Page 121 of Unsteady

Rhys’. His.

I’ve never belonged to anyone, or anywhere.

It’s a warm feeling when I thought it would be suffocating.

We’re at the Hockey House, Rora offering to pick up the boys after they carpool home from practice—something I’m quite sure Rhys’ parents had a hand in creating. So, it feels a bit like Prom when I descend the stairs to a room full of tuxedo-clad boys.

Rhys, Freddy and Bennett—the latter two going solo, look mouthwatering.

Bennett resembles his father even more now, his height and width just as daunting, but now in a crisp black tux, sans tie. His unruly golden brown curls are smoothed only somewhat, but his face is clean shaven—which somehow makes him more intimidating.

Freddy is in a blue suit, his hair combed back, shirt open just enough for a glint of the metal he usually wears.

Maybe I’m biased, but Rhys looks like the cover of a magazine, or some celebrity mid-red carpet. His hair is cut shorter now, not so shaggy as it’s been, and he’s put something in it to keep it tamed. His tux is black, simple with a crisp, perfect bowtie at the center of his collar.

A bowtie I decided to fix anyway, even knowing nothing about it. Just shifting it this way and that, because this moment feels like a dream and I want it to stay that way.

He grasps my wrists either way, stopping me for a gentle kiss, his eyes smoldering as he pulls away and takes me in.

“You're so goddamn perfect, Gray.” He smiles. “And I’m so fucking lucky.”

I almost say it again, tell him the words on the tip of my tongue, that have been hanging there for five days, ever since Halloween. But we’re surrounded by friends, and if I know Rhys, the moment those words leave my mouth, we won’t be leaving his room for a while.

So instead, I kiss his hand. Softer in my affection, and I see the way it makes his cheeks blush.

He might be a solid ice captain when in a pair of skates, the Waterfell Wolves’ fearless leader. But for me, he’ll always be soft.

His parents planned to meet us at the entrance, but they’re already swarmed in the corner when we get there. It’s a fundraiser for the First Line Foundation—which I recently realized was not just a volunteer opportunity for Max Koteskiy; it’shischarity. He started it, funds it, and everything, so that all kids get a chance to skate.

Anna, Rhys’ mother, looks dazzling in her deep green dress. I’ve heard the boys tease Rhys endlessly about how beautiful his mother is—and they are not wrong. She’s gorgeous, clearly fit and always bright-eyed. But it’s easy to be around her; she makes everyone smile and I think that’s the real reason everyone finds themselves drawn to her.

This is only my fifth or sixth time around them, and without the buffer of the boys occupying their attention, I’m nervous. I’m learning to trust her. Slowly. His father, too.

Eventually, after a few spins on the checked dance floor—which I was pleasantly surprised with Rhys’ waltzing ability, we make our way to them.

The photographers jump at the chance for photos of the great Maximillian Koteskiy with his up-and-coming hockey star son, Rhys Maximillian Koteskiy. They don’t bother with Anna, until his father makes a fuss and starts shouting about her architectural achievements, that he says matter much more than a washed up NHL player.

And I see it then, the reason Rhys loves me the way he does. The reason he cares for the boys and wants to keep us close. Because he’s seen this, his whole life. Has been surrounded by love.

Loving me, loving my brothers—it’s easy for him.

My chest tightens.

And I can’t stop it, it keeps squeezing until I’m almost sure I’ll die.

So, when they finish photos, I drag him into the conference center’s carpeted hallway and down towards the staff entrances, shoving him into an empty conference hall, vast, dark and full of tables and chairs in disarray.

He laughs even as I pin him feebly to the wall. His eyes smoldering down at me, half-lidded and all warm chocolate, heating me in his gaze.

“Can’t even make it through a few hours, huh? Need me that badly,kotyonok?”

He doesn’t use the word often, but it never fails to light me up when he speaks Russian.

“I love you.”

It isn’t exactly how I planned it in my head, no beautiful speech to match the one he gave that I replay in my head almost constantly. So, I keep going.

“And I’m sorry that I didn’t—”

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