Page 168 of The Fine Line
He gestures to the others. “This is Alan Cunningham, our senior producer, and Ethan Bower, our play-by-play broadcaster.”
They nod in turn—polite, but measured. Media men. I know the type.
“I have to say,” Alan begins as we all take our seats, “Tom Dunn isn’t exactly generous with his praise.”
“He’s really not,” Dave agrees, lifting his glass. “So when he said you nailed the Detroit game, we knew we had to take a look for ourselves.”
“And he was right,” Ethan adds. “You’ve got command, timing, ease. That’s not easy to find—especially from someone so new to the field.”
I smile. “I appreciate that. It means a lot coming from you all.”
We keep talking as drinks are ordered—my background, career goals, the role they’re hiring for, Titans culture, current stats, hockey markets. The conversation flows. I manage to go beat for beat, even get a few laughs out of them. Everything at the table is going great.
But I keep glancing past Dave’s shoulder toward the window.
Two blocks away. That’s all. Ninth and Thirty-Fifth.
I can’t stop picturing it—Rhett at a table, jaw tight, a gin and tonic untouched in front of him while his father parades him around like a trophy, saying God knows what in between introductions.
It’s been tugging at me all evening—quiet, but constant.
I cross my legs under the table. Lace my fingers together in my lap.
“You’ve got one hell of a memory,” Ethan says, pulling me back in. “Between Detroit and the rinkside clips we saw, you’re recalling more stats from decades past than some of the guys I work with—guys who actually played back then. It’s seriously impressive.”
“Thank you,” I say again. And I mean it—I do. But the words feel distant. My stomach’s tightening, wound like a pulled string.
Dave glances down at my empty martini glass. “Can I get you another?”
It’s a kind offer. A normal way to continue what has been a promising conversation.
But instead of nodding, I shake my head. “I’d love that, but I actually have somewhere I need to be.”
He tilts his head—surprised, but understanding. “Of course. We appreciate you coming. I’ll be in touch soon.”
I smile, hoping he means it. “I look forward to it. Thanks again.”
I stand, shake their hands, grab my bag, and step out into the night.
The air is crisp with a touch of humidity. Charged. It pushes me forward.
I don’t check the time. I don’t second-guess.
I just turn south, toward Thirty-Fifth.
Toward Rhett.
forty-one
RHETT
“Rhett?”
I tap my foot, eyes fixed on a bead of condensation sliding down the side of my untouched gin and tonic.
I haven’t taken a sip. I’m afraid to.
Alcohol’s never been my drug of choice—I can control it. But more than once, a little gin has led to a little something else. Something I can’t control.
