Page 35 of Unsteady

But I know inviting him as my backup, into my prison, will only endanger the ones relying on me. And reveal everything I’ve been able to contain for years. Not to mention, I can stillfeelhim—and I know that continuing to allow myself around him will only make it worse. Even now, all I want to do is let his hands grab my hips and haul me across the console into his lap with the strength I know he has, and press me into the steering wheel—

No. Not with him. Stop it.

“I have to go. Thank you,” I repeat, closing the door.

The next morning, before I can even consider what I’ll do to get my own car back, I step outside to see my car is in the driveway, freshly detailed and starting without any complaint.

ELEVEN

RHYS

“Remember what the doctor said about the noise and about drinking, Rhys,” my mother rambles on, her voice crystal clear over the sound system in my car. My head stays pressed lightly against the overly plush material of my seat, trying to keep my breathing even in the cool interior, despite the sun beating down on my window. “In fact, why don’t I just send this all to dear Ben. He’d be glad to help—”

“Mom.” I try again, my fifth attempt to end this anxiety-fueled conversation since I parked in front of the red-brick house. “I’ll be fine, no need to give Ben anything, alright?”

“Rhys,” she half-sobs into the phone and my entire chest constricts. “If you want to come back, you can and we can work something out—”

“Uspokoit'sya, my love.”

I shut my eyes tightly, hands gripping the wheel as my father’s voice echoes in the soft space of the car, suddenly making everything feel smaller. Makingmefeel smaller. “Let my son go now, yes? You’ve talked to him since he left half an hour ago, alright. He needs time.”

“I’m alright, Mom.” I agree, swallowing hard at the lump in my throat. “Promise. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

With that promise, she finally agrees to hang up, the sound of my father’s quiet Russian words echoing as he presses theend callbutton for her.

A loud thump draws my attention to the window, seeing the open-mouth exaggerated shock across Freddy’s face, where he’s bent over to knock on my rolled up windows, before pulling the aviators off his face and opening my door.

Matthew Fredderic, left winger and resident pain in my ass. With helmets on, gliding on a sheet of ice, we could be twins—same height and build, which works wonders for our first line forward play as winger and center. But here, we are night and day. The left winger is blonde, with innocent green eyes and an overly flirty smile to match the “love-‘em-and-leave-‘em” personality that continues to leave a trail of broken hearts in his wake. He’s got a reputation already, has had one since freshman year—and by rumor, he was just as wildly promiscuous in high school.

The kind of guy you’re worried to introduce to yourmother, let alone your sister.

“I knew I was dying.” He sighs dramatically, resting his body weight against the open door as I step out. “Those fish tacos from that truck have finally done me in, Reiner. I’m having hallucinations.”

I just manage a smile, before my eyes lock onto the looming figure behind him, arms crossed, still standing next to his truck.

Bennett Reiner has been my best friend since we were five years old. Our fathers played in juniors and the NHL together, for only one year before Ben’s father tore an ACL and ended his career in his rookie season. Our first Learn to Skate lesson shoved us together before hockey, before school. We were inseparable, to the point that we were sold like a package deal to high-end coaches for prestigious hockey academies in the area. While my skills and speed developed into offensive positions, eventually landing me at center, Ben just kept getting taller and bigger without any of the aggressive play, before coaches settled him in the goal.

He’s the best goalie I’ve ever had, someone I can rely on to stay just as calm and even keel, no matter the score. Meticulous, especially with his routine, Bennett is a solid presence.

One I haven’t allowed myself to lean on, highly expecting I’d pull him down with me.

“Hey,” I say, nodding my head, letting Freddy close the door behind me. There’s a lot I could say, words muddling together inside my head.

I’m sorry, Ben. I could barely manage to open my goddamn eyes, let alone look my father in the face.

Talking to you, being honest with you, felt like climbing Everest because the idea of never being on the ice again was suddenly just as terrifying as being on the ice again.

I hated myself almost as much as hockey hates me, and I didn’t want to feel anything even remotely comfortable, and you’re a savior, a protector—you couldn’t protect me from this.

I want to tell him:You’re my best friend, and I never wanted to hurt you but everything inside me turned black, decayed and it’s still nothing good. I am nothing anymore, and it's selfish but I didn’t want you to see that.

Instead, I run a hand through my hair again, before shoving my hands into my shorts pockets, nodding. “How’ve you been?”

He’s silent, staring at me without moving, a stillness only I’ve seen in him.

“I’m gonna put the beers in the fridge,” Freddy offers, his smile faltering as he slaps my shoulder. “Good to have you back, Rhysie.”

He stops by Bennett on his way back, squeezing his shoulder tight, and ignoring the way the larger of the two throws his shoulder back slightly to disengage his touch. Freddy grabs the groceries out of the still open door of Bennett’s truck, heading past us into the house with arms stacked with paper bags.

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