Prologue: Three Months Ago: Rhys PROLOGUE Three Months Ago Rhys I can''t breathe. The icy cold seeps in through my jersey. I can feel it on my stomach-- fuck, I''m on my stomach on the fucking ice. Did I pass out? "Son, you''re doing fine--can you lift your head for me?" Everything is black. I shut my eyes and open them again. Nothing. I keep blinking; at least, I think I am. Fuck, how long was I out? "Koteskiy, I need you to breathe," another voice says, before there''s a hand gripping my arm.
"Don''t move him, Reiner, not yet." A scrape of a blade against the ice, then my best friend Bennett''s voice: "What''s wrong? What happened?" I want to call for him. I try desperately to push his name through my mouth, but it feels like my lips have been fused together. "Back up, everyone. Back up!" "I can''t see," I manage to wrangle out. "I can''t see." The second one comes out like a choked sob. "Calm down," Ben offers, his voice soft, soothing the fear and adrenaline coursing through me.
"Take it easy, Rhys--just breathe." "Where''s my dad? I can''t see anything." My voice is like this foreign thing echoing in a cavern. Am I speaking or is it in my head? Why can''t I see? Everything starts to muddle together again, and the pain throbs in my head even harder. I want to open my eyes. I want to push my tongue against my teeth to check that they''re all there, and swear I''ll wear a mouth guard next time. I want to go back and pay attention, keep my fucking head up against that hit. I don''t want to be here.
I don''t want to be here. I don''t want to be here. The voices around me start to muddle to nothing as I slump into the thick darkness entrapping me. Chapter One: Present: Rhys CHAPTER ONE Present Rhys "Just try it today, and if you still feel like shit, I won''t ask you to do it again. Okay?" Even with the volume on my phone turned so low it should be silent, my father''s voice is a booming echo through the speaker. I wince lightly, using muscle memory to pull the black joggers over my legs in the darkness of my bedroom. After gently shrugging a hoodie over my head, I swipe the phone from where it lies on the dresser. "I''m fine," I say.
It''s not really an answer, but I know what he''s really asking beneath his command. We''re cut from the same cloth, my father and I--both calm under pressure, both "dipped like Achilles into a pool of confidence" as my mother so often puts it. I''ve been compared to him all my life--for the way I look, the way I skate, the way I play--and unlike many of the other NHL legacies I''ve played with, I don''t mind it. My dad has always been my hero. Which is why I know he''s asked me to work with the First Line Foundation today--a charity my father started after retiring from the NHL--purely as a way to check up on me. Where we used to talk hockey for hours, we barely share surface-level conversations now and I know he knows I''ve started avoiding him altogether. The foundation funds scholarship programs for kids who want to play hockey but don''t have the means to do so. I''ve worked with the program before, I''ve even enjoyed it before, but now.
It feels daunting, like I know even now that the smiles of children won''t drive away the constant dread filling up the void of my body. "Rhys," he calls again, his voice still too loud. I huff a breath, sliding my shoes on and grabbing my bag before heading into the warm June air. "Just. try it today. And then, if you feel like it, take the keys tomorrow morning to run a few drills before the rink opens." I nod, tossing the bag into the backseat of my BMW. I''d been cleared to drive for a month or so but have barely left the house in all that time.
"I will," I finally say, tightening my hands on the steering wheel in the silence that follows. The swishing sound through my father''s crackling speaker tells me he''s driving with the windows down in his ancient truck that my mom refers to as "that thing ." "And if you''re not ready this year, there''s no reason to push yourself. An extra year might be good, to make a better impression on the scouts before the next draft--" The next draft . My shoulders hike defensively, but I can''t help the slight appeal of it, waiting until I don''t feel this way about hockey anymore, until I love it again, just like I always have. This is ridiculous. I''m not a soldier. I play NCAA hockey.
