Page 29 of The Fine Line
He scoffs. “You just want an ego boost.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
He flips his hat backward with a sigh. “Fine. On three?”
We count down, then take off—full throttle.
Less than a minute later, we finish the loop—way less for me—but we’re both breathless by the end.
I drop onto my back, hands above my head, gulping air. Blake joins me a second later.
“What happened today?” he asks.
“Hmm?”
“Words, Rhett.”
“It was nothing.”
Silence stretches.
“Was it Holt?”
I sigh, eyes falling shut.
And just like that, it allfloods back.
“Don’t choke, Sutton.”
I grit my teeth as Brendan Holt breathes down my neck, matching me stride for stride as I break away with the puck.
We’ve been at this for years. He’s the only other player here who hasn’t missed a summer in the last decade. He knows my game. I know his. And right when I think I’ve got him, he reads me perfectly—shuts me down, steals the puck, and blazes toward our goal.
I grunt, spinning around. One of my forwards is already standing at the bench, waiting to sub in. I start to skate off, but something twists in my chest when I look back and see Holt flying down the ice.
I stop.
Then I bolt after him.
“Sutton!” one of the coaches calls, but I’m already locked in.
I check him hard in the back, and I hear the breath whoosh out of him like music to my ears. Before he can even attempt to recover, I slip my stick between his legs and snag the puck back. I never touch him in the process, but he still loses his balance in surprise. He goes down nearly face-first, and I hear the sharp crack of his hockey stick snapping beneath him.
I’d love to savor the moment, but I don’t have time. I pass, then break for the net. The puck comes back to me, and I score—glove side, top shelf.
We’re up by one with twenty-three seconds left in the period.
I barely get my hands in the air before Holt slams me into the boards.
“The hell was that, Sutton?”
“Oh, buddy, that was a goal.” I spin to face him, grinning. “Did you forget? I know it’s been a long summer. Can’t remember the last time you scored one?—”
He grabs a fistful of my jersey, yanking me close. “That was a dirty fucking play.”
“That was hockey.”
“Break it up, boys!”one of the coaches calls from up the ice.
