Three Weeks Later
“Today was great, Sadie,” the woman says over the screen. I nod gently and furrow a little deeper into the covers.
“Yeah, I think so too.”
She smiles warmly, “Okay. Good. Today’s our last session before the holidays, and you don’t have another session until January. Anything else we should talk about before then?”
“I don’t think so.”
“If you think of anything, remember you have my number now, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Oh and Sadie?” She manages to say before either of us end the call. “You’re gonna do amazing tonight, okay?”
I thank her again before we hang up, before laying on the big sofa in Anna Koteskiy’s office while I decompress.
I started therapy two days after reporting Coach Kelley to the Dean. When I showed up for practice for the Christmas Gala, he’d been in his car in the parking lot ready to try to ambush me, to talk.
Thankfully, I brought backup.
Max Koteskiy walked me from his car to the ice rink entrance, only making it half way before turning towards my coach, stalking in behind us and starting to argue with him. It had taken me a full minute to realize they weren’t arguing in English, but Russian. I knew my coach had been born there, before being adopted and brought to America, but I’d never heard him speak it before.
His face paled over whatever it was Mr. Koteskiy sprouted and I hadn’t heard from or seen him since.
I teased Rhys’ dad for his savior complex. He didn’t deny it once.
It was Anna Koteskiy who got me connected with my new therapist and I like her a lot. We have a lot to go through, and some days I like therapy while some days I hate it and I sit sullenly instead of really trying—but my therapist says that’s normal. And it’s okay.
Whatever I’m feeling right now is okay.
Today, we really talked mostly about the holidays and Christmas—so, inevitably, we talked about my dad.
My dad is in rehab, but it hasn’t changed my plans in getting custody. Mainly because we’ve done this song and dance before with court-mandated rehab. It never sticks.
There’s a knock on the door, and I sit up slowly.
I raise up just as Rhys pops his head in just slightly, a warm and gentle look on his face as he takes me in.
“Hey,” he says, coming in and shutting the door behind him. “You alright?”
“Yeah. Today was good.”
He sits next to me and I curl myself into his lap like a cat. His hand starts smoothing through my hair and up and down my back. This has become our post-therapy routine—for both of us. My therapy is on Thursdays and his is every other Wednesday.
Sometimes we talk about our sessions with each other, sometimes we don’t.
But we always make a point to tell each other when we see a “good” change. To praise each other where we can.
My brothers have also started therapy, thanks to the Koteskiys. I want to say I owe them everything, but I’m learning that it’s okay to ask for help and accept it without constantly worrying about how to repay them.
We’ve stayed with them all of winter break, which started as a necessity during a snowstorm, and then at their insistence, we all stayed. The boys are happy, and I see them falling a little more in love with Anna and Max every day. It heals a deep wound in me every time Oliver lets Anna hug him, or decides to lay on the sofa a little closer to Max while they watch hockey on the “biggest TV in the whole world,” according to Liam.
Liam is also thriving. He settled in overnight as if this place was a new home. Rhys and his parents spoil them, but they deserve it.
“What time do you need to be at the rink?” he asks, kissing my forehead and cheeks respectively.
I smile and yawn, a little exhausted emotionally and physically.
“In two hours?”
“Great.” He smiles, picking me up bridal style and carrying me out of the room. “Let’s take a nap.”
Singles skating got a new coach overnight—and I speculate how much Koteskiy family funding helped pull that off, even if none of the three of them will admit it.
She’s nice, but firm. In a way I can see it as a healthy firmness, like a real coach. Not manipulation or isolation or brutality. I’m learning that wasn’t my fault either—I was too young with no adults around me to keep it from happening or notice that it wasn’t okay.
She also let me choreograph my entire Christmas Gala routine, which I’m performing tonight. It’s to Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.” Coach Kelley would never let me pick something so lyrical, swearing my strength was only in my brutality; but Coach Amber encourages me to try something new all the time, even when I fall.
I’m tired but I don’t sleep, even as Rhys crashes the moment his head hits the pillow. Daylight peaks through the closed blinds in his rooms, dancing across his handsome face as I stare at him a little in awe.
I watched him grow, change since that day on the ice this past summer. I’ve seen his body shift and change, fill out again now that anxiety doesn’t stifle his usual massive appetite.
He is beautiful.
In his easy love for my brothers, his support of everything I do. His gentleness with my heart, but stubbornness against my anger. He cut through the vines of my anger and self-hatred like it was the only thing he was meant for.
It’s taken me this long, but I know who he is now.
Rhys Koteskiy is pure gold. I know it. And soon the entire world will, too.
So I soak up these moments, just the two of us between the dark blue sheets of his bed. Under the flickering light of day, safe and warm in the comfort of his arms, falling asleep to the sound of his steady, strong heartbeat.
