Unsteady

“No.”

“Rhys,” my father calls, the sound of his voice making my fist go white with my grip on the marble counter. “Please. I’ll come with you. We haven’t skated together since…” he trails off combing a hand through his dark salt-and-pepper hair.

“Well aware,” I snap, immediately regretting it as the words slip out. “I know you want to check on me and see how I’m skating but I need to do this on my own, okay?”

There’s a vulnerability in my father for a moment, before he nods and turns back to the expensive espresso machine, working quietly, almost sullenly.

“Another coffee already?” I ask, trying to relieve the tension that keeps my feet stuck to the kitchen floor.

“For your mother.” He smiles, slowly making her overly complicated latte, complete with some sort of foam art that he barely finishes by the time my mother pads lightly into the room. She’s bundled in a fuzzy robe with little fruits and vegetables dotting the material, with thick glasses sitting atop her head, tangled into her hair.

“Morning,” I call, getting a happy smile shot my way as she settles herself on the barstool next to where I’m standing.

“How’d you sleep?” she asks, yawning despite the clear, hidden check-in her question poses.

“Good.”

It isn’t a lie. I got a full night’s rest, a rare occurrence that I’m trying to convince myself has nothing to do with distracting thoughts of a certain figure skater.

“Good.” Mom smiles. My father steps up behind her, setting the steaming cup in front of her and kissing the top of her head, massaging her shoulders.

“What is it today?” I ask, leaning towards them.

“I think… a flower?”

My father frowns. “It was supposed to be a heart.”

“It looks like a big mushroom blob,” my mom says, her tone affectionate.

I laugh, a real one that makes both of my parents look up at me. There’s a guilt that chases away the good almost immediately. Have I been so empty, even with them?

“I’m late,” I say, jumping up and grabbing my bag from beside the door.

“For an empty rink?” My mom smirks.

“I—uh, yeah.” Not bothering to explain, I grab my keys and head out to the garage.

I half expect the rink to be empty when I enter, that Sadie really is just a figment of my imagination, invented so I don’t feel so goddamn alone in my anxiety and nothingness.

What I see on the ice only starts to prove that claim.

She skates with that same energy I remember from before, all passion, like watching live fire on ice. None of her movements look that fluid, all punchy between delicate dance moves that look like some hybrid powerful gymnast-elegant ballerina, but it works.

Music is playing over a small Bluetooth speaker in the corner, the beat heavy and loud, not what I’ve imagined from her. Her phone is upturned on the bench, so I touch the side, lighting it up where I can see the song title, “Run Boy Run,” scroll across the top. I try to stop myself from reading below the music, but spotting a text from “DO NOT ANSWER,” I can’t stop myself.

Please Sadie I need your…

The rest of the message isn’t visible. Something wrestles in my stomach, making me nauseous at the endless implications. Even looking back at her, gliding on the ice, I can’t get over the overwhelming urge to lock us both in this quiet open rink forever, never having to face anything outside of it.

I’m psychotic. I guess nearly dying on the ice didn’t take away my control freak mentality.

She’s going fast, spinning backwards and leaning like she’s prepping for a jump, which she makes three turns in the air, before slamming down hard enough to slide on her ass towards the curve of the corner boards.

I’m over the boards before I realize, skating to her and stopping short like some strange reverse of that first day she saved me—only I’m still the one panicking.

“Sadie?”

My voice feels hollow, my hands numb.

She blinks up at me, pushing up slightly. “Hey, hotshot.”

Relief blares through me so quickly, I nearly join her in laying on the ice.

“You went down pretty hard. You okay?”

“That was easily the fall that hurt the least this morning.” She smirks, a gentle curve of her lips that makes my stomach drop and the back of my neck heat.

And I can’t not touch her; I grab her biceps and lift her gently, until her skates are steady beneath her body.

There’s concern mixed with the light humor still on her face, like even now she’s more worried about me. That little divot between her eyebrows appears, slanting against her beautiful smirk.

“Were you watching me?”

“Maybe.”

“You keep catching my worst moments,” she grumbles, skating slowly. I follow her, trying not to pant like a fucking dog behind her.

“Only fair,” I add. “Considering today might be the only day you’re not hauling my big ass off the ice.”

“I’ve seen bigger.”

Everything in me perks up at the verbal spar, the offer of flirting. Every part of my usual numbness starts to fade away at the promise of her.

“Have you? An ass girl?”

She stops and smiles. “Not particularly. But I’ve heard lots about hockey players having giant—”

My palm slaps over her mouth, pushing into her and sending us both landing lightly against the boards. She’s a small thing, even the height of her blades don’t give her anything since I’ve got mine on as well. Small, but not delicate, and shapely in a way I can easily see through all the tight black material covering her muscular body.

She giggles into my hand, gray eyes crinkling with humor at the effect of her taunt.

“Got it out of your system?”

She nods, but I hold on a moment longer, desperate for the feeling of her pressed to me. I want to grab her, caress and touch every inch of her.

I shouldn’t—she’s my friend, if even that. But I’m in her orbit now, and she’s becoming my goddamn center of gravity. Whether she realizes it or not.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ever gonna tell me why I keep pulling your big handsome ass off the ice?”

I smirk. “So you have been checking out my ass.”

She’s silent, a half smile still on her face, but there’s clearly a quick search of me reflecting in her eyes. She’s worried about me again, and a knot starts to form in my throat.

She pushes me suddenly, switching our positions and pressing me into the boards and plexiglass in a much softer, sensual way than I’m used to, the top of her head just dusting my shoulders.

“Alright, hotshot, let’s make a deal.”

