“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 on my window. “In fact, why don’t I just send this all to dear Ben. He’d be glad to help—”
“Mom.” I try again, my fifth attempt to end this anxiety-fueled conversation since I parked in front of the red-brick house. “I’ll be fine, no need to give Ben anything, alright?”
“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, 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, alright. He needs time.”
“I’m alright, Mom.” I agree, 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, seeing the open-mouth exaggerated shock across Freddy’s face, where he’s bent over to knock on my rolled up windows, before pulling the aviators off his face and opening 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—same height and build, which works wonders for our first line forward play as winger and center. But here, we are night and day. The left winger is blonde, 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 by rumor, he was just as wildly promiscuous in high school.
The kind of guy you’re worried to introduce to your mother, let alone your sister.
“I knew I was dying.” He 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 in juniors and the NHL together, 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 for 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 had, someone I can rely on to stay just as calm and even keel, no matter the score. Meticulous, especially with his routine, Bennett is a solid presence.
One I haven’t allowed myself to lean on, highly expecting I’d pull him down with me.
“Hey,” I say, nodding my head, letting Freddy close the 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.
I want to tell him: 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 shorts 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 as he slaps my shoulder. “Good to have you back, Rhysie.”
He stops by Bennett on his way back, squeezing his shoulder tight, and ignoring the way the larger of the two throws his shoulder back slightly to disengage his touch. Freddy grabs the groceries out of the still open door of Bennett’s truck, heading 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, that’s what keeps 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 just a text.” He waits, silent and stoic, but his blue eyes are a wide depth 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 curly honey brown hair. He takes his sunglasses out of his shirt, sliding them on like blocking the redness of his eyes will do anything to 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. He wears his emotions on his sleeve, written across his face and easily seen even half covered by the 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 practice 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 the sunglasses tucked into his shirt and closes the door to his glossy, black truck. I reach for my bags in the backseat and turn back towards him, ready to let him have another go. He comes by my side, staying a few feet back as he usually does, but follows behind me as I enter 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.”
It’s even quieter, but it brings a bursting feeling of home through my body. Because that I can repair.
“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 the party, 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 bowls of veggies scatter 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 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 well enough to use in a game.”
Their chirping forces a smile almost too easily, knowing that 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. Nothing 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.
I was drafted before Waterfell by Tampa, knowing that after my degree was secured, I’d have my spot with them. But then, after the injury, they’d rescinded their offer, which has left me desperate to prove to any other teams interested that I am 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. Even still, sweat starts to gather on my brow and the rush of heat on my neck makes me pull at my collar.
If anyone can sense something wrong with me, it would be Bennett Reiner.
“You have to be kidding me,” Freddy grumbles through a mouthful of pretzel, before groaning and slumping against the booth, slapping his phone down on the sticky table.
“What?”
“Fucking puck bunnies ruining my life,” he moans, ripping off the rest of the pretzel like a caveman, shoving it into his already full mouth. “Paloma’s story is making me regret listening to you two idiots.”
Bennett’s nostrils flare, jaw locking as he bites back a retort. Usually, this would be the minute I bring in some settling peace chat to the group, but I’m distracted by the video playing on a loop off the screen of Freddy’s phone.
Not the blonde in the face of the camera, spinning in a little circle so the entire frat house party is displayed, but by a familiar brunette in the light of the flash as it moves over her too quickly.
It’s only there for a brief second, before the image moves on to several snapshots of shot glasses and toasts, and before I can think better of it, I snatch his phone off the table and click on the left screen to go back, pausing the video with my thumb pressed down hard.
It’s her.
Sadie, sitting on the arm of a questionable-looking red sofa, her posture terrible and slumped so her chin rests on her palm, nails tapping against her cheek as she empty-stares at the guy sitting on the actual cushions next to her, with his hands drifting up and down her calves.
She looks terribly bored and so beautiful, with the frown I’m now so used to playing across painted lips. She is close enough behind Paloma that I can see her entire face, smoky colored eyes, her hair slicked back into a pretty braided ponytail with a gray slinky dress that looks like it’s for a sophisticated night out and not so much a frat party just off campus.
