Page 50 of Unsteady

My son.

Bennett steps out of the door, hair perfect, decked in slacks and a dark green polo that looks a little out of place considering we should be headed home to gorge on food and rest. His phone is pressed to his ear, using his free hand to slide his Ray-Bans over his eyes against the sunlight.

“I said I was going to be late,” he mutters, jaw tight in a way that quickly tells me exactly who it is he’s talking to. “I told you last time thatthisweek was the first week of practices, so I needed to push lunch back.”

He’s close enough now that I can make out the gruff identical tone of the other caller.

“It’s fine, Bennett, I can wait.”

Adam Reiner: former NHL prospect, current cutthroat corporate lawyer.

Bennett comes from more money than he’d ever know what to do with, the kind that ensures generations could choose not to work and be fine with it. His father was a silver spoon baby with a trust fund larger than a full roster of NFL contracts, which makes it somewhat surprising that he became best friends with the Russian transplant who’d been living in a dingy apartment after turning eighteen in a boys’ home, and learning to speak English from an elderly college professor who lived above him.

The rich kid center whose future wasn’t dependent on anything, and the poor, scrappy defenseman whose future was entirely dependent on that rookie year—and yet, they’d never stopped that friendship.

I have no problems with Bennett’s father, never have—but after the divorce, Bennett could barely stand to be in the same room with him.

So, his father missed more games than he attended, stopping altogether during our time at Berkshire. Now, I know that once a month Bennett meets his father at Bar Mezzana in South End.

Besides the extravagant gifts that often bless our home or garage—most recently the undriven new Bronco sitting in our garage with a tarp still tucked over it—Bennett and his father do not have a relationship.

“Don’t bother,” he snaps back. “Go back to work. I’m not driving into the city for twenty minutes of staring at each other over stupidly expensive food.”

He hangs up without a second thought.

“Missing another lunch?” I ask, realizing after that I wouldn’t know either way.

Bennett shakes his head, rearranging his hair and glasses again, his hands moving with tremors.

“I went to the last one, but it was the first time I’d seen him all summer.”

“Still bad?”

“I’m just… My mom’s happy, finally. Her and Paul are gone for the next two weeks to Europe. I don’t want the reminder.”

“I get it.”

I don’t, actually. Bennett’s parents’ divorce has always been a strange topic for me.

My parents are sick in love, and always have been. To the world, there’s nothing Maximillian Koteskiy loves more than hockey. But to anyone who truly knows him, he’d give up every Stanley Cup win and his entire career if it meant he’d hold onto my mother.

“Headed back to the house?” he asks, holding the button on the side of his phone to turn it completely off.

“I think so—”

“Pool party at Zeta,” Holden announces, walking out shoulder to shoulder with Freddy. Both are haphazardly put together in a way that almost makes them look like twins; where Freddy is all playboy smirk, Holden is boyish innocence.

“I’m good,” I say. I have other plans in mind, namely attempting to sneak another hour of a certain punky figure skater’s time.

“I’ll come,” Bennett says, surprisingly. At my look, he shrugs. “Need something to do.”

“Fair enough. I’ll see you guys back at the house later.”

With a final few chin lifts and waves on my way to the car, I tuck in and shoot a quick,Can’t todaytext to my father.

My hand is on the handle before I curse, realizing I’ve left my keys in my locker.

Thankfully, everything is empty now, making it easier to run in, grab my keys out of the cubby and get out without the need to stop and talk with anyone.

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