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CAROLINE

Austin, TX, USA

“I hope you feel ready for this,” Bryan says as he finishes adjusting my in-ear headphone and hands me the microphone.

“I’m always ready,” I tell him.

Because I am. Because I have to be.

Bryan quickly briefed me on what I’d need to cover pregame and into the first period—and then it was go time.

Now is go time.

Through my earpiece, I hear Ray Maslow—the Storm’s longtime TV analyst— and Mick begin the transition cue I was told to listen for.

I exhale slowly, letting time stretch just a little.

Then I square my shoulders, lift my chin, fluff my short hair to cover the earpiece, tighten my grip on the mic emblazoned with the Texas Storm logo, smile for the camera, and wait.

“We’re going to head rinkside now to hear from Caroline Barrett,” Ray says. “Caroline, how’s the energy down there?”

“Ray, it’s exactly what you’d expect,” I say, gesturing behind me. “Texas is known for having some of the best fans in hockey, and they’ve already proved that tonight. Even during warmups, the place is packed with fans here to cheer on their favorite Storm players.”

“Speaking of Storm players,” Ray adds, “I think we can all agree that the spotlight is shining especially bright on one in particular tonight.”

“That would be Rhett Sutton, of course,” Mick jumps in before I can answer, as if I wouldn’t have known if he didn’t fill in the blank. “There’s been a lot of noise around the league surrounding his highly anticipated first game as the Storm’s new captain.”

“Well, Rhett Sutton’s no stranger to making noise,” I say before I can stop myself. I laugh lightly to cover the reflex.

“How’s he looking out there so far?” Ray asks.

I swallow. “Well, you know him, Ray.” I glance toward the ice, pretending I’m just scanning casually, but then I actually catch sight of him. My eyes narrow, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. “You can always count on him to be his usual… vibrant self.”

Except he’s not.

Sure, he’s smiling and skating hard, waving to fans like always. Most people wouldn’t think twice. The kids by the glass are starstruck. Girls are swooning. But I see it.

He’s off.

He’s sloppy. Cutting corners. Skating through warmups at maybe eighty percent. His grin’s there, but it’s lazy. And behind his eyes, he looks like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“Oh God.”

“Sorry—what’s happening, Caroline?” Ray cuts in through my earpiece.

I snap back to the camera and flash a smile. “Just thinking about the odds! Texas has historically won every home season opener against the Ottawa Wolves.”

“Really?” Mick questions me. “Is that true?”

It is.

“No, I think she’s right,” Ray remarks.

I am.

“So we’ll see if the boys can keep that streak alive tonight,” I say, smoothly recovering.

“And we’ll see if their new captain can lead them there,” Ray adds. “Especially considering that Rhett Sutton has been the player to score the first goal of the season three years running.”

“That is true,” I confirm.

The horn blares, signaling the end of warmups.

“Alright, we know what that means,” Ray says. “Thanks so much, Caroline. We’re going to head out for a short break, and when we come back, we’ll see the puck drop on a new season of Texas hockey.”

The cameraman nods, lowering the camera to let me know we’re off the air.

I let out a sigh and immediately turn back toward the ice. Players are filing down the tunnels—but I don’t even bother looking for Rhett among them. I know where he’ll be.

Last one off. Always.

That’s not something new that comes with him being captain—it’s something he’s done since the day he joined the Texas Storm.

I spot him just as he takes a shot toward an empty net. The puck pings off the crossbar.

Rhett drops his chin, shakes his head, then waves at a group of screaming girls. He flashes them a smile, but his eyes drift upward—so far up he has to tilt his head back, like he’s looking toward the upper deck.

Then he skates to center ice, picks up another puck, and fires again. He misses high. The puck slams the glass in front of the girls, making them flinch. One drops a full bucket of popcorn.

They gasp, then laugh when they realize they’re fine. Rhett’s already behind the net, gripping his stick in frustration—a tell I know too well. Still, he turns back and blows them a kiss like nothing happened.

