Chapter Two Sadie
For me, Tuesdays are the worst day of the week.
“Sade, please.”
Tuesdays are paydays, which means my father is more inclined to outright ask me for money rather than dropping hints or stealing from our food budget.
“I can’t.”
I try not to look, focusing instead on lacing up my sneakers and double-checking that my bag has everything I’ll need for practice, as well as clothes for the café. After stuffing an extra pair of socks into the side zipper pocket, I’m forced to look at him as I descend the rickety stairs.
“Just an extra few. I just need something to get me through the week.”
I try to remember that there was a time when it wasn’t like this. When my father was someone who loved us dearly—who put me, and even baby Oliver, first.
“I said I can’t,” I say again, crossing my arms and wanting so badly to shove past him.
His head is hanging lightly, hair shaggier now than it has been, but his eyes are still mine despite how red-rimmed and dark they are.
“Oliver needs new skates; his foot was bleeding yesterday from how tight his old ones are.”
My brother tried to hide it, but I caught him last night in the kitchen putting Band-Aids on his ankles.
My dad’s mouth tightens, and I can almost hear the argument in his head, the line he walks so carefully.
He’s never hit us, never physically hurt one of us.
But his mere presence is enough to feel like someone is pressing down on my shoulders.
He wants to argue that this is his house, it’s his money, but it isn’t really.
Not anymore—not since I got a job at fourteen and saved every penny until I had enough to keep skating.
Not since earning the scholarship that ensured I didn’t have to take a single one of his handouts—if they could even qualify as one.
My mother had money from a trust her wealthy family bestowed on her too early, before her habits got harder to break. She pays child support to my father—checks I work tirelessly to find in the mail before he can blow them on top-shelf whiskey.
Once upon a time, I believed they were a cute romantic story: the rich girl falling head over heels for the boy from nothing. But now I know better.
My mother doesn’t love anyone except herself.
And my father might love us, deep down, but he’ll always love his vices more.
Maybe that’s why I can’t stop myself from reaching for the fifty in my jeans pocket from tips the day before and slipping it into his hand.
“That’s all you can have from me for the week,” I warn, a swirl of anxiety threatening my stomach as his eyes light up. “I’m serious. I have to pay for Oliver’s skates.”
“It’s fine,” a raspy voice huffs, my brother sliding underneath my arm and into the kitchen. “I can stay in my old ones for another month.”
“You can’t, killer. Besides, you have a tournament coming up.”
Before I can get to it, Oliver fills up the filter and starts a pot of coffee for me. He keeps his back turned to our father, the actual adult, still stationed by the doorway like he might bolt at any moment.
“When’s your tournament?” Our father’s voice is shaky, eyes still a little bloodshot as he walks farther into the kitchen, apprehension in his every move toward Oliver. When he’s drunk, he’s fearless, but sober he’s almost scared of us. “Maybe I could come—”
“Don’t bother,” Oliver mutters beneath his breath, cutting him off. I hip check him lightly as I grab creamer from the fridge and happily take the to-go cup my eleven-year-old brother is already holding out to me.
“It’s next weekend if you wanna come to mine,” a sleepy Liam says from the kitchen door before dragging his Star Wars blanket across the floor with him and planting himself in a seat at the table. “Are you making pancakes again, Sissy?”
I grab my bag from the table and sling it over my shoulder before ruffling Liam’s curls from behind his chair. “Not today, bug. There are some toaster waffles in the freezer for both of you, and your lunches are packed on the second shelf.”
Liam slumps dramatically in his seat. “No pancakes means a bad day, Sissy.”
Oliver grumbles, harshly shoving the plate of already-prepared cinnamon-toast waffles toward his brother. “Eat and shut it about the pancakes.”
I pull his ear as I pass him. “Be nice,” I reprimand, before softening my voice and giving him a pat. “And thank you.”
“Whatever.”
A pang in my heart weighs my shoulders down, twisting in my chest until a scream is almost pushing through my lips.
It feels like my body is on fire from the inside, every bit of anger and resentment and fear bubbling like an active volcano, and I know I’ll explode on him if I don’t get out of this room right now.
“Can’t you see what you’re doing to them?” I want to shout. “I know what happens next because it’s already happened to me. And I can’t do anything else to stop it—wake up!”
