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 drop hints or steal from our food budget.
“I can’t.”
I try not to look, focusing instead on staying at the top of the staircase and lacing up my sneakers, double-checking that my bag has everything I’ll need for practice, as well as clothes for the café. 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 try 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 my scholarship that assured me 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 had bestowed to 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 jean 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 cup of coffee for me. He keeps his back turned to 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 further into the kitchen, apprehension in his every move towards 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 for 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 a seat at the table. “Are you making pancakes again, sissy?”
I grab my bag from the table, slinging it over my shoulder before ruffling Liam’s curls from behind his chair. “Not today, bug. There’s 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 towards 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 the thing in my chest until the scream is almost bubbling at 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 of 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 leaned against the kitchen counter, his ever-growing lanky body rigid with arms crossed tight 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 leaned figure through 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’ “Cherry Waves” does little in the way of clearing the fog of anger, but the sight I’m greeted with arriving 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 are on.
I should be the only one here, considering I use Coach Kelley’s key before my shifts on concession stand days for extra ice time. Public skate doesn’t start until eight a.m. so, double checking my phone again, no one should be here before six in the morning.
And yet, a quick glance at the large panes of glass looking over the ice, I can see a blue figure—a goddamned hockey player—sitting on the ice in the corner.
I drop my bag, push out of my sneakers by the heel and slip my skates on, lacing them fast. My headphones are still blasting, only amping me up, ready to pick a fight.
Bursting through the doors, I shout a quick, “Hey! You can’t be here!” towards him 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, sweat gleaming on his skin where it’s exposed. His hockey sweater is half pulled up over one of his shoulders, like he was in the middle of pulling it off and couldn’t finish.
Sweat clings to every part of him, sticking his long dark hair across 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 off my headphones, the sound of his gasping breath immediately filling the silence of the rink. Sliding the guards off my skates, I launch with a hop onto the ice to skate over to him with a harsh, scraping stop.
“Hey,” I call, my voice shakier than I want it to be. “Are you alright?”
Stupid question considering the circumstances.
My hands, still bare where I hadn’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 etch out.
He can, he’s breathing right now, but I’m no stranger to a panic attack. My mind settles, the focus of someone else always a welcome torrent 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, hoping 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 shutters and grips 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.
“C’mon, hotshot,” I try, hedging for something between gentle exasperation and flirtation in spite of my own racing heart to, hopefully, relax him.
“You’re okay,” I say, kind of like telling a baby they’re fine when they fall to calm them. “We’re gonna have to get you off the ice. Can you stand?”
“Y-yeah,” he offers, his breaths labored and too fast at the same time. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, just help me, okay?” I reach around the middle of him, grabbing onto the padding of his hockey pants on his lower back and using it to hold him steady as he slowly finds his footing again.
“I don’t know if I can skate,” he mutters between shuttering breaths, his eyes squeezing closed tightly. “I—”
“You’re fine. I’ll use it as an excuse to get my hands on you,” I say, my nerves fried and mouth stumbling with anything to distract him. “Just stay upright on your skates. I’ve got you.”
He looks at me again, brown eyes still dilated as he locks onto my gaze. A little nod lets me know he’s as stable as he’s going to get, and I dig my skate into the ice to press off, slowly with his added weight.
God, he’s heavy, tall—albeit lankier than most hockey players his height.
Still, it takes almost a full minute to make it to the gate with my careful skating and carrying double my weight. He doesn’t peel his eyes off my profile the entire time, I can feel them almost searing the side of my face. I slowly manage to set him on the bottom step of the short bleachers nearby.
His hands reach down for his laces, finger shaking so hard they keep missing the loops until he’s sawing out a curse beneath his breath with a bitter expression of hopelessness. But I’ve been a caretaker my entire life, and no amount of annoyance can keep me from kneeling before him and taking his hands in mine.
“Focus on slowing your breathing,” I offer, before he can open his mouth for another pitiful apology. My fingers are numb, but make quick work of his laces and pull on the tongues so he can slip out of them easily.
I draw the line at pulling the no doubt foul-smelling hockey boots from this stranger’s feet.
“You got it from here?” I ask, rocking back on my skates and looking up to see his eyes still locked heavily on my face.
“You’re Liam’s mom.”
I snort. Closest thing to it.
“Sister, but yeah. We met. Sadie.” I smile brightly at him, praying that he doesn’t really remember meeting me.
“Rhys.” He puffs a few breaths, almost like he might laugh if he could catch his breath. “You wanted to knock me on my ass,” he says with a smile and I see the peek of a dimple on his other cheek. Knew it.
“Yeah, well… you did that all on your own today.”
Another one of those light, huffing laughs leaves his open mouth, hands and arms still trembling. It’s silent again, only the buzzing hum of the lights and systems as the background to my second perusal of him. I want to speak, to fill the space with comforting words, but I find myself empty of them.
“You’re the figure skater that looks like fire.”
My brow furrows. “What?”
He huffs and smiles lazily, looking more like a sleepy drunk. “Nevermind.”
Why is he here? What happened to him on the ice? The questions are piling up, pushing against my lips to fly out. But one look back at his lax, vulnerable body position and I clam right back up.
Not my circus. Not my monkeys.
Cutting my eyes away from the intensity of his, I check my watch.
Damn it.
6:30 a.m.
