Ro’s hand feels warm, soft, and delicate in mine. I don’t want to let go.


    “Take Care” by Beach House ys through my speakers that desperately need some love and care. I’ve brought us to a park between downtown Waterfell and the dorms, refusing to take her home just yet.


    She’s eaten half of the first pizza. I’m not hungry, but I watch her nearly soak her pizza crusts in garlic butter and savor them most. Her tears have stopped now, but the pain is still there—buried under marinara, cheese, and a desperate need to make me smile.


    This I know because she keeps peeking up at me with the same grin I give when I’m trying to decipher if someone is upset. If I need to please them somehow, to make it better.


    I want to ask her what happened. Instead, I offer, “Do you want to watch something?” Because I can’t take another gentle nce from her like she’s done something wrong. I fumble for my phone, setting it up like I have a thousand times on my dash—a perfect, precarious bnce. “Do you want to watch your movie?”


    “My movie?” she asks, brows furrowed and mouth full enough that the words mush together, almost iprehensible. Her blush is immediate as she chews—mouth sealed tight—and swallows.


    “Yeah,” Iugh, pulling up one of my streaming apps; <i>Ever After</i> is already queued. “I downloaded it for my next away game. Figured I could watch it on the bus. I fell asleep the other night, so I didn’t finish it.”


    Hazel eyes alight on mine, more steadily than they have all night, and I feel a wave of deep relief at the beautiful sight. She grins as the opening starts ying, watching it as intently as I am watch-ing her.


    After a few minutes, I’m sucked into the story easily—a princess story for the girl I’ll always call princess feels almost too perfect.


    “Do you have afort movie?” she asks quietly, as if we’re in a movie theater and she’s afraid to speak too loudly and disturb the other patrons.


    I consider her question for a moment but shake my head, resting my elbow on the center console so our arms touch. “Not really. I mainly watch YouTube videos—I like <i>GMM</i>.” I don’t say that I watch them all the time, often to fall asleep or when I first wake up; it weirdly makes me feel not so alone.


    “But,” I say, my mouth moving before I can even <i>think</i> about what I’m saying. “My mom loved <i>Love Story</i>. It always made her feel better. We used to watch it all the time, especially when she—”


    My words fall away and I drop my gaze, pulling my arm back from thefort of her skin to run a hand through my hair and scratch the back of my neck. Eyes burning slightly, I swallow hard against the press of emotions. <i>Don’t cry. Stop fucking crying—it’s been four years. You’re not even saying anything sad.</i>


    “Are… you okay?”


    She’s hesitant in asking. My stomach somersaults again before I nod.


    “Yeah, sorry. I—” Clearing my throat again feels like a stall tactic, but my voice is stuck to the back of my throat, hoarse and scratchy.


    “My mom died,” I say, then rush to continue with my usual, “but it was like four years ago. And I’m fine now, so it’s okay.” Every word is more cating than thest.


    The truth is that some days I barely feel anything, if I even think about it. And some days it hurts like she died <i>yesterday</i>.


    Ro’s eyes watch me again with the same intensity she’s always had that makes me feel stripped bare, vulnerable. “It’s okay to miss her, you know. And to cry about it. I cry about missing my parents all the time, and they’re just far away.”


    Her words feel like a hug and I lean into it, meeting her gaze with my reddened eyes, not trying to hide or joke around this moment.


    “Yeah?”


    “Yeah.” She nods before biting down on her plush bottom lip and fiddling with a curl, one of her nervous tells. “Do you ever get lonely?”


    A disbelievingugh bursts from me before I can help it, but I nod and smile at her. “All the fucking time.”


    “Yeah?” She asks it this time.


    “Yeah.”


    “It’s— I love Sadie, she’s my best friend,” she says, words flowing as herfort level grows. “But she’s my only friend and… and she’s busy, a lot. She has a lot going on.” Her voice fades slightly, and a bolt of irritation with the figure skater rouses me yet again—for Rhys and for Ro. “I don’t see her as much when she’s busy, andst semester I barely saw her at all. It’s not her fault.”


    <i>It is</i>, I want to argue, but I bite down on my tongue.


    “So.” She shrugs. “Sometimes I can’t help feeling really, really alone.” A huff ofughter finishes the statement, but there’s not a drop of humor in it.


    “I’ll be your friend, Ro,” I say. “I want you to see me as your friend.”


    “I’d like that, Matt.”


    She smiles, small and gentle, and I feel anotheryer of care and protectiveness reach out from me to her. <i>A friend—</i>not because of being on the same hockey team or some kind of trade-off.


    Just my friend, because she <i>wants</i> to be.<hr ss="secbreak">


    Arguably, I enjoy my friends’ birthdays more than my own. And today is Rhys’s birthday.


