Unsteady

For a moment, I think he will deny me and shut it down.

But he only breathes a little heavier and asks if he can put clothes on. I want to say no, because covering his body feels like a crime. But his skin is already distracting enough, so he dresses in gray sweatpants and a shirt just like the one I stole, and returns to his spot across from me on the bed.

“Everything hurt, I remember. But I don’t really remember the hit. I remember seeing him coming, then I remember the panic of not being able to see anything. I thought I was dying.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “And then, I thought I was dying every night.”

I wonder if I’ll pass out with how hard my heart is hammering, like I’m absorbing his anxiety and fear from those days.

“I couldn’t sleep. At first, it was just the flashbacks keeping me from even fading off. Then, when I did fall asleep, I’d wake up—or my mom would shake me awake—because I was screaming face-first in a pillow and I couldn’t breathe.” He huffs, closing his eyes tight and pulling on his shirt. “I really scared her the first month.”

God.

“So I just… stopped.”

“Stopped what?”

“Sleeping.”

My chest burns at the nonchalant shrug that accompanies the heartbreaking confession. “F-for how long?”

“I could go about ten days in a row before I passed out somewhere, and because I was recovering at home, my mom realized something was wrong. So I got some sleeping pills in addition to the pain pills, and a very irritating therapist.”

“Like, for your recovery? A sports therapist?”

He shakes his head. “No. I had one of those too, but my parents insisted on a therapist who focused on mental health for athletes. I can’t imagine how much she cost them, but…” He shrugs again, his fingers start a pattern across my exposed thigh, just brushing beneath the pooled fabric.

It’s distracting, but it’s more comforting than anything else.

“Rhys.”

“And then, after that… I just felt numb. Like there was this dark shadow where everything good was and I couldn’t reach it anymore.” He laughs, a real one this time, and raises his eyes to mine. “And then.” He stretches out the word and kisses my nose. “This little punk figure skater grabbed my wrist and told me not to touch her, and I felt something. I was scared I’d never see her again.”

“Oh?” I’m dizzy, spinning in the well of his brown eyes. I think I’ll drown in his dimples if they grow any deeper. “And then?”

I probably sound like a blubbering idiot but as long as he’s looking at me like that, I don’t care.

He nuzzles my cheek with his, a slight scrape from the stubble that he hasn’t shaved yet, and then his mouth is at my ear.

“And then, she was there with me. Again and again.” But he pulls back, a serious look in his eyes as he keeps his grip on my jaw and draws my eyes to his. “And then, I started to use her like a crutch.”

I wince at the harsh truth. “It’s okay—”

“It’s not,” he cuts me off. But he smiles lightly, and continues, “I’m back in therapy. I shouldn’t have left—and I should not have used you like that.”

I want to tell him that I want him to use me forever, but I know he’s confessing something deep. Showing me that this between us isn’t just shared pain anymore; it isn’t emotional release—it’s something real. Something precious.

He kisses my cheek and wraps my hair into the tangle of his fingers, bracing my head. “You were the only time I felt anything for a long time.”

I open to him, our mouths tangling as he holds me completely at his mercy.

Because of how small I am—even though I’m pretty sure my thigh muscles could kill a guy if I really needed to—I’ve always maintained control when it comes to hook-ups. Being on top, making it solely about my pleasure, keeping strict boundaries about what they could touch. But with him, I don’t need to.

Because I trust him.

I say it aloud as soon as I realize it, basking in the light that ignites in his eyes.

He looks like he wants to say something, but shakes his head and kisses me through endless smiles and laughter, until we tumble back beneath the sheets together.

We emerge from his room in the midmorning when our stomachs are both growling and we’ve run out of the expensive protein bars stashed in Rhys’ mini fridge.

He goes down before me so that I can freshen up—again, since we’ve been unable to remove our hands from each other, and gives me time to call Aurora to check on the boys.

She dropped them at school this morning, happy and fed, and I know they both have after-school programs until late. I also know, from the very well-maintained whiteboard calendar above Rhys’ desk, that he has to get on a bus in two hours for his away game. It’s at Union College tonight, and to complete the little picture of Waterfell Hockey Captain Rhys, I see a print out of their stats with scribbled notes about different players.

Smirking, I grab a pen from the holder and scrawl a quick Good luck, hotshot with a wink across the bottom.

I find my leggings from the night before, as well as my bra and underwear, but I do wear the shirt with his name on the back for my trek to the kitchen.

Only, when I step out, there’s a shuffling noise. A leggy blonde is bouncing on the balls of her tall sock-clad feet, shoving a very large black lab back from one of the bedroom doors. She finally gets the whining animal back, murmuring softly to it, before closing the door as quietly as possible. It’s clear she’s trying to leave without getting caught, her hair in a high messy bun and a massive threadbare shirt covering her like a dress.

“You okay?” I ask, walking towards her.

But I freeze completely when she spins towards me, a set of wide anxious brown eyes locking to me. Eyes that belong to none other than Paloma Blake.

We both gape at each other, frozen and unsure.

She straightens first, pulling her back tight so her posture is more confident.

“Slept over, did you?” I say, sounding snarky, then step past her to lumber down the stairs.

