Chapter Thirty-Six Sadie
I can tell Ro is annoyed—more annoyed than I’ve seen her in a while.
It’s the end of the second period and the Wolves are up by two.
Boston College fans who made the short trip to our arena are very loud in their grumbling, but Waterfell is louder.
We’ve been shouting sieve chants all night, singing songs and listening to some of the more intoxicated fans call out players by name and bang on the glass.
And of course, I’ve been watching Rhys.
He skates like he was born with blades attached to his feet, like he’s got more coordination on ice than running or walking on land. His ability to read every other player—in maroon and in blue—is borderline magical.
He’s just as I imagined: the boy with the blues turns gold under the arena lights and the cheers of adoring fans.
His face-offs are at 100 percent tonight, and he might as well be glowing.
I can see him years from now, playing professionally and lighting up the jumbotron and the screens of phones everywhere with his dimpled smile beneath his visor.
Rhys scored twice—once during the first period, skating through his team at the other end of the rink to high five and humbly angling his stick in the air in celebration. Then, again in the second period, on our side of the ice—the same celebration, only he pointed his stick right at me.
And I turned into a gooey mess.
Overall, it’s been an incredible night.
Though, watching Ro fight the trio of girls in front of us would also be incredible.
Freddy scored just before the buzzer ending the second period, skating in a lunge and playing his stick like an air guitar, which got laughs out of both Ro and me—only after she finished screaming like a banshee for him.
But then, the pretty black-haired girl in a Waterfell jersey in front of us says, “God, he’s so hot.”
“Have you seen his OnlyFans?” the blonde next to her asks. If she thinks she is whispering, it’s not even close. “If you think he’s droolworthy now…”
“Oh my God, Ericka.” The boy on her left with strawberry curls, also decked in a jersey—and a pair of black leather lugged Converse that I’ve been drooling over since I spotted them—sighs. “That was a rumor . The guy doesn’t even show his face.”
“ Oh my God , Ron,” Ericka mocks, rolling her eyes and flicking a piece of popcorn at him. “His ex was the one who told everyone. It has to be him.”
The other girl pipes up with, “I don’t think so. He denied it—and, I mean, he has a reputation on campus, sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s selling sex.”
“He could if he wanted to. I mean, good God, he’s mouthwatering. And I’ve heard he’s not only generous, but hu— ”
“Stop it!” Ro squeals, jerking forward between their seats so her head is level with theirs, a mop of curls cascading like water around them. “He’s not a fucking object. Shut the hell up and stop spreading rumors you know nothing about.”
She stands then, grumbling about getting something to drink, and takes off before I can ask if she wants company.
Ro looks a little worse for wear when she comes back, but it melts away as the third period starts up.
The Waterfell boys are dominating, the clock is dwindling, and I’m…
I’m very aroused.
Rhys is clearly one of their best players, and I can see many of the hits hammered toward him—but his teammates on every line do a good job of protecting him.
It’s actually Kane who they continue to target the most. Whether because his skill and size give an advantage to Waterfell, or because of some sort of bad blood between the teams, it’s surprising, considering he used to play for Boston College.
They seem to hate him.
His new team doesn’t seem to like him either, but I don’t blame them. Part of me wants to confront him, but the other part just hopes he leaves the team before the year is up.
I haven’t told Rhys about our standoff at practice—not because I’m hiding it, but because every small piece of time I have with Rhys, I want to use for other things.
“Have you seen where they sat the boys?” Ro asks, gulping down another hard cider.
“Yeah.” I nod, pointing toward where the home and away benches are.
Just beyond the end of the Wolves bench, pressed right up against the glass, sit Oliver and Liam, with Rhys’s mom and Bennett’s father to their right.
Considering the wealth of attention most of the players have given them, I’d say it’s a win for them. Even this far away, Liam is beaming.
And Oliver looks refreshed and happy.
There’s a loud crash, followed by the roar of the crowd as a fight breaks out on the ice and everyone shoots up to stand.
I try to decipher what happened, at first only able to spot Toren Kane locked in a brawl with one of the larger BC players.
But then I see Rhys, sprawled on his back, not moving—his chest or his head.
I’m on the stairs before I can blink, heart in my throat as I press my hands to the glass and bang on it. Rhys is nowhere close enough, but Bennett hears, turning to look over at me through his cage; I can’t see his expression, but he turns away and skates toward his captain.
Fuck , it doesn’t look like he’s even breathing.
There are trainers already around him, quicker than I’ve seen in most games, and I know it’s because of his history. Because he’s likely already on their watch list.
Bennett is skating back toward his net, slow and graceful for all his hulking size. But he passes right by the net and stops next to me.
I feel like a child staring up at him through the glass, he’s so massive. He pulls his helmet off and shakes out the sweat-wet curls, brow furrowing.
“He’s okay,” he says. “Sit down.”
“Ben—”
“If he sees you panicking, it’s gonna make him feel worse. Sit. Down.”
I do as he says, nearly tripping up the stairs while I try to walk with my head half-turned back to the ice.
He does get up, and he’s met with a round of cheers from everyone in the arena, both teams slapping their sticks against the ice. Still, they force him off and through the tunnel.
Considering I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe properly until I lay my eyes on him, I tell Ro where I’ll meet her afterward. Thanks to my figure-skating competition knowledge, I know the paths of the arena well. I don’t care if they won’t let me see him; I just want to be close.
I pace the alcove near the locker room hallway for a minute before a hand on my shoulder makes me jolt.
I glance up to see a disheveled-looking man towering over me. It’s only after I flinch backward into the wall that I realize exactly who I’m looking at.
They are copies of one another, Rhys and his father.
And though I’ve met the man in passing, I’ve never seen him up close.
Rhys has the same chocolate eyes that give a boyish hint even to his father’s slightly aged face.
He looks young and handsome, disarming in the same way Rhys is. Strong jaw, plush lips, same dark hair.
“Sorry,” he says, followed by a word I don’t recognize but sounds like a harsh language—Russian or Polish? “Are you here for my son?”
“Yeah, I—” I clear my stuck throat, my heart still racing. “I just want to know he’s okay.”
The smile he gives me is gentle and warm, and achingly familiar, except he only has one dimple.
“Come, dochka, ” he beckons with that same word, putting a firm hand between my shoulders. He guides me around the loop and through the pungent locker rooms to a smaller room fitted with a medical table and supplies.
Rhys is there, shirtless and sweating with his thick hockey pants still on. The trainer has a hand on his head, using a small flashlight to check his pupils, while Rhys recites the months of the year in reverse order.
“One moment,” his father whispers to me, stepping toward his son.
Rhys pauses after June, which seems to alarm the trainer until he peeks at Mr. Koteskiy hovering over his shoulder, spotting his player’s distraction.
“Rhys.” His father sighs. “All right?”
“Fine.” He sighs back and they sound as similar as they look, minus the slight hint of an accent from his father. “You just got back?”
“Yeah—walked into the rink to see my son on his back on the ice. What the hell kind of welcome back is that, eh?”
Rhys chuckles, just a light huff. “Just got the breath knocked from me. Is Mom freaked out?”
“ Nyet , but there is someone I found a little flustered out there.” He steps back, revealing me where I’m hovering in the doorway.
“Gray,” Rhys says, a giant smile growing across his face. The trainers go back to their other tasks now that their center is cleared, so it’s just the three of us. “Come here.”
Two words are all it takes for me to rush to him, letting his arms wrap around me and his sweaty head press against my chest.
“You smell awful,” I say snarkily, with a little huff of misplaced anger. My heart still won’t stop racing.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” his father says, before he leaves us in the training room alone.