I watched her slide a can free and punch the button again when it stuck. Muttered something under her breath, and punched it again.
The thought wormed its way into my brain and stayed there: What if I wasn’t fine?
I’d used that word all season. Tape. Ice. A pill here and there. Fine enough to take a hit. Fine enough to keep my spot. Fine enough to pretend I wasn’t waking up stiff and sore and pissed off at my own body.
Weeks out of the lineup had a way of changing the math.
She got the can on the second drop and popped the tab, eyes flicking up when she sensed me watching. I crossed the distance before I could talk myself out of it.
“Hey,” she said, guarded.
I took her by the arm, and kept walking.
“What are you doing?” Her voice dropped right away, eyes darting past me toward the waiting room. The guys were still around. Still close enough.
I didn’t answer. I steered her toward the stairwell, pushed the door open with my shoulder, and pulled her inside before she could protest again.
The door swung shut behind us.
The space was empty. Concrete walls. A metal railing. Harsh fluorescent light. She shook her arm free but didn’t step away. She stood there with the can in her hand, fingers fidgeting the tab.
“What did you see in there?” It was nothing more than a whisper, but somehow my words echoed in the space around us.
“I’m not a doctor,” she said, avoiding my gaze. “We have to wait for the results.”
I let out a dry, cutting laugh. “Bullshit. You’re practically a doctor. Tell me.”
She looked up at me then, her mouth curved. And where I expected her to back off, she stepped closer. “You’re kinda hot when you get all demanding, Bouchard.”
Before I could answer, she kissed me.
It was a decisive move, her mouth fitting on mine like it knew exactly what it was doing, like this was a solution she’d reached and committed to. The stairwell amplified everything. Our breathing. The scrape of my palm against the concrete as I braced myself.
My hand slid to her waist, then lower, pulling her in. I knew what she was doing. I let her do it anyway. I kissed her back like I’d been holding my breath since the scan started.
Her fingers found the back of my neck, careful of my shoulder, familiar with the limits even now. That made something in my chest twist. She knew me too well to lie badly.
My mind kept flicking back to the tunnel. The machine swallowing me whole. The way the tech’s voice had sounded distant through the headphones. The way I’d counted my breaths and thought about nothing and everything at once.
Her mouth moved to my jaw, and my pulse kicked. I wanted to stay right there. Wanted to let the answer wait.
But I broke the kiss, holding her at bay with one hand. “You’ll tell me if it’s bad, right?”
I tipped her chin up so she had to meet my eyes.
She smiled.
It was small. Tight at the edges. Not an answer, and definitely not the one I was hoping for.
My stomach sank.
“Reese,” I pressed. “Will I be ready for finals? Can you tell me that at least?”
Her gaze dropped. Straight to the floor between us. The answer lived there even if she didn’t give it voice.
The stairwell light flickered once and steadied.
I opened my mouth to speak, but her phone went off in her pocket. A sharp interruption. She pulled it free and glanced at the screen.