“Seems you did too, huh?” She smiles, stepping with me. Whatever prevented her from descending the stairs earlier is swallowed by her want to banter with me. “I guess I should just disregard our little conversation, huh?”

My temper flares, but I don’t know how amendable the team would be to my pushing their precious puck bunny down the stairs. Or clawing her eyes out—though I don’t think my short nails will hold up to her sharp ones.

We nearly reach the bottom when a booming laugh echoes from nearby and Paloma grabs my arm tight.

“Jesus, Blake,” I snap, but her other hand slaps over my mouth.

“Can you just…” She sighs, and I swear if I didn’t know any better I’d think she was going to cry. “Can you not say anything about me? Just go in there and keep all of them in there?”

I don’t want to help her. In reality, I can’t stand her. But she looks remarkably desperate.

“What the hell is your problem?” I whisper, my words barely audible over her firm hand.

Her eyes flare. “God, Sadie, don’t be such a bitch.”

“Takes one to know one,” I say, pulling her hand off. “Now get out of here before I change my mind and decide to announce your presence like we’re at medieval court.”

She’s gone faster than the words come, but still manages to close the door carefully.

Just as she does, a player I recognize from answering the door last night appears around the corner. He looks like a sweeter version of Freddy, like an innocent handsome boy instead of the cat that caught the canary.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He smiles, but it’s all disarming. The pet name doesn’t seem to be a flirt, more like manners from somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon. “Lost?”

“Looking for your captain, actually.”

He laughs and points over his shoulder. “He seems in a good mood. I think this might be his new pregame ritual.” I walk past him with a smile, but I know my cheeks are turning bright red and I curse myself again for being so pale.

The kitchen, much like the rest of the house, is fairly spotless. Rhys is standing at the bar top, Freddy sitting on the stool on his furthest side. And there’s a magnificent smell permeating the air—bacon grease and maple syrup—all coming from the hulking goalie hunched over the stove with a towel over his shoulder.

Bennett looks over at me with a chin lift, not even a slight hint of a smile. Rhys tracks his friend’s movement, cutting himself off mid-sentence and smiling at me like we haven’t seen each other in weeks.

If I wasn’t already blushing, I’m full-on cherry red now.

So, I walk towards him, letting him play this because it’s his team and we haven’t talked about what exactly this is between us. All I know is that he’s never going to be just my friend—with or without benefits. He’s always going to be more.

He loops an arm around me, kissing the top of my head and continues his game-talk with the boys in the kitchen. He doesn’t stop talking, even as he lifts me to sit in the barstool in front of him and rests his arms on the counter, caging me in between them.

I listen, sort of, but perk up fully when a steaming plate of bacon strips, scrambled egg whites, avocado toast on expensive-looking sourdough and diced fruit lands in front of me.

“Oh, I don’t have to eat first.”

Rhys shakes his head. “We have a very specific set of pregame meals, Gray. That’s all yours.”

My mouth is watering even as I look up at Bennett. “Are you sure?”

He grunts and nods, flickering the stove off a little angrily. “There’s plenty more if you want more. You can have it.” He smiles a little brittle, before excusing himself back upstairs.

“He’s always like that,” Freddy says, stealing a piece of bacon off my plate before Rhys can slap at his hand. “It’s his headspace before games. Sooo,” he drags out, shuffling his shoulder into mine as Rhys heads over to a fancy-looking coffee machine. “What’s going on here?”

“Freddy,” Rhys warns above the whirl of espresso. “Leave her alone.”

“C’mon, Cap. I need the juicy details.” His brows waver exaggeratedly.

I roll my eyes before returning to chewing and watching Rhys move around the kitchen like a scene from my favorite comfort movie. He plays with a frother for a moment and my eyes alight at his concentrated face, wishing I had my phone to take a picture of it.

“Are you two dating now?” Freddy asks, whining like a kid when Rhys reprimands him again.

I swallow every hesitation; every moment I’ve doubted because I know Rhys wants more. And, for the first time, I do too.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to ignore the pinch of discomfort when they both go silent. “I’m his girlfriend.”

The word might feel foreign on my tongue, but the sparkling glint in his eyes and his unabashed smile—with both dimples—make it taste sweeter. He doesn’t correct me, which I only realize after I’ve blurted the title that he absolutely could.

Oh god. My stomach cramps. Does he want that? Or was last night just a breaking point for him?

I start to spiral through my thoughts, ignoring whatever it is Freddy is saying as he stands up from his stool.

“My girlfriend?” he asks, smugly hovering over my shoulder.

I can’t look at him, terrified that I’ve made everything up in my head and that wasn’t what he wanted.

But, a green mug with some sort of slightly misshapen flower design in the foam slides in front me.

“What’s this?”

“It’s… ah, latte foam art. It’s supposed to be a flower,” he says it sheepishly, quiet.

“I love it.”

Rhys kisses my neck, tucking my hair up in his hands and I have the ridiculous urge to cut it all off so he has better access to my skin there constantly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been happier, Gray,” he whispers. Another kiss to the corner of my mouth. “My girl.”

Like a balm to a wound I didn’t know I carried, Rhys holds me close. And that’s more than enough.