Page 135 of Unsteady

“How was your game?”

For some reason, the question seems to upset him. “I don’t want to talk about my game. What happened to your foot?”

Oh.

“I sprained it, I think. While skating.”

The stern face I rarely see from him is back in full force as he stands and crosses his arms. Like this, he towers over me. He’s so strong—so handsome. I’m almost too distracted by his beauty to realize exactly what he’s angry about.

“Overtraining, you mean. You sprained it because you were overtraining.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My heart hammers against my ribcage. “No. Why would you—”

“Please Sadie,” he whispers. And then, something changes as he watches me. He blows out a breath and tucks his messy hair behind his ears. “Take your time, my bathroom’s right there if you want to shower. But meet me in my mom’s office when you’re done.”

He bends and kisses my forehead hard, before leaving.

* * *

It’s quiet in Anna Koteskiy’s office.

Rhys and his father are standing, talking quietly when I enter. Anna is sitting, and she’s pulled up a chair by her computer for me.

“What's wrong?” I ask before I can think twice about it. “Did I do something—”

“You’re not in trouble, Sadie girl,” she whispers, beckoning me again. I sit, back straight and stiff as I look only at her.

“We just want to ask you about your coach.”

“Coach Kelley?” She nods. “Oh, well, he’s been my coach since I was like, eleven maybe? He followed me here. Um, he’s helped me with my brothers before, but…” I take another breath because I don’t know what they expect me to say here.

Though, it’s clear they’re waiting on something.

Rhys breaks first. “He’s never hurt you? Overtrained you?”

I’m careful with how I choose my words. “Everything he does is because he believes in me. He can be tough, but it’s only because he loves me.”

My words only make Rhys huff out an angry sound, his arms coming around my form and waking the monitor. On it, pulled wide, is a video—a competition video from years ago. It’s four hours long, but paused somewhere in the middle.

I knew it was out there somewhere, but it wasn’t at some major competition so I’d never thought he’d find it.

But, there it is, playing for me like an endless nightmare loop. I’m fifteen, dressed in a black and red number and finishing a routine I still know like the back of my hand. I fell during my combination that was going to secure me first place and a shot at Olympic qualifiers, and I hadn’t been able to shake the anxiety, so the rest of my movements and spins were jerky, robotic, with no feeling.

It’s clear how anxious I am as I skate off, red-faced and teary towards my coach who is fuming. His hand grips the back of my neck, hard—even on the camera you can see it, as he berates me, whispering into my ear.

I hate that now, I wait for myself to pull back, to slap him or push away or throw a tantrum. Instead, I burrow into him, holding for dear life like he’s my anchor, despite the white knuckle grip he has on me beneath the warm up jacket he’s put over my shoulders. I can practically hear his words in my ears still.

You look heavy, lost your rotation.

Weak ankles aren’t something I can fix, terror. You must train harder.

It was always to be helpful, to push me—I thought. Unlike the other girls in my group, I didn’t have parents to watch and cheer me, or a retired skating family to coach me. I’d been alone until Coach Kelley found me.

“That looks normal to you?” Rhys asks, his arms crossed, anger clear across his face.

There’s no words when I open my mouth, but I gauge his parents’ reaction as I wait.

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