Page 158 of The Fine Line
I exhale, shaking. Try to stand straight. But nausea claws at me at the same time sharp pain knifes through my skull.
“Fuck,” I grit, recognizing the feeling immediately. Too much booze. Not enough Oxy.
The arena music kicks up. Coach is yelling, “Let’s go, boys!” followed by the usual banging on lockers.
“Shit,” I mutter, heart pounding. My eyes lock on the bag of Percs in one hand, the coke in the other. I don’t even know which one would make me feel normal. I’m not sure I evenremember what that feels like. My stomach turns. My hands shake.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself, swallowing dry. “Take it easy. You’ve got this.”
I down three Percs—too few, but all I’ll risk. I ball up the baggies, shove them into my dress shoe in my locker, and grab my stick.
I jog out of the locker room just as the last guy jumps onto the ice. Holt is waiting.
“Sorry, Cap, I was?—”
“I don’t care,” he cuts me off. “Get out there. We need you focused. I don’t give a shit if we’re playing your high school boyfriend.”
He slaps my back—harder than necessary—and I skate off, snagging a puck. I take a shot.
Dead center.
Maybe today won’t be a total disaster.
Then I crash into what feels like a brick wall.
“Jesus, Sutton,” Gregor hisses, shoving me off. “Watch it.”
I blink hard, dazed, the arena lights burning too bright.
“Rhett!”
I turn, seeing one of the team photographers skating up.
“The League wants a pic of you and James—old teammates, first game facing each other.”
When I just stare at him, he adds, “You and Bennett.”
Even through the haze, I spot him across the ice—locked in, mid-drill.
Then, as if he senses me, he turns. Eyes meet mine.
Shit.
The photographer looks impatient. “Just real quick?”
I rub the back of my neck, searching for an out. But then someone from the Storm bench gestures toward me, and Bennett looks again.
Double shit.
“Yeah, sure,” I mumble.
He skates over, smiling. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s close. Too close. And instantly I feel like the worst person alive. Because I haven’t been there for him. Not even a little. Not at all.
“Hey, Sutty,” he says, pulling me into a hug before I can finish saying his name.
The impact knocks the wind out of me. The ache radiates down my back. My bones feel brittle.
Get it together, I tell myself. You’ve got this.
