Page 35 of The Fine Line
The intro song blasts. The tunnel glows emerald.
The crowd chants louder and louder.
“Texas! Storm!”
The announcer begins calling the starting lineup.
First, the goaltender—Luke Buckner. The place roars. Everybody loves Buck.
Then the two defensemen, Tucker Hailey and Mikael Liukkonen. More cheers.
“And now for your starting forwards!”
“At left wing, from Helsinki, Finland—number twenty-six, Ragnar Lindt!”
I hold my breath.
“At center, from Toronto, Ontario—number nineteen, your captain…”
The place explodes.
“Rhett Sutton!”
The arena shakes.
But not all of it is cheers.
A third of the noise is wrong.
Booing. Yelling.
The chaos drowns out the next name entirely.
I search for Rhett on the ice. Cameras cut to him. He skates like nothing’s wrong, but his jaw is tight.
And when some of the booing doesn’t fade…
I know he hears it.
And I know it’s already getting to him.
Fifteen minutes into the first period, and things aren’t looking great.
Ottawa’s up by two.
The Storm haven’t scored. And if I didn’t know better, I’d believe this was the first time these guys had ever played together.
They’re sloppy—out of sync. Communication is nonexistent. Mistakes are brutal.
Both Ottawa goals came on power plays.
The first: Rhett caught his stick on the puck carrier after colliding with Ronan—his own teammate.
The second: too many men on the ice. Another Rhett mistake, even though Dad had Ragnar sit the penalty.
There’s still time, but my stomach’s already in knots.
I watch as Rhett jumps back on the ice. The puck comes to him—perfect timing. He intercepts and charges for the goal.
