Okay, fine. I wasn’t expecting her to be a pushover with this. Both waters were abandoned. I never wanted one anyway.
“You look… really nice today.”
She folded her arms across her chest, not falling for any of it. “It’s the same uniform from yesterday, covered in plane stink, and there’s a ketchup stain on my jacket from the hotdog I had outside the hotel.”
“Yeah,” I said, sidling over all nonchalant, “but you make ketchup stains look good.”
“Spit it out, Bouchard.” Her impatience finally got the better of her. “Is it your shoulder? What’s going on?”
The pretense, the flirting, the games. All gone. My shoulder throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat, and I had no plan to lie through it this time.
“It’s killing me,” I admitted. “I texted you because… whatever I want probably won’t fly on Dallas’ home ice.”
Her mouth flattened into a tight line. “No.”
I closed the gap between us, and took hold of her arms with a small shake. “It’s game 6, Hopper. Surge has it in the bag if I can just hold the back line. No seventh needed. I’m on every platform, news outlets breathing down my neck, Coach has his hawk eye on me, and I thought… I thought you’d understand.”
“I understand,” she said, slowly stepping out of my grip. Her eyes never wavered on mine. “I understand your reasoning skills must’ve gotten knocked out of you from all the impacts on the ice. Because I distinctly remember telling you that the last time was the last time.”
“Quit being difficult,” I shot back.
“You quit being an ass,” she said, her eyes sharp. “I’m trying to protect you, Theo. You’re the one making things difficult when you keep putting me in positions like this.”
“Protect me?” I let out a dry, cutting laugh. “You’re protecting your promotion, and you know it.”
Her nostrils flared a little, but she took a beat before coming back at me. “Believe it or not, but I actually give a shit about your arm. I don’t wanna see your career end sooner than it has to. You’re a great player, and you could get a few more good years out of the game if you play it right.”
Fury simmered under my skin, my mind a carousel spinning too fast. This whole time I’d been worried about her patience, but now I felt my edges fraying all the way. My charm, my flirtation, my easy smiles… they were my armor, and she was intent on grinding against it until I cracked.
“I can’t play when I’m in this much pain,” I told her, my voice strained but measured. Losing my shit wasn’t gonna help me now.
She dug into her bag, and pulled out a small bottle of painkillers. Fucking pills. “Take these. They’ll have kicked in by the time you hit the ice. I’ll tape you up at the arena.”
“Don’t bother.” I turned away from her and the useless pills, making my way to the door.
“What?” Her footsteps came after me.
I opened the door and gestured calmly for her to leave. “No drugs, remember? And I don’t need your tape either.”
“Would you stop being so goddamn stubborn for a second and just see that I’m trying to help you?”
The pause between us stretched into a thick, charged standoff. I couldn’t look at her.
“I don’t need you protecting me anymore,” I said then. “I should’ve stopped this charade ages ago, so I’m doing it now. I’ll get my rehab somewhere else.”
Reese grabbed my arm and forced me to look at her. “That wasn’t the deal. No third party—”
“Yeah, well, the deal’s off.” She stared at me, stunned speechless. “Now if you don’t mind… I need to get my stuff or the bus leaves without me.”
The click of the door echoed behind her like a verdict, leaving me staring at the wall, shoulder throbbing, ice forgotten, wondering how the hell I was going to survive the next hour, let alone sixty grueling minutes on the ice.
*
The tape I’d slapped on by myself was laughable, barely holding, and the joint jerked under the pressure of everything I did.
It was mid-first period, and Dallas wanted blood. Their forwards crashed the net in waves, dumping the puck low, testing Hunter from every angle. I skated to meet a point shot, twisting my torso to keep my arm from screaming, and shoved myself into the path anyway. The puck ricocheted off my glove, and thankfully only clipped the post. Close call.
Grayson got all up in my face. “What the fuck, Bouchard? That was routine.”