They swoon. I roll my eyes.

He mouths, “Sorry,” gives a wave…then lifts his gaze again, right back to that same spot in the upper level.

My brow furrows. I take a few steps sideways, trying to follow his line of sight.

“What the hell are you looking at…?” I mumble.

I glance between him and the upper deck—and just when I’m about to give up, I catch movement. Something clicks. My spine straightens.

He’s gliding backward now, hockey stick resting behind his neck, neck craned—staring not at the stands, but at the broadcast booth between the second and third levels.

Where he thinks I should be.

“Caroline, are you there?”

I jolt and hit the mic unmute. “Hey, Bryan. I’m here.”

“Great opening,” he says. “You looked and sounded like a pro.”

“Thanks,” I say, a small ache blooming in my chest.

“Alright, next time we’ll see you is during the first intermission. Try to grab whoever scores first for a quick interview. If the Storm don’t score, we’ll pivot and have you grab your dad.”

I nod, silently begging for a Storm goal. I know I can’t avoid interviewing Dad forever, and sure, some people already know we’re related, but the moment we’re side-by-side on camera, there’s no hiding it.

“Sounds good,” I say.

Bryan runs through a few more logistics, then I’m left in silence—or at least, arena-level silence. I turn slowly, but the ice is now empty.

I exhale, stepping back. Then I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.

Addie: You’re a star!!!

A smile tugs at one corner of my mouth. Another text pops up.

Addie: I know it’s not where you want to be, and it’s frustrating as hell—but you’re already killing it. And you’re gonna keep killing it!

Me: Isn’t it 2 a.m. in Paris?

Addie: And? You thought me and Bennett were going to miss your and Rhett’s first game?

My smile falters.

Rhett.

Addie: How is he? Do you think he’s ready? Ben talked to him last night and thinks he is, but you know how guys are.

Addie: Did you at least try to give him an encouraging word?

Thanks for the pep talk, Cub.

I blow out a breath, guilt twisting in my stomach.

Dammit.

My thoughts start to spin.

Games where Rhett wasn’t in the zone? Rare.

Win rate when a captain’s half-present? Low .

Chance he pulls it together in the locker room? Maybe .

Odds what I said earlier stuck with him? Probably.

Whether I just helped tank the Texas Storm’s season before it starts? Unknown.

My phone buzzes again. Then again. Notifications flood in.

Me: Gotta go. Will debrief tomorrow. Love you

I close out of messages and switch over to social media. My activity feed is filled.

@TXStorm4Life: Texas hockey is back, baby!

@TopShelfTex: #19 with the C on it—let’s go Sutty!

@SuttysGF_irl: God, Rhett Sutton looks so good.

@PuckYeahTexas: Missing Bennett James. Sutton’s a wild card. Don’t know what to expect. Fingers crossed!

My eyes narrow in on one thread in particular.

@JennaOnIce: Where’s Courtney Evans??

@PuckPrincess_13: I’m wondering the same! Who’s the new girl?

@JennaOnIce: Found her. She’s @Caroline_Barrett.

@PuckPrincess_13: Barrett? As in Coach Barrett? OMG.

I swallow.

@JennaOnIce: Yep. She’s his daughter.

I hold my breath as I scroll further.

@PuckPrincess_13: Wow, I love that! And she really knows her stuff!

@JennaOnIce: I’m a fan. Gotta love women in sports!

I bite my lip, stifling a smile. I let myself scroll for another minute, and it feels like a weight lifts off my shoulders when nearly every comment is positive.

No nepo baby talk—yet.

I know who I am. I’ve worked my ass off to be one of the youngest people—and definitely one of the youngest women— on an NHL TV broadcast crew. I’ve learned not to need outside validation, but… still. It’s nice.

I’d still kill (legally, that’s a joke) for Mick Davis’s job, but maybe this rinkside gig won’t be as bad as I thought.

Suddenly, the arena lights cut. Green and white lasers streak the air as spotlights sweep the crowd.