Scooping my hair up into a high bun, I slide my lounge pants off, leaving me in tights under shorts, and plop them into a heap a few feet beside Rhys’ resting body. Part of me feels terrible just leaving him here, but the other part of me—the part of me that knows how easily I could lose everything I’ve worked for if I don’t focus—pushes the rest of my resolve. With any luck, Mr. Hotshot here will get it together and get out of here.
I pause at the gate, biting my lip and glancing back over towards him.
“Can you get back out okay? Are you good now?”
He nods slowly, barely opening his eyes and giving me a quick thumbs up. Grabbing his skates in one hand, he braces the other on the railing, leaning on it heavily before he slips his hand to the wall to walk up the ramp to the exit doors.
With the sound of the door slamming shut, I re-center my focus and hook my phone up to the handheld speaker my Coach gave me so I can work on my short program choreography before work.
At least, I try.
But no matter how loud I play the music, or how many times I fall while trying—and failing—a triple axel, nothing can pull my focus from the hockey boy with the sad eyes.
Pushing through the door, a blast of warm air hits my pinkened skin before I stall at the sight of the hockey player I’d assumed would be long gone.
It’s as if he barely made it inside, sitting against the half-wall beneath the window with his eyes closed and head tilted back. The long column of his throat works with a heavy swallow before he opens his eyes to look up at me.
I should ask if he’s alright, but the only thing that comes from my lips is a bitter, “Were you watching me skate?”
It isn’t a question so much as an accusation.
His familiar brown eyes are less glassy now, but his skin still looks pale, like the panic is taking a long time to truly drain from his system. He shakes his head and a minuscule grin ticks his lips crooked.
“No, but I might like to,” he snickers, a little dazed and unkempt. “I’m imagining you skating like Liam, since that’s all I have to go off of.”
There’s no stopping the grin that stretches across my mouth because I know, for as much as Liam loves to “play hockey,” he can barely keep his little legs underneath him.
“Well, considering I used my warm up time helping some hockey player, I don’t think your imagination is too far off.”
I’d meant it as a joke, but hearing myself back I know it sounds like a reprimand—even worse, catching the near-wince of Rhys as he absorbs what I just said.
God, has it really gotten this bad? Having things under control has never really been my specialty, nor has self-preservation. Feeling too much all at once until the dam bursts is much more my speed.
I sit down to unlace my skates, pulling my bag closer.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He laughs.
“I think you’re crashing,” I offer, crossing my arms. “Looks like from a major panic attack. Has this happened before?”
“I’m good,” he says, shrugging off my question.
My spine pricks up, rady again to fight with him if needed. “If it has, then it was really stupid for you to be out there without anyone around.”
I wait a moment, but he doesn’t say anything.
Finally, I ask, “What are you still doing here?”
“I was trying to work up the nerve to drive home.” He laughs, but winces at the same time. “If you can get my keys.” He wobbles, his footing unsteady until he slumps back against the glass door again.
“Yeah, you’re definitely not driving, hotshot.”
“What are you even doing here?” he asks, but there’s no bite to his tone, just mild curiosity. “My—I was told no one would be here this early.”
Technically, no one is allowed to be.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, because I wasn’t here this morning. Just like you, hotshot, didn’t have a panic attack and nearly pass out alone on the ice.”
He grimaces, but nods, walking carefully with his bag on his shoulder and his other hand braced almost painfully on my shoulder.
“No one was here this early,” I concede, with a pleasant little smile on my lips. “Which is the only reason I’m going to help your big ass to my car and get you wherever it is you need to go.”
“I can drive, honestly. I just need to sit in there for a few.”
I don’t want him to drive, but I know at any moment now Coach Kelley and the rest of the summer staff will start arriving, and I can’t, god—if I get any more demerits this year…
Stop.
Shaking my head, I straighten. Going down that path will only lead me to my own cryfest in the car and speed skating through my ice time while throwing sloppy jumps.
This year won’t be like last year. This year is going to be better.
“Alright, if you swear.”
He nods again and seems to try a charming sort of boyish smile.
We push through the doors of the ice plex, stepping into the cool morning. My beat-up Jeep Cherokee looks almost ridiculous next to his sleek black BMW, but I manage to keep the snide comment on my tongue from tumbling out.
Releasing him once he has a hold on the driver’s side door, I clasp my hands together and rock back and forth on my heels.
“Thanks,” he begins, looking at me with that same searing, annoying intensity. He looks less vulnerable now, almost tired but forcing some sort of mask. “I genuinely app—”
“Save it.” I hold my palms up to stop him before he can irk me anymore. “I wasn’t here and neither were you. Don’t worry, hotshot.”
His brow furrows, the same sadness from before etching back into his eyes and for a moment, I hate it. Every word out of my mouth towards him is infected with taunting, and I can hear it but I can’t stop it.
I wait for him to chew me out, or push back, but he just looks tired.
“Right. Well… I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
The vulnerability slips slightly as he sighs, unlocking his BMW to slide in. Something is churning in my stomach, almost like I’m going to be sick the longer I stare at his open face, so I turn on my heel in a haze and march back towards the doors.
And no matter how deeply I want to check on him once more before I head back in, I keep my head on straight. The urge to tease and kiss away his despair is too great, and it will only end poorly for me.
“Not if I see you first,” I mutter beneath my breath. A little vow to myself to steer clear of the boy with the sad eyes before I try to take his healing into my own hands.
