Page 2 of Unsteady

I nod, sliding the bag into the backseat of my BMW. I’d been cleared to drive for a month or so, but have barely left the house in all that time.

“I will,” I finally say, tightening my hands on the steering wheel as I sit in the silence. Only the wisping sound of my father’s crackling speaker tells me he’s driving with the windows down in his ancient truck that my mom refers to as “thatthing.”

“And if you’re not ready this year, there’s no reason to push yourself. An extra year might be good, make a better impression on the scouts before the next draft—”

I cut him off before his words can send me spiraling and right back into my room with the blackout curtains shut tight.

“I want to play. I feel ready to play again,” I lie. It’s one I’ve been practicing, so it rolls off my tongue easier than breathing. “I’m good.”

A deep sigh over the line, before we exchange quick goodbyes and I finally crank the car.

* * *

The rink is crowded, especially for a Thursday evening at dinner time. Kids ranging in age from five to thirteen skirt and swerve around the rink with a few volunteers that I recognize from previous functions—some retired players, some parents with relevant experience. I even spot Lukas Bezek—one of the new star players for the Bruins—with the social media team working with a few of the older kids on slap shots.

Just as I step onto the ice, a little blur slams into my legs with a belatedly screamed, “Watch out!”

I catch the small kid before he can bounce off my thighs and flat onto the ice.

He giggles as I pull him off and hold him by the little pads and jersey he’s wearing, waiting until he gets his feet under him again. He’s looking up at me the entire time, a dusting of freckles and a gap-toothed grin that make him look just like a mini hockey player. He slides a bit again, not quite the best skater out there, but doesn’t frown or seem agitated in the slightest.

“Sorry,” he offers, a little whistle sound coming from his missing front tooth. “I’m still working on my stops.”

The old Rhys would have laughed and said something gentle, or funny, like“That’s alright, bud. I am too.”But even the idea of laughing seems impossible, so I offer as much of a grin as my face can manage.

“Good thing we’re gonna work on those stops today,” a chipper voice announces as a tall, pretty girl glides up and stops short next to us, a gaggle of little ones behind her. “And good job Liam, on finding our special guest coach for today!”

Liam, the boy still clinging to me with a little gloved hand on my leg, laughs again and looks back up at me.

“He’s so tall!”

The group of kids now surrounding us all giggle and smile up at me, waiting on something. Sweat slicks the back of my neck at the sight of all their hopeful faces looking up at me, relying on me.

Maybe this was a mistake.

“This is Rhys.” The girl takes over. “He’s a center for the Waterfell Wolves, so he plays hockey in college, just outside of Boston! He’s been playing since he was your age. And he’s gonna help you guys with skating today.”

“Will we play today?” a little girl asks with her helmet in her hands, cheeks blushing immediately at the attention of her fellow classmates.

“Probably not today. We’re gonna mainly work on skating, alright?” The girl offers the group, smiling lightly as they all cheer. “We’ll do a bit of stick handling with our hockey captain here.” She nods to me. “And then finish with some fun games. How does that sound?”

A consensus of cheering and shouting commences before she dismisses them to some warm up laps.

“Hope you don’t mind me taking over,” she says, reaching her hand out to shake mine. “I’m Chelsea. One of the leads told me you’d be helping out today with the little ones.”

“Yeah,” I reply. Skating gently beside her, following her lead to the other side of the rink where a stack of cones sits by the boards, I try to pull it all in. “Thanks for that. Was a little out of it this morning.”

“I understand.” She chuckles. “We all have some ofthosenights.”

I should laugh, or nod and agree—as if my lack of emotion is just a bad hangover from a rough night out—but I can barely muster a half-grin as we set up for drills.

“Anyway, I’ll make it easy. For the littles, it’s mainly just a skating lesson. The ten and up group is with the Bruins for media today.” She nods towards the stumbling crew headed back towards us. “And the little one who tried to knock you over is Liam—he needs some extra care if you want to focus on him today. Make it easier.”

So I do.

Liam is easy, an eager learner—albeit clumsy, but he never loses his smile. He clings to me easily, watching the other kids every now and then with a little determined scowl.

“My brother’s real good too,” he says, a little breathless as he holds onto the pocket of my joggers once again. The kid’s a terrible skater, but he’s happy.

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