Page 9 of Unsteady

Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

Cutting my eyes away from the intensity of his, I check my watch.

Damn it.

6:30 a.m.

Scooping my hair up into a high bun, I slide my lounge pants off, leaving me in tights under shorts, and plop them into a heap a few feet beside Rhys’ resting body. Part of me feels terrible just leaving him here, but the other part of me—the part of me that knows how easily I could loseeverythingI’ve worked for if I don’t focus—pushes the rest of my resolve. With any luck, Mr. Hotshot here will get it together and get out of here.

I pause at the gate, biting my lip and glancing back over towards him.

“Can you get back out okay? Are you good now?”

He nods slowly, barely opening his eyes and giving me a quick thumbs up. Grabbing his skates in one hand, he braces the other on the railing, leaning on it heavily before he slips his hand to the wall to walk up the ramp to the exit doors.

With the sound of the door slamming shut, I re-center my focus and hook my phone up to the handheld speaker my Coach gave me so I can work on my short program choreography before work.

At least, I try.

But no matter how loud I play the music, or how many times I fall while trying—and failing—a triple axel, nothing can pull my focus from the hockey boy with the sad eyes.

* * *

Pushing through the door, a blast of warm air hits my pinkened skin before I stall at the sight of the hockey player I’d assumed would be long gone.

It’s as if he barely made it inside, sitting against the half-wall beneath the window with his eyes closed and head tilted back. The long column of his throat works with a heavy swallow before he opens his eyes to look up at me.

I should ask if he’s alright, but the only thing that comes from my lips is a bitter, “Were you watching me skate?”

It isn’t a question so much as an accusation.

His familiar brown eyes are less glassy now, but his skin still looks pale, like the panic is taking a long time to truly drain from his system. He shakes his head and a minuscule grin ticks his lips crooked.

“No, but I might like to,” he snickers, a little dazed and unkempt. “I’m imagining you skating like Liam, since that’s all I have to go off of.”

There’s no stopping the grin that stretches across my mouth because I know, for as much as Liam loves to “play hockey,” he can barely keep his little legs underneath him.

“Well, considering I used my warm up time helping some hockey player, I don’t think your imagination is too far off.”

I’d meant it as a joke, but hearing myself back I know it sounds like a reprimand—even worse, catching the near-wince of Rhys as he absorbs what I just said.

God, has it really gotten this bad? Having things under control has never really been my specialty, nor has self-preservation. Feeling too much all at once until the dam bursts is much more my speed.

I sit down to unlace my skates, pulling my bag closer.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He laughs.

“I think you’re crashing,” I offer, crossing my arms. “Looks like from a major panic attack. Has this happened before?”

“I’m good,” he says, shrugging off my question.

My spine pricks up, rady again to fight with him if needed. “If ithas, then it was really stupid for you to be out there without anyone around.”

I wait a moment, but he doesn’t say anything.

Finally, I ask, “What are you still doing here?”

“I was trying to work up the nerve to drive home.” He laughs, but winces at the same time. “If you can get my keys.” He wobbles, his footing unsteady until he slumps back against the glass door again.

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