Chapter One Present Rhys #2
It’s easy to see the camaraderie between the brothers, and it makes me think of being six and chasing Bennett around like a lunatic.
He was always bigger, but I was faster. He’s my brother, even if not by blood, and an ache emanates from my chest at the thought of him, of the one hundred missed calls and texts on my phone that I’ve yet to listen to or answer.
I haven’t seen him since the hospital, despite knowing he’s made multiple visits to my house, only to be turned away by my parents over and over.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I grab it.
BENNETT REINER: 152 Unread Messages
I know you’re alive dumbass. Answer your…
Not bothering to read more than the preview, I slip the phone back into my pocket and ignore the niggle of guilt that threatens. I refocus my attention on the boys who are staring blankly up at me.
Chelsea suddenly joins us. She’s smiling brightly at the boys, and offers me a little shrug before leaning over to whisper in my ear.
“They’re always the last ones here.” As she speaks, I look over and see that the snack table has cleared out and we are the only four left in the whole rink. “Someone has to stay with them until—”
A door slams and a girl sprints down the ramp toward the gate.
She’s slight, covered in tight black leggings and an oversized blue sweatshirt that she’s practically swimming in, her ponytail loose and fluffed up by the hood hanging around her shoulders. The undone, barely-there look on her face makes me wonder when she last slept.
I watch Liam’s face light up, his little knees bending like he might jump up and down from excitement if he wasn’t afraid to fall. Next to me, Chelsea huffs and rolls her eyes, giving me a look that says this is far from the first time this girl has been late.
“I’m here,” the new arrival shouts, her bag bouncing hard against her back where it’s slung on her shoulders. She sprints onto the ice in slip-on sneakers, sliding aimlessly for a moment before she regains her balance and takes quick steps toward us.
“You’re late,” Chelsea sneers. “Again.” Her hands fall to Oliver’s shoulders in a protective gesture, and red spreads further across the new girl’s already flushed skin.
“I know,” she says, kneeling onto the ice to get at eye level with Liam, who is still excited, with no sign of frustration toward his… mother? She seems too young, especially with Oliver looking to be around eleven.
The girl looks around briefly, and it’s only then that a flash of recognition hits me. I’ve seen her before, but I can’t place where.
She doesn’t bother speaking to Chelsea, only giving a big smile to Liam, who is looking at her like she’s his entire world, before shifting to speak directly to Oliver, whose face is red and slanted down, disappointment emanating from him.
“I’m sorry, bud.” She bites her lip hard, her wide gray eyes pleading. “I tried so hard.”
“I got even faster today,” Liam offers, completely and blissfully ignorant of his brother’s obvious frustration.
She gives him a wink and rubs his head lightly, mussing his hair as she stands back up. “I’ll bet you’ll be even faster than Crosby one day.”
I almost snort, partially because I’m now imagining a Sidney Crosby poster in her childhood bedroom. Despite the fact my lips don’t even begin to rise—no hint of a laugh threatening—I am taken aback by how quickly she got any kind of reaction out of my empty body.
“Crosby’s not the fastest. And you swore you’d be here to see,” Oliver accuses, scowl still in place, cheeks heated.
“Oliver, killer, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be here—”
“You say that every time, and you only don’t show because of him .” He spits the word like poison and her expression shutters.
It’s clear whoever this him is, he’s a constant issue for them. A boyfriend, maybe? I cross my arms, finding myself somewhat in agreement with Chelsea.
“How about you show me now?” the girl offers in a hopeful tone, attempting to turn the conversation around. “Give me a minute to put on my skates and I’ll even race you—”
“Actually,” Chelsea cuts her off, “we need to be off the ice now. They’ve got to clear it before the beer league game tonight. Come on, Oliver, let’s get you one of the cookies from the snack table. I saved some for you.”
Oliver follows Chelsea as she skates off toward the exit, and I realize only now that the girl is staring at me, eyebrows furrowed.
Self-conscious in a way I would never have been before the accident, I fix my stance, straightening my spine. My arms hang loose at my sides for a moment, but somehow that seems worse. I cross them before feeling more ridiculous and letting them drop again, one hand finding my pocket.
“Who’s the big guy?” she asks Liam, quirking an eyebrow at him before he smiles.
“Oh, yeah, I know—stranger danger—but that’s Rhys.”
“I don’t know who Rhys is, bug.”
“He’s gonna help us get real good at hockey,” Liam says, just as his skate slides out from underneath him and he slips onto the ice, stomach first.
I reach for him immediately, easily picking him up and holding his arms until he gets steady again. Easy enough, especially after repeating this process about twenty times in the last hour.
“You good?” I ask, bending down to his level and sending another quick, albeit restrained smile to the girl looking down at us.
I wait a beat for something—a smile, a hum of approval, a “How sweet” or “You have such a way with kids.” All normal responses to my easy charm before.
But she gives me nothing but a wide, blank stare.
