Page 11 of Unsteady

I close my eyes a little tighter, afraid of the look that I know is plastered across her face. While my father is more like myself, my mother is all heart with zero hard exterior.

Growing up, she’d been the soft place for me to fall; hell, even Bennett had let her tend to every scrape and mend every loss with a proud smile and kiss on the head while our numbers were painted on her cheeks. Now, and especially in the last five months, she’d been almost overwhelming in her care for me.

Nearly to the point I could swear my dad was about to re-enter the NHL and get checked into the boards to gain back her doting attention.

“Did I wake you?”

She’s smiling gently, still dressed in long sweatpants pooling on the hardwood and one of my father’s old threadbare Winnipeg team shirts. I push up onto my elbow and flip completely over, taking the proffered cup of water in her hands.

“No, your father’s getting a cold so he’s snoring like the dead.” I half-grin and see her real, genuine smile break through. “Are you alright, Rhys?”

If it were my father asking, I wouldn’t hesitate to lie, but my mom has something that pulls the truth out of me, no matter how deeply I try to bury it.

“I’m trying to be.”

She nods, sitting on the edge of my bed. “School is back in soon. Are you going to stay here this semester?”

“No,” I answer, thankful that she’s allowing me the space to distract myself. “I’m going back to the apartment next month.” And I’m dreading that conversation with Bennett more than I am for my first practice back. “I need to get back into my routine.”

While it isn’t a lie, it might as well be. Getting into my routine won’t help, nothing will.

Except for a pair of gray eyes and flirty smile.

It’s like a shot to the gut and I have to clench my hands in the bedspread to control the quick reaction.

God, Bennett is going to have to tie me to my damn bed to keep me from seeking that particular vice out. I can feel the thrum of my blood at just the thought of her, the immediate warmth that her voice and scent and face provide.

Whatever control I had before that game is gone—maybe it’s a piece of the part of me that died that night, considering nothing that’s left seems worth anything anymore and I’m still walking a razor's edge with giving up.

Guilt threatens at the racing, hate-filled, darkened thoughts plaguing me; while my mother sits there, desperately trying to push the sunshine that glows from her towards me. I can’t bring myself to tell her that I feel nothing.

You felt something with Sadie.

“Yeah,” she agrees, before a sneaky grin stretches across her face and she rubs her hands together. “Wanna make biscuits and chocolate gravy?”

“What time is it?”

“Four, but who cares?”

“You know you’ll wake dad the second he hears a pot clang,” I warn, but I’m already shoving the sheets off my body and heading for clean, non-sweat-soaked clothes, to change into.

“Serves him right, the littlemudak.”

My eyebrows shoot up, and I wait for the humor to force the laughter from my chest the way my mother has always been able to do. Yet, nothing comes up.

I try to shove off the self-hatred, shrugging and turning away to head into the bathroom, offering a quick, “Your Russian is getting better, but I doubt that’s what he expected you to use it for.”

“Cursing me out?” My dad’s booming voice is scratchy with sleep as he steps into my room, shirtless, wearing only his sleep pants. “Nah, that’s exactly why I wanted her to learn, my littlerybochka.”

Tensing until I’m sure my shoulders are at my ears, I clench my fists and take a deep, heaving breath.

I wonder what kind of treatment that expensive sports psychologist would recommend if I told her even my dad’s voice is becoming a trigger for me.

“What are you two doing up?” He comes to stand behind my mom’s still seated form, hands dropping to her shoulders to squeeze before he pulls lightly on the loose ponytail of strawberry blonde hair. “Are you bothering my son?”

My son.

I try to breathe again, intentional and slow, relaxing my fists.

---