Page 49 of Unsteady

Bennett shakes his head again, left shoulder twitching up to his ear, even if it only shifts his pads a hair. “You caught that, yeah? Had to get used to the zig zag he runs for it, but he’s only gotten a few past me. He’s killing Mercy.”

That makes me smile a little, flickering a glance to Bennett’s tandem, Connor Mercer. “Mercy” affectionately, who looks exhausted and soaked, having already emptied his water bottle over his head.

“Mercy needed a little knocking down.”

“Coach wants to start him more this season, and trade off more games.”

That does make me pause, but instead of offering a reaction—because I know Ben—I only flick up an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me.”

“Scouts?”

“They’ll see me. They saw me last year too.” He takes another swig of his water. “Besides, we’re supposed to be a tandem and I played 26 out of 34 games last year in regular season.”

“Because you’re near perfect.”

He shrugs.

Freddy skates up, heaving breaths through a smirk as he pulls his own cage off. “What are we talking about, ladies?”

“Bennett’s not talking to you after that stupid shit you were pulling in the shootout drills.”

My tone is filled with unreleased laughter, but Ben looks like he might be ready to snap Freddy’s stick, if not his spine.

“C’mon, Reiner, you can’t be mad at me for keeping you on your toes.”

“I was in butterfly for so long I thought I pulled something, you blockhead.”

Freddy raises his hands in surrender. “Not my fault the freshies want to be just like me.”

“You had your entire team of fucking wingers dangling all over my zone.”

“You did?” I ask, smiling despite Bennett’s seething tone. “They all just did what you said?”

“Just call me Daddy.” Freddy’s smirk grows teeth and gleams like the sheet of ice we’re standing on. Holden gags, only catching that last golden nugget of our conversation.

As the rest of the team finishes up the race, offense winning by a smidge, I call a quick huddle and plan a team cookout at our house for Wednesday. First day of school, but not the first weekend, so that the freshmen don’t get the wrong idea of what this event is—bonding, not boozing.

The locker room is buzzing lightly after practice, and I feel the want there, to participate and joke around, but each time someone tries to engage with me, there’s only exhaustion. A bone-deep numbness.

It’s something I know easily now; from all the expensive therapy my parents have paid for—masking. Dr. Bard calls it anegative coping mechanismand says it’s a symptom of PTSD, which I definitely don’t have and she will not convince me otherwise.

I took a hit playing a sport—I wasn’t in a goddamn war.

It’s easier this way, to pretend to be who I was before that game, to be the same team player and leader who earned theCon my jersey sophomore year. It’s who I am, who I should be—just lost beneath the dark cloud insistent on following me everywhere.

Stepping into the warm sun outside the athletics complex, I pause to wait for Bennett—who is most likely stacking his pads in the exact order he prefers them.

My phone lights up again, a text from my dad.

Lunch?

Above it sits a trail of long paragraphs and ridiculous uplifting quotes that read like the inside of a self-help journal, along with quick one word responses from my end.

I hesitate in my reply, waiting for an excuse.

It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with him. My dad is my hero, always will be. It’s just confusing and complicated now. And I can’t get the echo of his voice out of my head.

---