Page 101 of Unsteady

He bounces off, slamming into the knees of the defenseman face first and then falling flat on the ice on his stomach.

There’s a large crack, and then silence.

But only for a moment, before the entire team starts attacking the player who hit him: Kane, I see in big bold yellow letters on the back of his jersey.

Toren Kane, I realize.

As in, the guy at my practice.

Oh my god.

I open another tab and search his name and, just like he said, there’s a wealth of knowledge there. Headline after headline—kicked out of Boston College, released from Michigan for unknown circumstances, banned from playing in Harvard’s arena. And, most recently, a surprise move to Waterfell University.

Page after page of attempted,and denied, interviews about his hit on Rhys.

I shake my head, feeling my fingers go numb as I click back to the main video and search thesuggestedfor more angles.

I find one dual view, where I can see him, sprawled on the ice on his stomach, out cold. A medic comes, trying not to move him, but there’s blood on the ice and they can’t see where it’s coming from.

Then, he starts shaking on the ice, little tremors through his heavily padded body. A massive goalie decked in blue and gray, who I know easily to be Bennett Reiner is next to him now, helmet off and face pinched in concern as he starts looking around the crowd for someone, all the while kneeling and holding Rhys’ leg.

I see him start to turn over, which is good—it means he’s awake. But as soon as he pushes up, he flops backwards as if his neck is broken. His helmet is off, blood pouring down his face from a pressure cut.

Terror claws at my throat, tears welling as if he’s not in the next room. As if he’s not okay. I suddenly, desperately, need to put my eyes on him to assure myself he’s still okay.

The camera cuts to the boards where both teams are standing, the coach of the opposing team furious, his hand gripping Toren Kane by the neck of his jersey, which is already ripped from the fight. The refs come over and there’s a lot of silence before a stretcher is wheeled out, several people walking with it across the ice—one of them a tall, well-dressed man crying out for him.

And then, the video ends.

I shut the screen just as Rhys comes back, towel wrapped around his taunt, trim waist. His hair is damp, and he shoves it back behind his ears, a few loose tendrils stubbornly dancing in front of his eyes. He tries to grin, but stops when he takes in my face.

“Hey,” he coos, rushing towards me and holding my face in his big hands. “You’re okay?”

“Are you?” I ask, a tremble working down my spine. “God, Rhys—”

“I didn’t show you that for you to pity me,” he gruffly, shrugging off where my hands have absentmindedly reached for his cheek. “I just wanted you to know.”

I nod. “I know. But, be real—you can’t show me that and expect me to shrug it off.”

“It was just a hit. Happens all the time. Hockey is a contact sport.”

Doesn’t matter, I want to say—clearly this video, the hit itself is the smallest part of this problem.

I remember, for a moment, the look of him that first day, slumped against the boards on the ice, the fear and panic blowing his pupils wide. His shaking hands, the tremble of his muscles beneath my hands.

“If it was just a hit,” I start. “Then what happened after?”

THIRTY-FOUR

SADIE

For a moment, I think he will deny me and shut it down.

But he only breathes a little heavier and asks if he can put clothes on. I want to say no, because covering his body feels like a crime. But his skin is already distracting enough, so he dresses in gray sweatpants and a shirt just like the one I stole, and returns to his spot across from me on the bed.

“Everything hurt, I remember. But I don’t really remember the hit. I remember seeing him coming, then I remember the panic of not being able to see anything. I thought I was dying.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “And then, I thought I was dyingevery night.”

I wonder if I’ll pass out with how hard my heart is hammering, like I’m absorbing his anxiety and fear from those days.

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