Page 20 of Unsteady

“Where’s Chelsea?”

“I sent her home; told her we would wait on their parents.”

I nod, still keeping my gaze on Liam chasing Oliver around the circle he’s creating with his edges. If I look at my dad, I’ll see the question that I know is there, about these kids and my connection to them.

But he doesn’t pester. Instead, my dad steps forward with his stick, pulling Oliver from his current pattern and shifts his focus to catching a fast shot on his backhand. It takes a few minutes, but he warms up to us easily, following every correction given to him. I can see the spark ignite in my dad, recognizing the level of talent the kid has now as bright potential.

I spot her instinctually, as if she’s a homing beacon, forever drawing me back to her piercing gray stare. She stops mid-step, her bag dropping off her shoulders as she watches Oliver with apprehension in her eyes, and her guardwayup.

Liam is shouting for her as I pick him up and skate us both over. Oliver pauses, but my dad has him run his current drill again.

Sadie watches him, eyes bright—like this isn’t something she gets to see that often.

“He’s gifted,” I say, letting Liam climb down from me.

The younger kid shouts, “Watch me!” And tries to join his brother across the rink. Even with his resilience and quick recoveries, he’ll never make it.

I can tell Oliver is showing off a bit and Sadie is glued to his every move. It stirs something in me, like I should apologize for what I cornered her about that first day. Perhaps I read this situation wrong.

But then, I think about that call to her phone.

“Your parents aren’t coming?” I ask, but it feels like testing a field for landmines.

“We have a deal, hotshot,” she answers, refusing to look at me. “They’re busy. I can take care of the boys. Any other questions?”

Thousands. Like Why are you so angry? Why do you skate like you’re on fire? Who is that bad that you listed them as DO NOT ANSWER in your phone? Are you safe? Are you okay?

Still, I shake my head.

Crumbs.

I’ll eat every last one.

SIX

RHYS

It’s been two weeks of this routine, getting my feet under me again sans panic attacks while tying skates. Two weeks of waking to the promise of seeing her settling my stomach, skating to her eclectic music taste that swings from Steely Dan to Ethel Cain to Harry Styles in the same hour.

Now, I feel as though what she first selects is how I can read her moods. I can tell she’s in need of settling when she plays Phoebe Bridgers, or desperate for a fast dancing skate when she blares Two Door Cinema Club and MGMT back-to-back, usually smiling with endorphins as she freestyles across her side of the ice.

But sometimes, she starts Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.”Those days she doesn’t usually speak to me, only stares at me on our way in with eyes that always look half full of tears.

I try to listen most on those days, as if the lyrics she hears might be another language for her, picking up the smallest of hints, desperate for as much of her as I can consume.

Today, however, she’s late.

Most days that Sadie comes in late, she’s having an angry day, so I prepare to shoot and race the rink to anything loud. But today doesn’t seem to be one of those days.

The anxiety at being on the ice without her settles as I hear her coming, echoing from the tunnel into the silent rink.

It takes all my strength not to turn and stare as she comes in, to wait until I hear her skates slice the ice before looking.

She’s wearing her usual outfit: a threadbare gray Waterfell University shirt and leggings with a flare over her white skates, hair pulled up and mostly off her face.

She skates over to me in that same style; a little angry, graceful but with a touch of vengeance.

“I made you something,” she says, and there’s that divot between her eyebrows like she is frustrated or questioning everything at a near constant. Her hands hold nothing, but she sticks them out to me like I’m the one with a gift.

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