Unsteady
: Chapter 22

Nothing is helping the tremors in my hands as I sit on the bus for the last hour of our trip.

I fake slept for the majority of the drive to Vermont, avoiding conversation with Freddy to my left. Growing up, Bennett had always been my seat partner, which was perfect for my focus.

That didn’t change at Waterfell, despite the slight discomfort of our oversized bodies shoved into the chairs. I don’t think Bennett could change a ritual if he had to.

Freddy cranks the volume on the Bluetooth speaker in his hand after Coach gives him the nod, which means we are close enough to the arena for it.

Gym Class Heroes starts blaring, “Cupid’s Chokehold” reverberating throughout the bus and gaining everyone’s attention. Smiles on all the upperclassmen, confused interest alighting the freshmen. No one really knows where the tradition started, but music blares on the bus for away games and every locker room—before a game and after a win. A few start to yell and sing along, as Holden and Freddy start rapping back and forth, dancing around the bus.

When I was a freshman, it was fun bonding, a quick hype up. Now, with Freddy and Dougherty it plays out like a full-fledged production.

“He’s getting weirdly good at this,” I mumble to Bennett, running my fingers along the bracelet on my wrist.

He messes with his baseball cap and shrugs. “Not that weird. Freddy loves this.”

“What?”

“Attention.”

I laugh, even though I know Bennett isn’t trying to be funny. It feels good for a minute, like I’m me again.

It isn’t until I’m in full gear and stuffing myself into an equipment closet to hide the signs of an approaching episode that I’m reminded this is my first game back.

Fuck.

The phone in my hand is trembling, shakes wracking my body.

I dial before I can think twice about it.

“Hey, hotshot,” she answers quickly, a smile in her voice that drips through the receiver like syrup. “Miss me already?”

The tightness in my chest starts to ease immediately.

“Hey,” I breathe out.

It’s silent for a long moment, before her quiet giggle sears my skin and shoots goosebumps down my arms.

“Just calling to breathe in my ear?”

“Working on my Darth Vader impression.” I flirt, with an ease that reminds me of before. “How am I doing?”

She sighs deeply, something rustling like she’s settling against fabric. I picture her in bed, gray sheets that mimic the shade of her eyes.

“I don’t know; you haven’t said anything about being my daddy—I mean father.”

A laugh bursts from my chest, full and surprising and warming me entirely.

“I’m working up to that one. Too iconic.”

“True. Best to just focus on the breathing.”

There’s a quiet surety underneath the joke, enough that it almost feels like she’s pressing her hand right to my chest like she has before, calming me down while I hide in a musty storage

closet in full gear.

I must be silent for too long again, when she sighs into the phone again, not patronizing, but quietly gentle. Like blowing breath on my overheated skin.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Rhys?”

I want to ask her to say my name again, but I manage to hold it together, gnawing on my lips until I’m sure there’s blood.

“Yeah.” I shake my head, a chuckle escaping, reverberating in the room. “Yeah. Actually I have a game today.”

“Your exhibition game against Vermont.”

“Yeah.” I breathe. I love that she knows. “It’s right now.”

“You’ll be okay, hotshot. Besides Oliver, you’re the best player I know.”

I laugh, the conversational, relaxed tone of her voice soothing me. “That’s good company to be in.”

“I need you to go play your game and win so you can get back to the hotel room for me. Otherwise I can’t give you your surprise.”

“Surprise?” I ask, feeling a bit like a kid at how my heart kicks at the idea. Like she’s promised me ice cream to be a good boy.

And I’ll do anything she says.

“Yeah, but only if you hang up with me now. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, but wait for her to click end.

She pauses and we’re both just breathing again. “Kick their asses, hotshot.”

I walk back into the locker room with a beaming smile on my face. The same smile that stays on my face throughout warms up. The caress of her voice playing on a loop in my head as I play my first game since the accident.

I don’t play much, just a bit with my first line.

Coach spends the majority of time letting the new kids get used to their lines. Holden and Kane play the most, clocking high ice times by the end of every period. The first couple of shifts, they’re a hot fucking mess, to the point that the assistant coach, Johnson, is close to ripping his hair out.

Every time they come back to the bench, Johnson leans over Toren’s hunched body and berates him. Holden picks up a few corrections, but it’s easy to see that Kane shoulders the blame for their terrible coordination.

It makes me smile.

Until Coach Harris jerks Johnson back by his collar, and takes over the defensemen coaching for the third period.

I hate how much it changes, the obvious difference once Holden and Kane learn more of each other’s patterns. The difference in Toren now that Coach offers him slight praise and useful corrections.

And then, I hate how good he is, how seamless.

Fighting in an NCAA game is a severe penalty, one Kane’s received quite often. He sounds like a team’s worst nightmare in the news, but he’s a dream on the ice.

If he wasn’t my personal nightmare, maybe I’d be able to—

No. I stop myself before that ridiculous notion can take hold. Not my problem. Toren Kane is a nuisance, a liability to my team. Nothing more.

Not a friend or a teammate, he’s a parasite, one I intend to rid if I can. And if not, at least protect as much as I can from his venom.

The game is over with an easy win. The small private school in Vermont is a new team, still learning to mesh and move as one, which is why Coach scheduled the exhibition with them.

We’ll stay overnight, because we’ll play one more exhibition with them in the morning.

Hotel rules are strict, and as usual I’m with Bennett.

They’d tried to separate us once freshman year, saying we needed to make other friends on the team, but it ruined the surly goalie’s routine enough that we lost the game and Coach Harris nearly fired the development coordinator who’d made the decision.

We gorge on catered food in one of the hotel conference rooms, loaded with meat, veggies, and above all else: pasta.

All our plates are piled high, matching our hunger and energy levels. For a moment, it feels good to be back.

Bennett hefts two perfectly plated dishes high as he steps by the jostling of our teammates, sitting to my left while Freddy takes the seat across. He’s on a roll now, telling us all the chirps he enjoyed using, and some new ones he picked up from a talkative defender on the other team.

Kane looms like a dark cloud in the background, a loaded plate in his hand as he examines the two long tables before backing out of the room and leaving.

I only see Dougherty notice, watching his partner exit a little wary.

After dinner, we all part ways to our rooms and I bolt for the shower before Bennett can even open his mouth.

I throw on athletic shorts, my hair dripping onto my shoulders as I fluff the pillows, lean back and stare at my phone.

Bennett eyes me again with his bag over his shoulder as he heads to the shower, brows slanting.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?”

My heart slams into my stomach.

“Yeah,” I lie, hating how easy it comes. “Of course.”