I should be over this by now. I cut him off before this entire conversation sends me spiraling and right back into my room with the blackout curtains shut tight. "I want to play. I feel ready to play again," I lie. It''s one I''ve been practicing, so it rolls off my tongue easier than breathing. "I''m good." A deep sigh over the line before we exchange quick goodbyes and I finally start the car. The rink is crowded, especially for a Thursday evening at dinner time.
Kids ranging in age from five to thirteen skirt and swerve around the rink with a few volunteers that I recognize from previous functions--some retired players, some parents with relevant experience. I even spot Lukas Bezek--one of the new star players for the Bruins--with the social media team working with a few of the older kids on slap shots. Just as I step onto the ice, a little blur slams into my legs with a belatedly screamed, "Watch out!" I catch the small kid before he can bounce off my thighs and fall flat onto the ice. He giggles as I hold him up by the little pads and jersey he''s wearing and wait until he gets his feet under him again. He looks up at me the entire time. He has a dusting of freckles and a gap-toothed grin that makes him look just like a mini hockey player. He slides a bit again, not quite the best skater out there, but he doesn''t frown or seem agitated in the slightest. "Sorry," he offers, a little whistle coming from the hole where he''s missing a front tooth.
"I''m still working on my stops." The old Rhys would have laughed and said something gentle or funny, like "That''s all right, bud. I am too." But even the idea of laughing seems impossible, so I offer as much of a grin as my face can manage. "Good thing we''re gonna work on those stops today," a chipper voice announces as a tall, pretty girl glides up and stops short next to us, a gaggle of little ones behind her. "And good job, Liam, on finding our special guest coach for today!" Liam, the boy still clinging to me with a little gloved hand on my leg, laughs again and leans back. "He''s so tall!" The group of kids now surrounding us all giggle and smile at me, waiting on something. Sweat slicks the back of my neck at the sight of all their hopeful faces looking up at me, relying on me.
Maybe this was a mistake. "This is Rhys." The girl takes over. "He''s a center for the Waterfell Wolves, so he plays hockey in college, just outside Boston! He''s been playing since he was your age. And he''s gonna help you guys with skating today." "Will we play today?" a little girl asks with her helmet in her hands, cheeks blushing immediately at the attention of her fellow classmates. "Probably not today. We''re gonna mainly work on skating, all right?" The girl smiles lightly at the group as they all cheer.
"We''ll do a bit of stick handling with our hockey captain here." She nods to me. "And then finish with some fun games. How does that sound?" A consensus of excited shouting commences before she dismisses them to some warm-up laps. "Hope you don''t mind me taking over," she says, reaching her hand out to shake mine. "I''m Chelsea. One of the leads told me you''d be helping out today with the little ones." "Yeah," I reply.
I skate gently beside her, following her lead to the other side of the rink where a stack of cones sits by the boards, and try to pull it together. "Thanks for that. Was a little out of it this morning." "I understand." She chuckles. "We all have some of those nights." I should laugh, or nod and agree--as if my lack of emotion is just due to a bad hangover from a rough night out--but I can barely muster a half-grin as we set up for drills. "Anyway, for the littles, it''s mainly just a skating lesson.
The ten-and-up group is with the Bruins for media today." She nods toward the stumbling crew headed back in our direction. "And the little one who tried to knock you over is Liam--he needs some extra care if you want to focus on him today. Make it easier." So I do. Liam is easy, an eager--albeit clumsy--learner who never loses his smile. He clings to me easily, watching the other kids every now and then with a little determined scowl. Chelsea closes the session with a quick round-up huddle.
Only half of the kids are able to kneel, the rest sprawling on the ice with happy smiles. I keep waiting for that little reminder of myself at this age, holding my dad''s stick and letting him glide me almost too fast across the ice. Watching his games on the TV, decked out in his jersey and shouting just like my mom. The first time I got a goal on my own, even if it was nearly accidental. I wait. and still, nothing. "My brother''s real good too," Liam says a little breathlessly as he holds on to the pocket of my joggers once again. The kid''s a terrible skater,.