Page 114 of The Fine Line
“Hey,” he says, so softly I’m forced to look at him. “I didn’t mean that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Yes, you did.”
He blinks, then shrugs. “Okay, I did. But I didn’t need to say it. So yeah… sorry for just… being a dick, I guess.”
“I appreciate that… I guess.”
We stare ahead, like we’re both silently agreeing to pretend this civil exchange never happened. But just before the moment passes, I crack the door back open.
“Why are you?” I ask. “A dick? To me, specifically?”
“You haven’t exactly been warm to me either.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry for that too. But we’re not in school anymore. We can be honest—especially if we’re stuck around each other.”
Mick glances over. “If I’m being completely honest… you’re a little fucking intimidating.”
I tilt my head.
He shifts uncomfortably. After a beat, he asks, “Where’s your guard dog, anyways?”
“Why? Are you scared?”
“I think I’d be an idiot not to be.”
He’s right.
“Up front.” I wave my hand. “Team bonding.”
“Guess he deserves it. That was a great game.”
“It always is,” I say. “You know, there hasn’t been more than a two-goal deficit in the final score of a game between Texas and Toronto in a decade.”
“Really?”
I nod, then find myself adding, “Not since Rhett joined the Storm.”
“Wow,” Mick says. “That’s a cool stat.”
“You should bring that up next time we play them,” I tell him.
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Youshould.”
I raise my brows.
“I’ll learn some of my own by then.”
Something passes between us. Something that feels dangerously close to camaraderie.
Mick looks away for a moment, then back at me.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice low, “you were always the one who knew her shit. Even back then.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “I know.”
He chuckles under his breath.
“Thanks, Mick.”