    We decidedst week on a more low-key party at our beloved Hockey House, inviting the team and some close friends. I even splurged on the fancy local IPA bottles so Bet would be enticed to drink, which has paid off considering he’s on his third and smiling across from me in spite of the mess in his beloved kitchen.


    The problem, it turns out, isn’t our beloved goalie’s usually surly nature. It’s the deeply felt absence of the pain-in-my-ass figure skater.


    Rhys informed us bothst week that he invited Sadie. His smile was obnoxiously big, dimples gleaming as he confessed that he “didn’t care” who we invited or what we wanted to do—just that Sadie wasing. It was all that seemed to matter to him, which only raised my apprehension tenfold.


    We try ying a few drinking games, but Rhys is distracted the entire time, eyes lighting up every time the door opens, and going dark as soon as it <i>isn’t</i> Sadie.


    Even Paloma makes an appearance, wishing Rhys a quick “happy birthday” before joining Holden and a few of the second line ying King’s Cup in the living room, which Bet surprisingly joins as well.


    Meanwhile I try—and mostly fail—to entertain Rhys. Several girls flirt with our handsome captain, but he won’t even look at one of them, eyes trained on the door. It’s hard not to drop a snarkyment or two about the missing figure skater, but I can see it hurts Rhys’s feelings more, so I try to tamp them down.


    “Actually,” he finally says, with a smile so fake it’s half cracked. “I think I’m gonna go up. I just… I’m tired and my head is killing me.”


    He’s done this a few times now. It’s frustrating because he uses the injury that he won’t actually talk about so we don’t press him on whatever the issue is—and he <i>won’t</i> talk about whatever’s going on with Sadie.


    Meanwhile, my anger toward the girl only grows with every hesitant step my captain takes up the stairs, eyes over his shoulder.


    It’ste now; most of the party has headed downtown or dispersed. Holden and Bet are back at my side—thetter looking more rxed than I’ve seen him in a while, a light smile on his lips as he cracks open a beer. I can’t seem to muster the same peace or joy—I feel like an utter disappointment. Rhys is upstairs, miserable and hurting over a girl I could’ve warned him about at that very first party. He’s in too deep now.


    I’m about to bother Bet about the entire situation when someone steps into our kitchen with clicking heels.


    Sadie Brown—in a very short dress, a big leather jacket, and tall ck heeled boots, with her signature dark red lips—is two hourste.


    “Freddy.” She nods. “Hey—have you guys seen Rhys?”


    “Look who finally decided to show,” I say, finishing the shot Holden’s poured into my cup. “A littlete for him, actually.”


    She looks upset, and my stomach lurches a little, like I’ve done something wrong. But I shake that thought from my head quickly—<i>she’s ying with Rhys’s feelings. She’s a bad friend to Ro. They deserve better.</i>


    I give Bet a quick once-over. He’s ufortable, his smile gonepletely as he hunches massive shoulders over the table, avoiding both Sadie’s and my nces.


    “I know I’mte,” she says, her voice shaking a bit. “But I need to talk with him.”


    “Not happening,” I snap, more harshly than I mean to. “Get out.”


    “Freddy.” Bet finally breaks, sounding frustrated, hardened. He looks at Sadie—something like sympathy or deep understanding flickering in his blue eyes. It only ignites my frustration further, as if <i>I’m</i> the one who doesn’t understand. The outsider. The broken, left-out other to the Bet-Rhys-and-now-Sadie triad.


    “No.” I crush the cup in my hand, fury flushing through my blood. I toss it into the trash can, narrowed eyes never leaving Sadie. The words I want to say to her are all jumbled in my head. I want to yell and rage over her friendship with Ro as much as I want to erupt on her about Rhys.


    I may not know Sadie, but I know of her—especiallyst year. Every single party I attended, she was there. And never alone; she even showed up with Paloma a few times, but she always found what she wanted—alcohol, an athlete, and a quick romp in the bathroom. It’s not judgment of her that makes me disapprove of her with Rhys. It’s the fact that I <i>know</i> Rhys couldn’t do a one-night stand if he tried. Friends with benefits don’t exist for Rhys. He’s an all-or-nothing kind of guy, and I admire him for it.


    The same way I admire Ro, her devotion to her friendships that bes more apparent with every interaction we have. And I can’t help but want to tuck them both away from Sadie where she can’t hurt them.


    <i>And yourself, right? Because if anything, you’re just like her.</i>


    I stomp out the threatening voice inside before turning to Bet instead of the small figure skater in our kitchen entryway.


    “You saw him, Reiner. He stared at the fucking door all night waiting for her.” I barely give him time to speak before I’m back to Sadie—the slight leash on my anger disappearing. “You’ve already hurt him once tonight. Considering your track record, I think it’d be better if I stop you now.”


