Page 138 of Unsteady

Singles skating got a new coach overnight—and I speculate how much Koteskiy family funding helped pull that off, even if none of the three of them will admit it.

She’s nice, but firm. In a way I can see it as a healthy firmness, like a real coach. Not manipulation or isolation or brutality. I’m learning that wasn’t my fault either—I was too young with no adults around me to keep it from happening or notice that it wasn’t okay.

She also let me choreograph my entire Christmas Gala routine, which I’m performing tonight. It’s to Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.” Coach Kelley would never let me pick something so lyrical, swearing my strength was only in my brutality; but Coach Amber encourages me to try something new all the time, even when I fall.

I’m tired but I don’t sleep, even as Rhys crashes the moment his head hits the pillow. Daylight peaks through the closed blinds in his rooms, dancing across his handsome face as I stare at him a little in awe.

I watched him grow, change since that day on the ice this past summer. I’ve seen his body shift and change, fill out again now that anxiety doesn’t stifle his usual massive appetite.

He is beautiful.

In his easy love for my brothers, his support of everything I do. His gentleness with my heart, but stubbornness against my anger. He cut through the vines of my anger and self-hatred like it was the only thing he was meant for.

It’s taken me this long, but I know who he is now.

Rhys Koteskiy is pure gold. I know it. And soon the entire world will, too.

So I soak up these moments, just the two of us between the dark blue sheets of his bed. Under the flickering light of day, safe and warm in the comfort of his arms, falling asleep to the sound of his steady, strong heartbeat.

EPILOGUE

RHYS

Three Years Later

If I thought the press would be worse with me officially in the NHLalone, it doesn’t compare in the slightest to when my father and I are in the same vicinity.

His fame will never wear off. He still holds the record for most Stanley Cup wins. And while this is my third year with the New York Rangers, the rumors of a trade are endless, which means I’m being hounded by sports broadcasters constantly.

Yet, somehow, my dad has managed to keep Waterfell’s local rink and the First Line Foundation it houses there, away from it all.

Entering my hometown rink feels like a little slice of privacy.

Privacy and utter happiness, thanks to the girl dressed in my old Waterfell University sweatshirt and leggings, looking a bit more like a sleepy college student and not the current head coach for the new figure skating sector of my family’s charity.

Sadie Brown will always be the only thing I want to look at, shining and blazing like fire on ice. She’s always been beautiful, but I think my attraction to her grows with every day.

She cut her hair recently and didn’t tell me before, just showed up at my apartment with her dark shiny hair in a blunt chop dusting her shoulders, skin pink from the New York winter winds and I nearly attacked her in the hallway.

I’ve turned into an animal when it comes to her, with no signs of stopping.

“Was that good?” a reluctant little voice asks.

While I should be in my apartment, sleeping as much as possible before my next string of three away games—this time to Montreal and Florida in the same week—I took the train straight here. Because even if it means a few days of minor exhaustion, I’ll do anything for just an hour with her.

I hang back near the cluster of parents waiting for their children to be dismissed, watching her.

I could watch her every minute and it would never be enough.

“Great, Tiff.” She nods towards the slender young girl dressed in all pinks and golds. “You’ll be spinning even faster in no time.”

The words of praise practically send the girl glowing as she darts off for another lap.

A loud thump followed by a frustrated little scream draws the entire rink's attention to the shorter girl in a pair of older, tan skates and a big t-shirt. It’s the girl Sadie talks about, complains about, and defends in the same breath. Looks like her mini-me if you ask me, but I keep my mouth shut.

The girl fights tooth and nail with Sadie’s corrections, but dresses like her, and—no matter how reluctantly—does everything she’s asked. I can tell she’s just like my pretty girlfriend. A little prickly, but soft underneath; just needs the right care and attention. The right type of guidance.

And as much as she might not see it, Sadie is that guidance.

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