No deal needed—if she keeps looking at me like this, I’ll do anything she says.

“I don’t ask about your shit, you don’t ask about mine. We share the ice—”

“And music,” I butt in.

“And music.” She laughs and my chest feels lighter. “But that’s all. Nothing else, just… partners.”

She pulls back from me and does a little spin, keeping her eyes on mine.

“Don’t look me up,” I add desperately, as she starts to skate to her side.

Her brow wrinkles and her mouth opens like she might tease or ask a follow up question, but she doesn’t. Something she sees on my face must be enough.

“Okay.”

“I think I got it!” Liam shouts, slamming down again as his stick spins away with the puck.

I smile, skating over to scoop him up and hold his arms while he tries to steady his blades underneath his little body.

Volunteering again had originally been my mom’s idea, after hearing my dad pester me each morning about skating together. That, and—as she told me, having to distract him each morning so he didn’t follow me.

I adamantly requested no details of said distraction. My parents have always been affectionate enough to make me sick on a normal basis.

So now, I tensely skate with Liam, desperately trying to ignore my father’s stare from the other side of the rink. He’s helping the older kids, which means he’s with Oliver, so I can’t help but checking on them both.

My father, tall and strong, is still very much the NHL star player he was before retirement, minus the gray now lining his dark hair and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Just like any time he’s been on the ice with me, he’s smiling as he works with the players on pivot drills around two bright orange cones.

I maneuver Liam so he’s holding the low side pocket of my joggers, before offering my hand after removing my glove.

A loud laugh bursts from the circle waiting on the drill space, alerting me to the group of preteen boys surrounding Oliver.

He’s slightly tall for his age, but mostly from what I’ve seen in the last hour of distracted teaching, Oliver is gifted. Like good enough to be watched by the line of coaches chatting on the side of the rink.

“Oh no,” Liam mutters, sighing like a mother exhausted over her disobedient child.

“What? Oliver?”

Liam nods, looking up at me and releasing my hand. “Yeah. He fights with those boys sometimes—the ones in the red jerseys.”

“He doesn’t like them?”

“They don’t always come here. Only when they’re with their dad I think. Oliver doesn’t like anyone, but he really really doesn’t like them.”

The kid is observant, I realize. I have to stop myself from asking him to tell me everything he can remember about his older sister.

“Do you know why?”

“Not really.” He sighs again, mimicking my pose with his arms crossed. “But one time I was playing sharks and minnows with everyone and Coach Chelsea, and I heard them talking about Sadie.”

My stomach sours as I watch Oliver toss his gloves off and tackle one of the kids. I want to start cheering and whistling like I’m watching his first NHL fight, but I manage to keep myself in check.

Instead, I tell Liam to hold onto the boards while I skate over and insert myself between them.

“Back it up,” I snap, easily yanking them apart. “Calm down.”

My dad tries to hold Oliver’s shoulder but he yanks himself away like he’s been burned.

“Don’t touch me, asshole.”

I blow out a breath. Jesus, this kid.

“Calm down, Oliver,” I try, my voice a little softer as I keep a hold of the red shirt kid’s collar.

Oliver’s heated stare shoots to mine, again like a caged animal ready to scratch. He looks like Sadie, defensive and punchy.

“They started it,” he spits out, anger rolling off him in waves. But I can see the vulnerability in his gaze begging for me to believe him.

“I know,” I say camly, releasing the other kid with a shove towards my dad. “Let Coach Max deal with them. Let’s go cool off.”

Something flickers in his eyes, before he sighs and drops his head. “Okay,” he says and follows me towards where Liam is now lying flat on the ice.

The session is nearly over, but I take a corner of the rink for the three of us, dragging Liam around as I correct Oliver’s edges.

It isn’t until my father joins us that I realize the rink is cleared.

“Where’s Chelsea?”

“I sent her home; told her we would wait on their parents.”

I nod, still keeping my gaze on Liam chasing Oliver around the circle he’s creating with his edges. If I look at my dad, I’ll see the question that I know is there, about these kids and my connection to them.

But he doesn’t pester. Instead, my dad steps forward with his stick, pulling Oliver from his current pattern and shifts his focus to catching a fast shot on his backhand. It takes a few minutes, but he warms up to us easily, following every correction given to him. I can see the spark ignite in my dad, recognizing the level of talent the kid has now as bright potential.

I spot her instinctually, as if she’s a homing beacon, forever drawing me back to her piercing gray stare. She stops mid-step, her bag dropping off her shoulders as she watches Oliver with apprehension in her eyes, and her guard way up.

Liam is shouting for her as I pick him up and skate us both over. Oliver pauses, but my dad has him run his current drill again.

Sadie watches him, eyes bright—like this isn’t something she gets to see that often.

“He’s gifted,” I say, letting Liam climb down from me.

The younger kid shouts, “Watch me!” And tries to join his brother across the rink. Even with his resilience and quick recoveries, he’ll never make it.

I can tell Oliver is showing off a bit and Sadie is glued to his every move. It stirs something in me, like I should apologize for what I cornered her about that first day. Perhaps I read this situation wrong.

But then, I think about that call to her phone.

“Your parents aren’t coming?” I ask, but it feels like testing a field for landmines.

“We have a deal, hotshot,” she answers, refusing to look at me. “They’re busy. I can take care of the boys. Any other questions?”

Thousands. Like Why are you so angry? Why do you skate like you’re on fire? Who is that bad that you listed them as DO NOT ANSWER in your phone? Are you safe? Are you okay?

Still, I shake my head.

Crumbs.

I’ll eat every last one.