My chest aches, a strange bleed of panic working its way down my spine.
Don’t mention it. It was good.
That’s what she’d said. Not good enough, though, as she didn’t seek me out again. Didn’t show up at our morning skate or the second night of Learn to Skate.
I don’t blame her. I know I’ve been a husk when it comes to desire or passion—too afraid to try anything with myself, let alone another person.
I’ve thought about it, but the emptiness and depression gnawing in my gut overcame any want. Even in the shower, when I tried once or twice, the pain rushing in my head and lack of anything to think of that felt even remotely good made me just feel more broken.
Pathetic.
But, I did feel something with her, something real and warm that chased every scrap of darkened shadows away from me while I focused on her. Just her.
“Jesus Christ, Rhys,” Freddy barks, shaking my shoulders and grabbing his phone from my too-tight grip. “You good?”
My breath comes out a little too loudly for my preference, kicking up at the concern already splayed across both of my friends’ faces. Bennett’s brow is somehow furrowed deeper, a bit of frustration and anger blending with the distress.
“Are you hooking up with her again?” Bennett asks, his voice low and quiet.
It takes me a moment to realize he isn’t talking about Sadie, because of course he isn’t. He doesn’t know her, let alone anything that happened between us.
No, Bennett is asking about Paloma, puck bunny extraordinaire and a previous go-to of mine. It was only for a few weeks, and I could count the times we’d actually slept together on one hand, but everyone talked about it for months, as if Paloma Blake had officially achieved her ultimate form of bagging the captain.
“No.” I shake my head, gripping my thighs under the table to quell the tremors now rocketing through them. “No, I’m not.”
“You know her? Sadie?”
My head whips to Freddy, giving me an instant headache at the too-sudden motion. His eyes twinkle, as he screenshots the frozen screen and pulls up the photo, tossing his phone to a curious but quiet Bennett.
“How do you know her?” The words spill out before I can stop them, muscles too tight as I wait for Freddy’s answer.
“I barely know her; I’ve just seen her at a few parties, is all.” He waves me off, before smirking too wide. “Now, how do you know her?”
She pulled my body off the ice after I had a goddamned panic attack just trying to skate, which I can’t really do anymore without losing my shit, then flirted and smiled at me until I could breathe right.
She kissed me to the point that I almost felt like I wasn’t broken anymore.
“Yeah,” Bennett adds, now finished with his perusal of Sadie, sliding the phone back across the crowded table. “Considering you’ve been locked away all summer.”
I wince, but let it roll off my shoulders just like every shot Bennett takes. I deserve it. “She’s a figure skater—”
Freddy snaps his fingers and points at me. “I fucking knew I recognized her from somewhere.”
“You just said you saw her at a party.”
“I mean, like, somewhere else. Anyway, continue.”
“I’ve been getting some private ice time over at the community rink, and apparently she had the same idea.”
“Are you guys…?”
“Absolutely not.”
Freddy raises his hands in quiet surrender. “Just wondering. I mean, you’re the one staring at my phone like it’s the fucking Stanley Cup.”
I don’t deny it, but instead opt for the slightest bit of honesty. “She seems cool. I barely know her, but… yeah.”
“So, should we head over to the party then?”
A flash of some fantasy fills my head of showing up at the house, walking in and stealing her attention and time, putting my own hands on her bare skin, so much more of it showing than I’ve seen at the rink. Seeing if her lipstick will stain my skin so I’ll wake up from nightmares with some tangible memory of something good.
Don’t mention it.
Her rejection would work like a shot to the head, but one I’m not ready for, so I catch the yes from spilling out of my mouth and shake my head.
“I need to get some sleep before our preseason meeting tomorrow.”
“C’mon, Rhys,” Freddy begs. “We’ll only stop by—we won’t even drink. Promise.”
Promises from Freddy are as reliable as they are from a politician, but a thrilling rush raises the hairs on the back of my neck at even the thoughts of tracking down the girl plaguing my psyche.
