It just means I have to watch. Which means I have nothing to do but notice things. And what I notice, on day one, is that Rhys doesn't look at me, not once.
It's different from before.
Before, when things were bad between us, there was still something underneath it — the deliberate not-looking that was its own kind of looking. The awareness that lived under all the hostility. I always knew exactly where he was in a room. I think he always knew where I was too. That was the thing about us even at our worst — we were always leaning towards each other even when we were trying not to.
This is nothing like that. This is cold. Empty. Indifferent in a way that hostility never was. Hostility at least means you matter enough to someone to make them angry. This is Rhys deciding I'm not even worth the energy.
I miss the fire between us so much it's embarrassing.
This nothingness — it fucking sucks.
He skates like the ice was made for him. That loose, effortless quality that used to make me furious and now just pisses me off in a different way. He talks to Bennett. Helps Cooper with his positioning, patient and intense in a way that makes me think of early morning sessions that feel like a lifetime ago. Makes Fitch laugh twice in an hour.
He just doesn't look at the boards.
Not once.
He doesn't look at me.
By Wednesday I've developed a specific routine. Same spot at the boards every practice. I tell myself it's because the sight lines are good from here, because I can see the full ice, because it's the most useful position for someone in my situation. It has nothing to do with the fact that this is where Rhys skates closest to on his rotation. He goes past me on Thursday close enough that I could whisper his name and he'd hear it. I don't say his name. He doesn't slow down anyway.
Friday, Kowalski comes to stand beside me at the boards between drills. Both of us watching the team run a power play formation in silence.
"He's good," Kowalski says.
I don't ask who he means.
"Yeah," I respond, regretfully.
Kowalski glances at me sideways. Says nothing else.
On the ice Rhys takes a pass from Bryce and puts it top shelf without breaking stride. The whole team reacts. Fitch claps once, sharp, the way he only does when something is truly impressive.
Rhys skates back to position.
Still doesn't look at the boards.
After practice I stay behind. I tell myself I'm reviewing plays. Ihave a notebook. It's a convincing cover. The locker room empties slowly. Showers running, voices carrying, the usual noise winding down until it disappears completely. I sit on the bench with my notebook open and wait for someone I can't name and probably shouldn't want to notice me.
Rhys comes out of the shower in just his towel. Moving with the same calm he's had all week — unhurried, fully contained, fully ignoring me, and sits at his locker.
I watch him in my peripheral vision and think about the ice. About going down. About that one unguarded second on his face before I opened my mouth and turned it into something it didn't have to be. Something that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me and my inability to let anyone in without immediately finding a reason to push them back out.
I almost say something.
Just his name. Just —hey.
He pulls his shirt over his head, stands up, and picks up his bag.
Walks out without a single glance in my direction.
I sit in the empty locker room with my useless notebook and my useless shoulder. And my useless fucking mouth that won’t open.
I did that. It's my fault. I was scared and I took it out on him and now I'm sitting here with nothing to hide behind and nowhere to put that except exactly where it belongs.
On me.
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