Page 4 of The Fine Line
My head snaps back, my gaze shifting.
I meet eyes again.
The same eyes as hers.
“I’m here.”
two
CAROLINE
I’m here. It’s really happening.
There must be over a hundred people crammed into this room, all shouting at once, all fighting for attention. The cameras flash like a strobe light. It’s a blur of bodies and noise.
And yet, when he finally takes his place behind the podium and raises his head, his eyes land straight on me.
Just like they always do.
Like he knows when I walk into a room. Like he can sense it.
Like I’m a magnet for trouble, and he can’t help but be drawn to it.
Like he’s a recovering addict, and I’m the one temptation he can’t seem to kick.
And right now, as usual, his body reacts before his mind even has a chance to catch up. He relaxes some, even with the stress hanging around him like a cloud—something I can’t exactly blame him for, given the situation.
Or maybe I can.
And then—the final blow. The cherry on top of this poison-laced cake.
The smirk.
I know it’s coming, but still, even with twenty feet between us, my neck burns with heat when it hits. His lips curl, his jaw shifts, the left corner of his mouth lifts. His tongue pushes into the inside of his cheek, his chin lowers. Like clockwork.
And I have no chance. No chance of stopping the scoff escaping my mouth before it’s already out—no more than I can stop my eyes from rolling back into my head.
Just like that, the spell is broken. Time resumes its normal pace. And this little dance Rhett Sutton keeps making us do drags on for another day.
When my eyes settle back into place, his gaze is no longer on me. He’s scanning the room now, jaw tense as reporters shout over each other, demanding soundbites and statements about his new role.
A role I still can’t wrap my head around.
Just thinking about it twists my stomach. Every headline makes it worse. And now, watching it unfold in real time, my heart sinks all over again—just like it did when I found out.
But, unfortunately, the decision wasn’t mine to make.
Because it belonged to the man standing behind Rhett now. The one gripping his arm as he leans in, murmuring something low and gruff—probably some mix of encouragement and a subtle threat to get his act together.
The one with the same level of patience and sharp blue eyes as me.
Coach Jim Barrett. Or Bear, as the players call him.
But I just call him Dad.
I exhale through my nose and raise my phone, snapping a picture of Rhett behind the podium—the shiny new "C" stitched on his green jersey on display for the world to see.
I grit my teeth and open my social media app, type out the caption, and hit post before I can change my mind.
