Page 178 of The Fine Line
“I play hockey too!” the kid chimes in. “You’re my hero.”
Rhett’s smile falters for the briefest second before he recovers. “Stick with it,” he tells the boy, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be looking for your name in the NHL draft ten years from now.”
When he finally makes it back to me, I can’t help but say it. “You’re goodwith kids.”
He shrugs. “Kids are the best. So happy. So innocent. So full of life.”
“They look up to you, you know.”
He scoffs. “I don’t know about that.”
“They do,” I insist. “That kid just told you you’re his hero.”
“Well, he needs higher standards for himself,” he mumbles, reaching out to twirl a strand of my hair.
Deciding to let it go, I switch subjects.
“I almost forgot we leave for Chicago tomorrow night,” I say.
“Yeah,” Rhett replies, brows pinching. “Me too. Almost.”
“How do you feel about it? Playing them? I know it’s been a long time, but is it weird to go back there?”
He tucks the strand behind my ear. “Can’t say it’s my favorite game on the calendar.”
I tilt my head. “Rhett, what exactly happened?—”
Before I can finish, the lights dim into a wash of blues and purples. “Wonderwall” by Oasis starts playing, echoing through the rink. Rhett’s face changes instantly.
“This your song?” I ask.
“It’s my favorite,” he says, holding out his hand. “Skate with me.”
And I do.
We skate until the rink closes. Until the world narrows to just us, floating in neon light and laughter.
Later, we stumble through the door of the apartment, still breathless, still kissing like we’re teenagers. We drop half our clothes in the kitchen—my pants by the door, his jacket on the counter—and we’re halfway into his bedroom before he stops.
“God, I hate myself,” he groans. “But I gotta use the little birthday boy’s room.”
I laugh into his neck. “Too much all-you-can-drink soda?”
“We were party animals tonight.”
“Go,” I grin. “I’ll be right here.”
“Thirty seconds,” he promises, kissing me once more before slipping into the bathroom.
I wander to his bed, smoothing my hair. But something catches my eye.
The jewelry box.
The old one from his closet. It’s sitting out now, right on his nightstand.
I walk over, my fingers brushing the lid.
The bathroom door opens. “Alright,” he says, reappearing. “Where were we?”