I hate it, feeling like her cat-like gray eyes can see everything. Like there’s something physically wrong with me that signals the absolute shit show stowed beneath my skin.
“I’m good,” Liam replies, skating ahead on shaking legs. “Rhys is, like, the best hockey player.”
“Ahh.” She nods, eyes still infuriatingly locked on me. “All right, welp, say goodbye to the hockey hotshot, bug. Time to go home.”
“Bye, Rhys! Next week I’ll bring my helmet.
It’s got stickers on it,” Liam practically shrieks, picking himself up quickly from another fall before trying another howl with me.
I know I should join him, make him feel like I’m his friend, but there’s a pressure on my chest that keeps me from breathing, let alone howling with him.
He falls twice more on his way to the boards and bleacher seats where his brother is unlacing his skates. Oliver carefully watches the girl, like he’s worried about her despite his anger.
She blows a raspberry; her bangs and the multitude of loose tendrils of silky brown hair whip and whirl around her face. I wait a moment, poised to introduce myself when I spot the hang tag on her bag.
“You go to Waterfell?”
Not just Waterfell—that’s a skate embroidered into the end of the logo: a figure skate.
She spins back toward me so fast, her entire balance gets knocked off. I grab her, not shocked that she feels light as air from how small she is, and place her back on her feet before she can blink.
Her name is lost to me, if I ever knew it, but I remember her. I’ve seen her in and out of the complex before, always in a rush of some sort, always barely put together.
But the memory that’s hitting me hardest is seeing her burst into our practice one day when we ran late, shouting her head off at our even-keeled coach before a tall, stern-faced man picked her up by the waist and carted her off.
I stayed after my practice let out, lingering in the tunnels for a moment as she started blasting loud, vibrant music and blazed onto the cut-up ice, keeping the Zamboni from clearing while she skated like she wanted to kill someone.
Pure passion.
She’s beautiful this close, even with her haphazard look—her hair is shiny and dark, skin flushed but pale with a unique little patch of freckles under her right eye.
“Glad I caught you.” I try to smile, my old charm covering me like a thick coat, a shield. She blinks once, twice, then sharpens her brow in deep frustration and shoves away from me.
“I’m sure you catch all kinds of things.”
Smiling still, in spite of the cold response and the emptiness hollowing my gut, I offer, “I play hockey for Waterfell.”
“All right, kiddos,” she calls, ignoring my words and presence completely as she marches off the ice with an upturned nose. Something inside me twists, whether at her dismissal of the thing that once made me so valuable, or the lack of any recognition. “Let’s go.”
The two boys grab their gear bags and strut behind her, Liam just as animated as before and Oliver just as dejected. Looking at his beaten-down expression feels like a punch in the chest, and I rush off the ice to follow them.
“Hey,” I call, waiting as all three turn around. “Can I talk to you for a minute—uh, sorry, you didn’t say your name.”
Liam giggles and points up at the slip of a girl guarding him.
“That’s Sadie.”
“Thanks, nugget.” She rolls her eyes, hip-checking him in the shoulder as she looks up at me. “What for?”
“It’s about… the boys. Just—” I cut myself off as she struts down to me. The closer she gets, the faster my heart races at the idea of arguing with her.
“What?” Her tone is just as aggressive as her stance, arms crossed and glaring up at me, as if she is the 6'3" center with three extra inches of skates.
“I know I’m new to the scholarship program, but Liam and Oliver are great—even as young as they are.”
“I know.”
I manage to keep the smile plastered to my face, mainly because something warm is thrumming in my gut. “And, well, I think parental support is important to kids, especially about their interests—”
“Get to the point, hotshot.”
All right, fine. No more charm. I harden my stare and cross my arms. “You should make an effort to be here. Not a forgotten promise.”
Her eyes turn molten before me, fire beneath the slate gray, and for a moment I think she might tackle me, attempt to check me into the boards.
Maybe it’ll help, force me to feel something besides the empty chasm of nothingness yawning inside. Maybe, if she turns out to be stronger than she looks, she’ll knock me flat on my ass.
Honestly, I hope she does.
“Noted. Anything else you’d like to spout off from that high horse of yours?” Sadie doesn’t wait even a second before continuing. “Great!” Her hands clap sharply together. “Glad we had that talk.”
“Wait.” I try again, my frustration mounting as I reach to grab her wrist and stop her retreat.
She flares, igniting at the contact and pulling herself from my touch like I’ve tried to set her on fire.
I release her immediately, only to see her little hand now wrapped, as much as it can be, around my wrist. She’s bending it like a bully on the playground in some attempted self-defense move that sends a zing up my spine.
“Don’t ever grab me like that again.” She bends my wrist a little more, and I want to ask her to keep it there in her warm grip because this is the first anything, other than pain, I’ve felt in months.
But I can’t, because by the time I work a swallow down my throat and unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth, all three of them are gone.