    Each word seems to hit her like a p, but I can’t stop myself. It’s like acid, burning my throat as I push it all out.


    “You don’t give a shit about him.”


    The room feels too quiet—even with the music trilling through our speaker system. Still, there’s a cold flush to my skin now. I feel hollow.


    “If I didn’t give a shit about him, Freddy, I think you’d know. But this isn’t likest semester. And Rhys is… different.”


    I roll my eyes and mumble sarcastically beneath my breath, which seems only to set off the mini volcano that is Sadie Brown.


    “I love sex as much as you do, <i>Freddy</i>, and that’s not a fucking crime just because I’m a girl. But I guarantee I care more about Rhys than you’ve ever cared about a girl you put your dick in.”


    Each word hits like an arrow, finding her intended target until I’m bleeding out.


    <i>You’re not better than her. You’re just like her. If she doesn’t deserve Rhys, then you don’t deserve to even be</i> friends <i>with Ro, let alone whatever fantasy you’re already spinning in your head.</i>


    “He’s in his room,” Bet finally says, but his words sound garbled and distant in my ears. She takes off, a desperation to her movements that makes me feel like I may have crossed a line.


    “Little harsh, Freddy,” Holden mutters, wincing. “Let them do what they want.”


    I shutter my eyes to all their reactions before reaching for the dark bottle of Jim Beam. Bet knocks my hand away with a hard shake of his head.


    “You’re done.”


    “I’m fine,” I snap back.


    He grows in size, pulling his spine straight and staring down at me darkly. “You’re done. Hang out with us and get over it or go to bed.”


    “Fuck off, Reiner.”


    He means well, I know he does, but it feels too much like a reminder that I’m like a kid brother trailing behind him and Rhys. I feel ridiculous, embarrassed and annoyed, so I swipe my phone off the table and start to march off.


    “Make sure everyone goes home safely,” I hear Bet mumble, probably talking to Holden. “You can stay here in the spare room if you want. I’m gonna make sure he’s okay.”


    He’s silent as he trails me up the stairs, but I can feel him all the same. I stop in front of the space between our doors.


    “You’re upset,” Bet says, voice t. It’s an observation, nothing more, but from him it feels like a hug. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”


    Bet and I don’t have conversations like this—heart-to-hearts aren’t our vibe. I annoy him out of love and he grumbles like an irritated bear, also out of love, I assume. But Bet is harder to get to know than most.


    Rhys exined it to me once. “<i>Bet needs you to be clearer. He can’t always pick up when you’re serious and when you’re joking. Try not to be so sarcastic.</i>”


    At first it felt like I’d done something wrong. But what Bet really wanted was to be my friend. He didn’t understand me the same way I didn’t always understand him.


    We still tend to irk each other, but it feels more like it’s purposeful. Like a family.


    “You don’t make me upset, Ben. I’m frustrated with Rhys and Sadie and… myself. I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I didn’t mean to act like an asshole.”


    “You usually act like an asshole.” He shrugs his big shoulders and the hint of a smile echoes even as he stares down at his feet. “Makes things feel normal. And, with Rhys… maybe Sadie will help.”


    <i>I doubt it</i>. I bite my tongue not to word-vomit yet again.


    “Yeah, maybe.”


    “She’s not so bad. And she makes Rhys happy, so, maybe she can help more than we’ve been able to.” He opens the door wide as he speaks and his ckb, Seven, lifts his head from the bed before stepping gently over someone in Bet’s bed.


    My eyebrows shoot up—because Bet doesn’t date or even sleep around, from what I know. And I’ve known Bet Reiner for going on four years now.


    His service dog pads toward him with a whine and nudges his hand with a wet nose. Bet whispers, “Go back to her,” so quietly I can barely hear him.


    Still, I can see Seven settling back against the lump beneath the covers, partially covered by the door and Bet’s body as he protectively pulls it farther to block my now searching gaze.


    “Get some sleep,” he says distractedly, and I nod. “Everything’ll be fine.”


    He’s more positive about this than he has been, so I trust in Bet’s solid presence and say a quick good night before heading to my room, ignoring the jagged edges of loneliness that beg me to find someone to upy my mind.


    Instead I turn on <i>Love Story</i> and fall asleep to a lull of memories—my mom’s hand in my hair, the vor of slightly burned popcorn, the sound of Archer asking, “<i>Is he asleep?</i>” before carrying me in his arms to my room.


    “<i>You’re my favorite kid in the world</i>,” he’d say, voice quiet as my mom lightly giggled.


    “<i>No</i>,” she would say, soft and happy. “<i>You can’t have him. Matty is all mine.</i>”


    “<i>Fine</i>,” Archer would say. “<i>Just let me hold him for a little longer.</i>”


    The mix of their tones in my memory is more soothing than any luby.