Page 36 of Unsteady

The silence stretches between us, just like the immaculate green yard that I know Bennett probably mowed himself this morning. Routines, sameness, that’s what keeps Bennett alive.

“Bennett, look—”

His massive hand lifts, stopping whatever word vomit was near to spewing from my mouth.

“It’s not that hard to pick up a phone, Rhys. Even just a text.” He waits, silent and stoic, but his blue eyes are a wide depth of hurt and betrayal. “I thought you were going to die.”

He might as well have punched me in the gut.

“Ben—”

“No.” He shakes his head, pressing his lips together and running a hand through his curly honey brown hair. He takes his sunglasses out of his shirt, sliding them on like blocking the redness of his eyes will do anything to keep me from hearing the hurt in his voice. “The last time I saw you, you were in a fucking hospital bed. Do you realize that? You left me in the dark, begging your mom for any information. Going to summer intensive without you, keeping up the team momentum, telling them you were at some fucking intense recovery camp? I felt like a goddamn idiot, shut out by my best friend.”

Every word from his mouth feels like the lash of a whip, but I’ll gladly take them all. If anything, it only feeds the festering thing inside me.

You did this to him. And you can’t even feel bad about it, because you’re empty. Nothing left, even for your best friend. Selfish.

So, instead of anything else, I nod. Bennett doesn’t like to be touched, otherwise I’d have pulled him into a hug already. He wears his emotions on his sleeve, written across his face and easily seen even half covered by the well-maintained beard and dark Ray-Bans.

“I won’t apologize now because it’ll sound like I don’t mean it.” I shrug, before nodding resolutely. “But, I’m back. Moving back in today, going out tonight or something, and practice on Monday. I’m not leaving.”

I’m not leaving you again, goes unsaid, but I can see that he takes my peace offering as he readjusts the sunglasses tucked into his shirt and closes the door to his glossy, black truck. I reach for my bags in the backseat and turn back towards him, ready to let him have another go. He comes by my side, staying a few feet back as he usually does, but follows behind me as I enter the house.

“Welcome back, Captain,” he quietly offers as he maneuvers ahead of me to pull open the front door. “I’m still mad at you.”

It’s even quieter, but it brings a bursting feeling of home through my body. BecausethatI can repair.

“Glad to be back, Reiner.”

And even if it’s just for a moment, fleeting and small, that warmth in my chest is enough.

It has to be, for now.

* * *

We don’t end up at the party, but in a booth at our favorite local burger joint. Bennett sits across from me, Freddy on my right as we pick at the leftovers of our overly large order. Three plates of wings, potato wedges and bowls of veggies scatter across the table, the centerpiece a nearly demolished giant pretzel, the last piece barely hanging on to the hook it was delivered on.

Bennett is smiling now, a genuine one that shows all his teeth as Freddy retells the story of hitting on the Bruins player development coordinator during summer intensive and getting nearly leveled by her NHL boyfriend on the ice right after.

“Nowaythat guy ‘gets back to you’ on helping you with that fancy little deke shot,” Bennett says as he gulps down another swig of his nearly orange local IPA. He’s a beer snob, refusing to split the half-empty pitcher between Freddy and me.

“It’s calledthe Michigan.”

Bennett’s smile only widens. “Should be called the mission impossible. No way you’ll get it well enough to use in a game.”

Their chirping forces a smile almost too easily, knowing that last year Bennett was ready to put his blocker through the kid, fed up with his arrogance and obsession with fancy deke-style trick shots. Nothing he could really do during the heat of a game, but Freddylovedto piss off our usually calm goalie by treating warm-ups and practices like a damn shootout.

“Heard from Tampa?”

The question comes from Bennett and I have to swallow hard before I shake my head.

I was drafted before Waterfell by Tampa, knowing that after my degree was secured, I’d have my spot with them. But then, after the injury, they’d rescinded their offer, which has left me desperate to prove to any other teams interested that I am just as good—if not better.

I can feel my best friend watching me closely, keeping track of my drink in a way that makes me question whether he received a text from my mother, but I try to ignore it. Even still, sweat starts to gather on my brow and the rush of heat on my neck makes me pull at my collar.

If anyone can sense something wrong with me, it would be Bennett Reiner.

“You have to be kidding me,” Freddy grumbles through a mouthful of pretzel, before groaning and slumping against the booth, slapping his phone down on the sticky table.

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