Page 109 of Unsteady

And Oliver looks refreshed and happy.

A loud crash sounds, followed by the roar of the crowd as everyone shoots up to stand over a fight.

I try to decipher what happened, at first only able to spot Toren Kane locked in a brawl with one of the larger BC players.

But then I see Rhys, sprawled on his back, not moving—his chest or his head.

I’m on the stairs before I can blink, heart in my throat as I press my hands to the glass and bang on it. He’s nowhere close enough, but Bennett hears, turning to look over at me through his cage—I can’t see his expression, but he turns away and skates towards his captain.

God,it doesn’t look like he’s even breathing.

There are trainers already around him, quicker than I’ve seen in most games and I know it’s because of his history. Because he’s likely already on their watch list.

Bennett is skating back towards his net, slow and graceful for all his hulking size. But he passes right by the net and stops next to me.

I feel like a child staring up at him through the glass, he’s so massive. He pulls his helmet off and shakes out the sweat wet curls, brow furrowing.

“He’s okay,” he says. “Sit down.”

“Ben—”

“If he sees you panicking, it’s gonna make him feel worse. Sit. Down.”

I do as he says, nearly tripping up the stairs while I try to walk with my head on a swivel.

He does get up, met with a round of cheers from everyone in the arena, both teams slapping their sticks against the ice. Still, they force him off and through the tunnel.

Considering I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe properly until I lay my eyes on him, I tell Rora where I’ll meet her afterwards, and thank my figure skating competition knowledge to know the paths of the arena like the back of my hand. I don’t care if they won’t let me see him, I just want to be close enough.

I pace the alcove near the locker room hallway for a moment, before a hand on my shoulder makes me jolt.

I glance up, seeing a disheveled looking man towering over me. It’s only after I flinch backwards into the wall before I realize exactly who I’m looking at.

They are copies of one another, Rhys and his father. And though I’ve met the man in passing, I’ve never seen him up close. Rhys has the same chocolate eyes that give a boyish hint, even to his father’s slightly aged face. He looks young, but disarming in a way I know Rhys looks too. Strong jaw, plush lips, same dark hair.

“Sorry,” he says, followed by a word I don’t recognize but sounds like a harsh language—Russian or Polish? “Are you here for my son?”

“Yeah, I—” I clear my stuck throat, my heart still racing. “I just want to know he’s okay.”

The smile he gives me is gentle and warm, and achingly familiar, except he only has one dimple.

“Come,dochka,” he beckons with that same word, putting a firm hand between my shoulders and guiding me around the loop and through the pungent locker rooms to a smaller room fitted with a medical table and supplies.

Rhys is there, shirtless and sweating, with his thick hockey pants still on. The trainer has his hands on his head, running a small flashlight in his pupils, while Rhys repeats the months of the year in reverse order.

“One moment,” his father whispers, stepping in front of me towards his son.

He gets stuck on June for a moment, which seems to alarm the trainer just slightly, before he peeks at Mr. Koteskiy hovering over his shoulder, spotting his player’s distraction.

“Rhys.” His father sighs. “Alright?”

“Fine.” He sighs back and they sound just as much alike as they look, minus the slight hint of an accent from his father. “You just got back?”

“Yeah—walked into the rink to see my son on his back on the ice. What the hell kind of welcome back is that, eh?”

Rhys chuckles, just a light huff. “Just got the breath knocked from me. Is Mom freaked out?”

“Nyet, but there is someone I found a little flustered out there.” He steps back, immediately placing me in view where I’m hovering in the doorway.

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