Page 30 of The Fine Line
“You could’ve seriously injured me, you prick?—”
“It was clean,” I shrug. You’ve been up my ass all day?—”
He cuts me off with a cold laugh.
I pull back, brows knitting. “What’s so funny?”
He stares down at me, shaking his head, and I curse the one damn inch he has on my six-two frame as he pats my cheek.
“You think you’re hot shit, Sutton.”
I pat his cheek right back. “Joke’s on you. I don’t think at all.”
He shoves my glove away and gives me a harder push into the boards.
“Let me tell you something, Sutton?—”
“Oh, please do. I’ve always loved our chats?—”
“It’s just a matter of time,” he grits, leaning in closer, “before someone knocks you down a peg. And if I have any say in it… it’s gonna be me.”
“That’s a cute fantasy,” I say. “Add it to your bedtime thoughts.”
“Everything’s a fucking joke to you.”
“I just call it like I see it.” I look him up and down. “And it checks out at the moment.”
His lips curl. “You think you’re going to the NHL?”
I open my mouth, then close it slowly.
Holt was drafted this summer. A full-on hometown hero parade was waiting for him at camp when he came back—congrats banner, red streamers, the whole thing. I showed up. Left.
“Boys!” The coach's voice is closer now.
Holt pulls me even closer, his eyes practically burningthrough me. “You’re messy. You’re a liability. Not a team player. Nothing to look up to. Nothing to be proud of.”
I blink, my mouth suddenly dry as Holt tilts his head.
“Maybe that’s why your parents never show up?—”
I swing.
I don’t remember deciding to, but I do. Gloves drop. We go at it—until we’re yanked apart.
“Enough!” Coach shouts. He sends Holt off the ice, then turns to me. “Sutton. Goal line. Ten sprints.”
“Wait,” I scoff, throwing my hands up. “That’s it?”
“No, of course not,” he says, and I drop my arms, waiting for Holt’s punishment.
“You’re also going to replace Brendan’s stick.”
My jaw drops.
Dad’s gonna love that.
“But—”
