Chapter Eleven Rhys
“Remember what the doctor said about the noise and about drinking, Rhys,” my mother rambles on, her voice crystal clear over the sound system in my car.
My head stays pressed lightly against the overly plush material of my seat, trying to keep my breathing even in the cool interior despite the sun beating down through my window.
“In fact, why don’t I just send this all to dear Ben. He’d be glad to help—”
“Mom.” I make my fifth attempt to end this anxiety-fueled conversation since I parked in front of the redbrick house. “I’ll be fine. No need to give Ben anything, all right?”
“Rhys,” she half-sobs into the phone and my entire chest constricts. “If you want to come back, you can, and we can work something out—”
“ Uspokoit’sya , my love.”
I shut my eyes tightly, my hands gripping the wheel as my father’s voice echoes in the soft space of the car, suddenly making everything feel smaller. Making me feel smaller. “Let my son go now, yes? You’ve talked to him since he left half an hour ago. He needs time.”
“I’m all right, Mom,” I say, swallowing hard at the lump in my throat. “Promise. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
With that promise, she finally agrees to hang up, the sound of my father’s quiet Russian words echoing as he presses the end call button for her.
A loud thump draws my attention to the window, where I see the openmouthed, exaggerated shock across Freddy’s face. He pulls the aviators off and opens my door.
Matthew Fredderic, left winger and resident pain in my ass.
With helmets on, gliding on a sheet of ice, we could be twins—we have the same height and build, which works wonders for our first line forward play as winger and center.
But off the ice, we are night and day. Freddy is blond, with innocent green eyes and an overly flirty smile to match the “love-’em-and-leave-’em” personality that continues to leave a trail of broken hearts in his wake.
He’s got a reputation already, has had one since freshman year—and according to rumor, he was just as wildly promiscuous in high school.
He’s the kind of guy you’re worried about introducing to your mother , let alone your sister.
“I knew I was dying.” Freddy sighs dramatically, resting his body weight against the open door as I step out. “Those fish tacos from that truck have finally done me in, Reiner. I’m having hallucinations.”
I just manage a smile before my eyes lock onto the looming figure behind him, arms crossed, still standing next to his truck.
Bennett Reiner has been my best friend since we were five years old.
Our fathers played together in juniors, and in the NHL for only one year before Ben’s father tore an ACL and ended his career in his rookie season.
Our first Learn to Skate lesson shoved us together before hockey, before school.
We were inseparable, to the point that we were sold like a package deal to high-end coaches from prestigious hockey academies in the area.
While my skills and speed developed into offensive positions, eventually landing me at center, Ben just kept getting taller and bigger without any of the aggressive play, before coaches settled him in the goal.
He’s the best goalie I’ve ever played with, someone I can rely on to stay calm and even-keeled no matter the score. Always meticulous, especially with his routine, Bennett is a solid presence.
One I haven’t allowed myself to lean on, expecting I’d pull him down with me.
“Hey,” I say, nodding my head and letting Freddy close the car door behind me. There’s a lot I could say, words muddling together inside my head.
I’m sorry, Ben. I could barely manage to open my goddamn eyes, let alone look my father in the face.
Talking to you, being honest with you, felt like climbing Everest because the idea of never being on the ice again was suddenly just as terrifying as being on the ice again.
I hated myself almost as much as hockey hates me, and I didn’t want to feel anything even remotely comfortable, and you’re a savior, a protector—you couldn’t protect me from this.
You’re my best friend, and I never wanted to hurt you, but everything inside me turned black, decayed, and it’s still nothing good. I am nothing anymore, and it’s selfish, but I didn’t want you to see that.
Instead, I run a hand through my hair again before shoving my hands into my short’s pockets, nodding. “How’ve you been?”
He’s silent, staring at me without moving, a stillness only I’ve seen in him.
“I’m gonna put the beers in the fridge,” Freddy offers, his smile faltering. He slaps my shoulder. “Good to have you back, Rhysie.”
Freddy stops by Bennett on his way to the truck, squeezing his shoulder tightly and ignoring the way the larger guy throws his shoulder back slightly to disengage his touch.
Freddy grabs the groceries out of the still-open door of Bennett’s truck, then heads past us into the house with arms stacked with paper bags.
