Page 31 of Unsteady

He groans, squeezing me, and I smirk, swallowing the sound as I dive for his swollen lips again.

It’s intoxicating, the feeling of being on top of him and in total control. We’re only kissing, but it feels like more than any of my late-night hookups before.

Minutes, hours, days—there’s no real concept of time while I’m here, across his thighs. The only thing keeping me sane is the space I keep between us, my knees planted on either side of him, hovering from the prominent distraction below me. I won’t even allow myself to look.

Which is possibly the only reason I hear the loud, echoingbangof the back rolling door slam, signaling someone’s arrival.

I scamper from his lap, tossing myself off and onto the floor.

“Jesus,” he mutters, but I can’t look back towards him as my phone lights up.

It’s barely even six, so in reality there shouldn’t be anyone strutting the back hallways at this hour. Still, it’s enough of a reminder that these aren't our summer mornings together anymore, this is real life.

Which means, a very specific someone will be here before I can remove the blush stain from my cheeks.

Pressing to stand, I fix my hair into a messy bun and spin back towards the hockey boy who will, unfortunately, be staring in my fantasies from now on.

I sit on the bench across from him, as if nothing happened, ignoring the searing feeling of his gaze on me yet again.

“Sadie—”

The spell is broken. Everything warm in my stomach is rotting the longer I look at him, guilt taking over.

You can’t help anyone. You’ll just mess them up forever.

“I need to practice.” I slip on my skates and lace them quickly, my hands shaking now, like I’ve absorbed every bit of his anxious energy into my body. He opens his mouth, but I raise my hand to stop him. “Seriously, Rhys, don’t mention it. It was good.”

“Then why are you leaving?” I hate the vulnerability in his voice almost as much as I hate myself.

Because this changes everything we’ve built in our quiet mornings. I can’t be your savior if I’m pulling you down with me.

I need to focus. Oliver, Liam, Rora, skating, work, school. That’s what matters.

Don’t disappoint Coach Kelley. Don’t let this year be like last year.

Don’t get distracted.

Oliver, Liam, Rora. Skating, work. school.

I want to say something, but the only words that manage to leave my swollen lips is another brittle, “I need to practice.” Standing on my covered skates, I finally look at him once more. “And I need tofocus. This can’t happen again.”

His brow dips, watching me while I whiz around the room, tossing my hoodie into my bag and nearly running through the tunnel to the ice.

I only skate for thirty minutes before I’m headed back, hoping he’s where I left him—I practice the apology in my head once or twice, because apologies aren’t exactly a regular event for me, but before I can even round the tunnel into the locker room, I hear two voices.

One, a now-familiar male voice.

The other one I also, unfortunately, recognize.

Turning the corner, I see Rhys standing, sans skates, stretched to his full height, towering over Victoria’s lithe spandex clad body. She’s gorgeous, with lean muscles easy to see with her tan tights and ruffled skirt, complete with a baby blue jacket and legwarmers. She looks like the posters of girls I had in my room as a child, the cut out Olympians from magazines I pasted to the insides of my school folders. She looks exactly like I thought I would now.

Graceful and strong, yet beautiful.

Not this tired, overly emotional—even hateful—skater that I’ve become.

She looks good with him, I realize. Both of them long limbed; her buttery blonde bun secured tight, plump lips and skin still tanned from her summer on the Italian coast that I watched play out with envy on social media while underneath the comforter in my bedroom, eating far too many chocolate-covered cherries.

And Rhys, with his mask of perfection, every trace of fear and vulnerability now gone. In its place is the handsome college hockey star I imagine that he usually is; messy hair like he just came off a hard skate, flushed skin and a smile that looks like stars—bright and glimmering. It even flashes in his irises, the little flecks of hazel brighter as his eyes crinkle and dimples pop.

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