Page 170 of The Fine Line
“Hi, everyone.”
I freeze.
The voice hits before the meaning.
I turn slowly.
Caroline.
Calm. Cool. Collected as always. A glowing beacon, just as I was ready to sink with the ship.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “Did I miss anything?”
I open my mouth, but of course, he beats me to it.
“‘Course not. The party just arrived.”
Caroline’s eyes flick past me to him. She smiles—polite, restrained. But she doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t buyhim. Of course not. She sees through people like him.
Like us?
“Hi,” she says, just to me this time. Eyes locked on mine. Nowhere to hide.
“Rhett,” my dad snaps, “aren’t you going to introduce her?”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Everyone, this is Caroline. My…”
“His wife,” she supplies.
I blink hard.
My father straightens, gesturing toward my mother. “Caroline, this is my wife, Victoria.” My mom barely glances up from her glass. She nods a fraction, attention already drifting elsewhere. “And some of my colleagues.”
Caroline nods, exchanging handshakes. “Pleasure.”
Then she turns back to me. “Sorry, were you going somewhere?”
“I—”
“Of course he wasn’t,” Dad cuts in, gripping my elbow and steering me back into my chair like I’m eight. “Please,” he says to Caroline. “Sit. We were just catching up.”
She hesitates, watching us, then slowly takes the seat beside me.
“I’m sorry, I have to ask,” one of the suits leans in. “You're the coach’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Caroline’s smile tightens. She straightens in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “That’s one of the things I am, yes.”
“Well, Roger,” he says, “looks like you’re creating a little NHL royal family here. Good for you.”
“That’s not?—”
“Ah, there’s our waitress,” my dad says, cutting Caroline off and waving the server over. “We’ll have another round, please. And sweetheart,” he turns to Caroline, “what can I get for you?”
She narrows her eyes at him. “Martini. Extra dirty.” She pauses, looking at the waitress before adding, “Please.”
I don’t move. Just stare at a spot on the table. My glass sits inches from my hand, sweating against the wood. Noise buzzes around me—laughter, clinking ice, my father’s voice filling the air like smoke—but it all feels distant. Muffled.
“Where’d you go, boy?”
