Page 83 of Unsteady

Because I’ve begun to think of him as mine, I realize as I pull away from their nice little house.

He deserves so much more. He’s temporarily broken—there’s no fixing me.

That thought stays with me like a mantra, far into the night and through the next day.

TWENTY-SEVEN

RHYS

My hands are shaking.

Considering there is nothing on the table, albeit a misshapen mug from my mother’s limited foray into pottery, I clench my fists as I wait.

This is ridiculous. A bad idea.

Except I know this is the right choice.

After waking to a pounding headache and an exhausted Bennett slumped against my bedroom wall where he’d kept watch over me all night, I was tormented to a replay of the evening.

I think I’m in love with her.

Goodgod. But fuck, if it wasn’t true, at least somewhat.

Give me two more weeks of her snappy attitude and smoky giggle and I would be.

Immediately after he finished telling me what I did—and said—I reached for my phone and sent an apology—arguably too quickly and desperately. And, like all my messages since her last one, it went unanswered. If she’s still receiving my texts, I’m sure I look insane. Maybe she thinks I am, considering we were only hooking up in her eyes and I told the girl I was falling inlovewith her.

Bennett hadn’t been willing to let it go—so, I told him. He looked angry the entire time, but that’s a usual expression for the controlled goalie.

But then, he hugged me. Tight. Loving.

His eyes were wet with tears as he looked at me and said, “If you’d told us, told me, we could’ve helped. Things would’ve been different.”

I knew that was true as he said it, but still, I told him not to tell anyone else on the team. Bennett could know, he should have known from the start, but this wasn’t just for everyone. This pain is my own, as is who I choose to share it with.

But… there is one more who deserves to know.

“Chto eto?” The gruff Russian is still chipper as my father pads down the last step into the kitchen. “What’s this?” he repeats in English, finishing off the top button of his shirt.

He’s dressed for work—which for him means an interview, a press event or something for my mother.

“Do you have a minute?”

I watch as he measures the expression on my face, perhaps even my body language. He’s always been good at that, one of his strengths in the league. His face turns stern and he nods.

“Do we need your mother here?”

“No.” I shake my head. Mostly because no matter how I try to hide, she knows everything. “Just you.”

He sits at the table without prompting. I’m at the head, where he takes the side closest to me.

“Do you want a coffee?” I ask, suddenly desperate to stall.

He shakes his head, waiting patiently.

My parents and I have always been close. I think if I’d chosen to go anywhere else in the world for school, they would’ve found themselves moving there. And… I’ve never minded it. It was a saving grace when I was hurt, even if it was hard to see through the pain.

“My son,” he whispers, his hand patting mine before mimicking my posture almost exactly. Not intentionally, but because we are made of the same materials. Like a replica of his youth—is that what he sees?

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