The silence stretches between us, just like the immaculate green yard that I know Bennett probably mowed himself this morning. Routines, sameness, they’re what keep Bennett alive.
“Bennett, look—”
His massive hand lifts, stopping whatever word vomit was near to spewing from my mouth.
“It’s not that hard to pick up a phone, Rhys. Even for just a text.” He sounds stoic, but his blue eyes are deep pools of hurt and betrayal. “I thought you were going to die.”
He might as well have punched me in the gut.
“Ben—”
“No.” He shakes his head, pressing his lips together and running a hand through his hair.
He takes his sunglasses out of his shirt and slides them on, like blocking the redness of his eyes will keep me from hearing the hurt in his voice.
“The last time I saw you, you were in a fucking hospital bed. Do you realize that? You left me in the dark, begging your mom for any information. Going to summer intensive without you, keeping up the team momentum, telling them you were at some fucking intense recovery camp? I felt like a goddamn idiot, shut out by my best friend.”
Every word from his mouth feels like the lash of a whip, but I’ll gladly take them all. If anything, it only feeds the festering thing inside me.
You did this to him. And you can’t even feel bad about it, because you’re empty. Nothing left, even for your best friend. Selfish.
So, instead of anything else, I nod. Bennett doesn’t like to be touched, otherwise I’d have pulled him into a hug already. His emotions are written across his face, easy to see even with his well-maintained beard and dark Ray-Bans.
“I won’t apologize now because it’ll sound like I don’t mean it.” I shrug, before nodding resolutely. “But I’m back. Moving back in today, going out tonight or something, and practicing on Monday. I’m not leaving.”
I’m not leaving you again goes unsaid, but I can see that he takes my peace offering as he readjusts his sunglasses and closes the door to his glossy, black truck.
I reach for my bags in my backseat and turn back toward him, ready to let him have another go.
He comes by my side, but I stay a few feet back, following him as we head toward the house.
“Welcome back, Captain,” he quietly offers as he maneuvers ahead of me to pull open the front door. “I’m still mad at you.”
Bennett’s service dog, sitting just inside the doorway, huffs at me, like he’s as grumpy as his owner. It sends a bursting feeling of home through my body.
“Glad to be back, Reiner.”
And even if it’s just for a moment, fleeting and small, that warmth in my chest is enough.
It has to be, for now.
We don’t end up at a party that night, but in a booth at our favorite local burger joint.
Bennett sits across from me, Freddy on my right as we pick at the leftovers of our overly large order.
Three plates of wings, potato wedges, and veggies are scattered across the table, the centerpiece a nearly demolished giant pretzel, the last piece barely hanging on to the hook it was delivered on.
Bennett is smiling now—a genuine one that shows all his teeth—as Freddy retells the story of hitting on the Bruins’ player development coordinator during summer intensive and getting nearly leveled by her NHL-player boyfriend on the ice right after.
“No way that guy ‘gets back to you’ on helping you with that fancy little deke shot,” Bennett says as he gulps down another swig of his nearly orange local IPA. He’s a beer snob, refusing to split the half-empty pitcher between Freddy and me.
“It’s called the Michigan .”
Bennett’s smile only widens. “Should be called the mission impossible. No way you’ll get it good enough to use in a game.”
Their chirping pushes a smile to my lips almost too easily; last year Bennett was ready to put his blocker through the kid, fed up with his arrogance and obsession with fancy deke-style trick shots.
They weren’t moves he could really do during the heat of a game, but Freddy loved to piss off our usually calm goalie by treating warm-ups and practices like a damn shootout.
“Heard from Tampa?”
The question comes from Bennett, and I have to swallow hard before I shake my head.
Before I even came to Waterfell, I was drafted by the Tampa Bay Lightning.
I knew that after my degree was secured, I’d have my spot with them.
But right after the injury, they rescinded their offer and I haven’t heard from them since, which has left me desperate to prove to other professional teams that I am still just as good—if not better.
I can feel my best friend watching me closely, keeping track of my drink in a way that makes me question whether he received a text from my mother, but I try to ignore it. Still, sweat starts to gather on my brow and the rush of heat on my neck makes me pull at my collar.
If anyone is going to sense something wrong with me, it will be Bennett Reiner.