Page 7 of Unsteady

“Whatever.”

A pang in my heart weighs my shoulders down, twisting the thing in my chest until the scream is almost bubbling at my lips. It feels like my body is on fire from the inside, every bit of anger and resentment and fear bubbling like an active volcano, and I know I’ll explode onhimif I don’t get out of this room right now.

Can’t you see what you’re doing to them?I want to shout.I know what happens next because it’s already happened to me. And I can’t do anything else to stop it—wake up!

“Do you have to go before the bus comes?” Liam asks, his voice still overly loud for the early hour, but I can almost feel the discomfort in it.

Do you have to leave us with him?That’s the real question. Oliver might remember Dad before all of this, but Liam doesn’t. Liam only knows this father, the one who doesn’t show up, who continues to grow weaker and nearer to death every day.

Oliver might be bursting with anger, but Liam is wrestling with fear.

I hate to leave them; I hate sending them to summer camps and endless distractions that don’t break our budget. But without skating, my tuition isn’t paid, and both jobs I currently hold are barely enough to supplement the checks from our mom.

This is for them. One day, maybe, they’ll understand it.

“Love you, nugget,” I whisper, kissing Liam hard on the cheek. He dives in for a hug and latches onto me until I tickle his sides to get him to release me. Oliver is leaned against the kitchen counter, his ever-growing lanky body rigid with arms crossed tight over the hand-me-down USA Nationals shirt. I give him a nod, knowing how much he doesn’t like to be touched, before passing my father’s leaned figure through the doorway.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, and I wait, because some part of me is clinging to the possibility that he’ll come back.

But he stays silent.

And I want to scream.

* * *

Blaring Deftones’ “Cherry Waves” does little in the way of clearing the fog of anger, but the sight I’m greeted with arriving at the ice plex easily empties every thought out of my mind.

There’s an expensive car in the otherwise empty lot, and the lights are on.

I should be the only one here, considering I use Coach Kelley’s key before my shifts on concession stand days for extra ice time. Public skate doesn’t start until eight a.m. so, double checking my phone again, no one should be here before six in the morning.

And yet, a quick glance at the large panes of glass looking over the ice, I can see a blue figure—a goddamnedhockeyplayer—sittingon the ice in the corner.

I drop my bag, push out of my sneakers by the heel and slip my skates on, lacing them fast. My headphones are still blasting, only amping me up, ready to pick a fight.

Bursting through the doors, I shout a quick, “Hey! You can’t be here!” towards him and march myself into the already-lit up rink ready to give whatever moron is hoggingmyice time the screaming match of the century.

Only, something is wrong.

The man on the ice isn’t sitting—he’s collapsed, like he’s hurt.

He’s panting heavily, sweat gleaming on his skin where it’s exposed. His hockey sweater is half pulled up over one of his shoulders, like he was in the middle of pulling it off and couldn’t finish.

Sweat clings to every part of him, sticking his long dark hair across his forehead and against the back of his neck. His abs are flexing over and over, like he might be hyperventilating. The golden skin is taut and distracting—so much so that I shake my head to clear my derailing train of thought.

I yank off my headphones, the sound of his gasping breath immediately filling the silence of the rink. Sliding the guards off my skates, I launch with a hop onto the ice to skate over to him with a harsh, scraping stop.

“Hey,” I call, my voice shakier than I want it to be. “Are you alright?”

Stupid question considering the circumstances.

My hands, still bare where I hadn’t put my gloves on, grab at his arms and try to stop his constant shivering. His eyes are dilated, taking me in slowly, almost like he’s not sure if I’m real.

This close, I recognize him—the hockey hotshotRhysfrom the other day. Dark brown hair, pretty brown eyes, and a sharp jawline like hard steel, with a dimple in his right cheek that makes me wonder if there’s a matching one on the left when he smiles.

He slumps back again, but his teeth start chattering harder and he swiftly pulls his knees tight against his chest, skate blades slicing against the ice.

“I c-c-can’t breathe,” he manages to etch out.

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