“ Please welcome to the ice… your Texas Storm! ”

The intro song blasts. The tunnel glows emerald.

The crowd chants louder and louder.

“ Texas! Storm! ”

The announcer begins calling the starting lineup.

First, the goaltender—Luke Buckner. The place roars. Everybody loves Buck.

Then the two defensemen, Tucker Hailey and Mikael Liukkonen. More cheers.

“ And now for your starting forwards! ”

“ At left wing, from Helsinki, Finland—number twenty-six, Ragnar Lindt! ”

I hold my breath.

“ At center, from Toronto, Ontario—number nineteen, your captain… ”

The place explodes.

“ Rhett Sutton! ”

The arena shakes.

But not all of it is cheers.

A third of the noise is wrong.

Booing. Yelling.

The chaos drowns out the next name entirely.

I search for Rhett on the ice. Cameras cut to him. He skates like nothing’s wrong, but his jaw is tight.

And when some of the booing doesn’t fade…

I know he hears it.

And I know it’s already getting to him.

Fifteen minutes into the first period, and things aren’t looking great.

Ottawa’s up by two.

The Storm haven’t scored. And if I didn’t know better, I’d believe this was the first time these guys had ever played together.

They’re sloppy—out of sync. Communication is nonexistent. Mistakes are brutal.

Both Ottawa goals came on power plays.

The first: Rhett caught his stick on the puck carrier after colliding with Ronan—his own teammate.

The second: too many men on the ice. Another Rhett mistake, even though Dad had Ragnar sit the penalty.

There’s still time, but my stomach’s already in knots.

I watch as Rhett jumps back on the ice. The puck comes to him—perfect timing. He intercepts and charges for the goal.

“Here we go,” I breathe.

But he fumbles. The puck slides loose between his skates. Ottawa grabs it before he even realizes.

Seconds later, they score again.

“Dammit,” I mutter, smacking a hand to my forehead.

I glance up at the screen. Rhett’s shaking his head as he returns to the bench. Dad leans in. Says something low. Rhett doesn’t look up.

I blow out a breath.

Can’t wait to interview him in front of a few hundred thousand people.

I glance at the screen. Rhett shakes his head as he returns to the bench. Dad appears behind him, leaning and muttering something low and, probably not very kind or encouraging. My dad is known for his champion poker face. And right now—it’s cracking.

I blow out a breath.

Can’t wait to interview him in front of a few hundred thousand people.

Unless someone pulls off a miracle in?—

I check the clock.

Forty-eight seconds.

“Oh, joy.”

Right on cue, my earpiece crackles.

“Caroline, you there?” Bryan asks.

“Yep, I’m here,” I say, already moving toward the tunnel. “Does Da—Coach Barrett know I’m talking to him, or do I need to grab him on the way in?”

“Actually,” Bryan says, “we’re going with Sutty.”

I stop dead. “Sorry, what?”

“Rhett Sutton,” he repeats. “We need to hear from him.”

“But… you said if no one scored?—”

“I know. But this is the right call. Fans will want to hear from the captain. And it’s good practice for him before the press conference.”

“But can’t we?—”

“There’s fifteen seconds left. Are you in place?”

“Yes. Totally,” I lie, hitting mute as I jog.

I reach the tunnel just as the horn sounds. The cameraman’s waiting. Bryan runs through key points I need to hit in the interview. I smile like I’ve got it handled.

And I do.

Technically.

But this?

This is my worst-case scenario.

My first interview in this role?

Rhett Sutton? After a disastrous first period during his first game as captain?

He doesn’t even know he’s being interviewed. He doesn’t even know I have this job.

What could possibly go wrong?

The Storm players start filing off the ice.

Bryan’s voice is calm in my ear. “Get ready. Let us know when you’ve got him.”

“Will do,” I say.

But I don’t need to look.

I feel him before I see him.

Rhett enters the tunnel.

I step in, grabbing his arm.

“Can I borrow you for a minute, please?”