“Do you have to go before the bus comes?” Liam asks, his voice still overly loud for the early hour, but I can almost feel the discomfort in it.
Do you have to leave us with him? That’s the real question. Oliver might remember Dad before all this, but Liam doesn’t. Liam only knows this father—the one who doesn’t show up, who continues to grow weaker and nearer to death every day.
Oliver might be bursting with anger, but Liam is wrestling with fear.
I hate to leave them; I hate sending them to summer camps and endless distractions that don’t break our budget. But without skating, my tuition isn’t paid, and both jobs I currently hold are barely enough to supplement the checks from our mom.
This is for them. One day, maybe, they’ll understand it.
“Love you, nugget,” I whisper, kissing Liam hard on the cheek.
He dives in for a hug and latches onto me until I tickle his sides to get him to release me.
Oliver is leaning against the kitchen counter, his ever-growing lanky body rigid with his arms crossed tightly over the hand-me-down USA Nationals shirt.
I give him a nod, knowing how much he doesn’t like to be touched, before passing my father’s figure, leaning in the doorway.
He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, and I wait, because some part of me is clinging to the possibility that he’ll come back.
But he stays silent.
And I want to scream.
Blaring Deftones’s “Cherry Waves” does little to clear the fog of anger, but the sight I’m greeted with upon my arrival at the ice plex easily empties every thought out of my mind.
There’s an expensive car in the otherwise empty lot, and the lights inside the complex are on.
I should be the only one here. I use Coach Kelley’s key before my shifts at the concession stand for extra ice time. Public skate doesn’t start until eight a.m., so no one should be here before—I double-check my phone again—six in the morning.
And yet, with a quick glance through the large panes of glass surrounding the ice, I can see a blue figure—a goddamned hockey player— sitting on the ice in the corner.
I drop my bag, push my sneakers off by the heels, and slip on my skates, lacing them fast. My headphones are still blasting, only amping me up; I’m ready to pick a fight.
Bursting through the doors, I shout a quick, “Hey! You can’t be here!” and march myself into the already lit-up rink, ready to give whatever moron is hogging my ice time the screaming match of the century.
Only something is wrong.
The man on the ice isn’t sitting—he’s collapsed, like he’s hurt.
He’s panting heavily, his skin gleaming where it’s exposed. His hockey sweater is half pulled up over one of his shoulders, like he was in the middle of trying to get it off and couldn’t finish.
Sweat clings to every part of him, sticking his long dark hair to his forehead and against the back of his neck. His abs are flexing over and over, like he might be hyperventilating. The golden skin is taut and distracting—so much so that I shake my head to clear my derailing train of thought.
I yank out my headphones, and the sound of his gasping breath immediately fills the silence of the rink. Sliding the guards off my skates, I hop onto the ice to skate over to him and come to a harsh, scraping stop.
“Hey,” I call, my voice shakier than I want it to be. “Are you all right?”
Stupid question considering the circumstances.
My hands, still bare because I didn’t put my gloves on, grab at his arms and try to stop his constant shivering. His eyes are dilated, taking me in slowly, almost like he’s not sure if I’m real.
This close, I recognize him—the hockey hotshot Rhys from the other day. Dark brown hair, pretty brown eyes, and a sharp jawline like hard steel, with a dimple in his right cheek that makes me wonder if there’s a matching one on the left when he smiles.
He slumps back again, but his teeth start chattering harder and he swiftly pulls his knees tight against his chest, skate blades slicing against the ice.
“I c-c-can’t breathe,” he manages to gasp out.
He can, he’s breathing right now, but I’m no stranger to a panic attack. My mind settles, the chance to focus on someone else always a welcome distraction against the endless screaming in my own head.
“Hey,” I call, a little harsher, even while I plaster on a pretty smile, trying my best to look sweet and calm in hopes that it will bring him down from whatever dangerous precipice of panic he’s hanging from. “Look at me.”
He does, brow furrowing lightly, brown eyes glistening beneath.
“You can breathe.”
Something wrestles in his eyes before he shudders and grasps his half-on practice sweater in a death grip, like he’s going to pull it off. My hand closes over his, releasing his grasp and stopping him from nearly choking himself on the collar in his desperation.
“I’m s-s-sorry.”
I need to get him off the ice, but I know I won’t be able to lift him alone, and it’ll be at least an hour before anyone else shows up.