Page 41 of The Fine Line
Randall’s Tavern.
The little hole-in-the-wall bar where the Storm players usually go after home games. It’s a far cry from the upscale spots downtown near the arena, but that’s the point. Low profile. No fans hounding them. I’ve shown up there plenty of times myself. But tonight? After everything that happened—and without Addie here anymore as my buffer—I’m not exactly dying to join.
I let out a breath and take a small step back as he locks the office door behind him.
“Mick actually said he was headed to Randall’s just before you showed up,” he adds.
My spine stiffens. “Mick?”
“Yeah. He said something about meeting your classmates there to celebrate.”
Of course he did.
I pull out my phone, and sure enough, the group chat is blowing up. Someone congratulated us on our new jobs and suggested a meet-up. And Mick, naturally, jumped in right away to say we’d be at Randall’s with the players.
Which means I absolutely have to go.
He probably thinks I’ll slink off and hide after what happened earlier.
And I refuse to let him think he has that kind of power over me.
I couldn’t confront him on live television.
But I definitely can now.
I intend to make my appearance short and sweet.
Well—short, at least.
Which is why I’m thrilled when I clock Mick’s tall frame and golden hair the moment I step into Randall’s Tavern. He’s leaning against the bar, sipping what I know is his usual overly complicated cocktail order I couldn’t repeat back if I tried, surrounded by a semi-circle of our former classmates.
Locked on my target, I don’t waste a second. I head straight for him, cutting through the crowd like I’m parting the sea—fully interrupting whatever story he’s feeding them with animated hand gestures and fake charm.
“You,” I hiss under my breath when I reach him.
A smug grin spreads across his face. “Hey, Barrett,” he says, raising his glass. “Can I get you a drink?—”
“Sure, thanks,” I cut him off, plucking the glass from his hand and downing the rest of it in one burning gulp. I slam it back into his chest. The alcohol scorches my throat, but it’s got nothing on the fire in my gut right now.
“Whoa, okay.” Mick chuckles, holding up his hands. “Care Bear’s feeling extra feisty tonight.”
“Don’t you dare call me that,” I grit out.
“Oh, sorry. Is that nickname reserved for your loverboy?”
My face burns, but I refuse to flinch—even as I feel heads turn and eyes linger, people trying to listen in.
“There is nothing going on between me and Rhett,” I say, sharp and steady. “If you knew anything about him, you’d know he’s a smooth talker who speaks faster than he thinks. The name just slipped. I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again. But you made everything ten times worse by repeating it on air.”
Mick laughs, clearly not taking me seriously. “Everybody already heard it. Me repeating it just made the segment more entertaining. My job is to entertain?—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I scoff. “You know, they do open-mic night on Tuesdays at the comedy club down the street. If you're just looking to entertain, why don’t you give that a try instead of fumbling your way through this job you know you don’t deserve and playing with my career for your attempt at a joke?”
“Okay, two things.” Mick steps closer, holding up a finger. “One—what makes you think I don’t deserve this job?”
I blink. “Are you seriously asking me?”
“Yes, Caroline. Go on.”
