell you something, Sutton?—”

“Oh, please do. I’ve always loved our chats?—”

“It’s just a matter of time,” he grits, leaning in closer, “before someone knocks you down a peg. And if I have any say in it… it’s gonna be me.”

“That’s a cute fantasy,” I say. “Add it to your bedtime thoughts.”

“Everything’s a fucking joke to you.”

“I just call it like I see it.” I look him up and down. “And it checks out at the moment.”

His lips curl. “You think you’re going to the NHL?”

I open my mouth, then close it slowly.

Holt was drafted this summer. A full-on hometown hero parade was waiting for him at camp when he came back—congrats banner, red streamers, the whole thing. I showed up. Left.

“ Boys! ” The coach's voice is closer now.

Holt pulls me even closer, his eyes practically burning through me. “You’re messy. You’re a liability. Not a team player. Nothing to look up to. Nothing to be proud of.”

I blink, my mouth suddenly dry as Holt tilts his head.

“Maybe that’s why your parents never show up?—”

I swing.

I don’t remember deciding to, but I do. Gloves drop. We go at it—until we’re yanked apart.

“Enough!” Coach shouts. He sends Holt off the ice, then turns to me. “Sutton. Goal line. Ten sprints.”

“Wait,” I scoff, throwing my hands up. “That’s it?”

“No, of course not,” he says, and I drop my arms, waiting for Holt’s punishment.

“You’re also going to replace Brendan’s stick.”

My jaw drops.

Dad’s gonna love that.

“But—”

“On the line, Sutton. Now.”

I blow out a breath, meet Holt’s smug stare through the glass, and skate to the goal line.

And as much as I’d love to pretend his words didn’t get to me, they echo in my head with every damn sprint.

And for hours after.

You’re messy. You’re a liability. You’re not a team player. Nothing to look up to. Nothing to be proud of.

“Well?” Blake asks. “Was it Holt?”

“It was me,” I mumble.

“What?”

“It was nothing,” I say, sitting up. “Let’s talk about something else, please.”

“Rhett— ”

“How about you and that girl?” I ask. “How’s that going? What’s her name again?”

Blake shoots me a look. He’s letting me off the hook, but we both know this conversation isn’t over.

We sit in silence for a while, watching people skate by.

Then Blake speaks again.

“I can’t believe it’s really your last summer here.”

I glance at him, then shove his shoulder lightly. “Don’t go soft on me now, Di Fazio.”

“I mean, it’s going to be so quiet around here,” he muses. “So unbelievably peaceful.”

I chuckle, exhaling. “I’ll miss you too, bud.”

“Guess I’ll just have to watch your face on TV from now on,” he says. Then after a beat, “You’ve got big things coming, Rhett.”

I blow out a slow breath. “I know.”

“It only gets better from here.”

I nod, barely.

We can only hope.