I scoffed, shaking my head. “I can handle my coach, thanks. Don’t need any favors.”
That shut her up, but after about thirty seconds, I realized the quiet was way worse.
“I learned to skate on this pond.”
She followed my gaze out there, looking like she was trying to picture it.
My shoulder ached against the static angle, and I dropped my arms to my side. “Seven years old, but I knew that hockey was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.”
When the silence that followed started feeling suspicious, I took my eyes off the pond to look at her. The person who usually couldn’t shut the hell up around me. Her expression was soft, thoughtful. As if she’d gotten lost in her head while I was talking.
“You okay?”
That broke the spell, and she dropped her eyes. “Yeah, I just… I know what you mean, that’s all.”
“You always knew you wanted to be surrounded by sweat, cold spray, and hockey gear that smelled like wet dog?”
“Something like that.” She laughed, but sadness played along the edges of it.
I didn’t know why that stuck out to me, but I wasn’t about to go poking around things that didn’t concern me at all. “Is he really benching me?”
“Are you hoping he does?” she shot back, eyes on mine in a kind of dare.
I was first to flinch and look away.
“Look, if you let me, I can help you stay on the ice,” she said. “Or you can keep doing whatever this is, and work yourself out of the team. Your choice.”
“I keep telling you, there’s noth—”
“And I’m telling you…” She placed a hand on my shoulder, and I instantly caved under it, pulling away. The look she gave drove straight through me. “Your choice isn’t that hard. One way puts you out of the game, the other has you doing what you’ve wanted since you were seven.”
Then she got up, dusted specks of dirt and grass from her ass, and left me alone. She didn’t wait for an answer, because she already knew what it would be.
*
“This place always freaked me out.” I inhaled deeply, the distinct smell of menthol and stuffy boxes of first aid supplies creeping up on me.
Reese finished washing her hands in the tiny sink on the back wall and patted them dry on a paper towel. She wore her usual team polo, but today had it paired with black leggings, which, in my opinion, were totally unnecessary. Especially when she was bending over the supply drawers to grab stuff.
She turned back to me with a smirk. “Would it freak you out more if I ask you to remove your shirt? Because I’m about to ask you to remove your shirt.”
“You’re shameless,” I said, playing shy.
“You’re stalling,” she deadpanned.
I rolled my eyes and got to it. A few months ago, I would’ve ripped off my shirt with one hand in under a second flat. I sat in front of her now, the exam bed creaking beneath my weight as I shifted through a series of careful moves that didn’t rely on my right shoulder’s full rotation. My shirt slipped over my head, and I caught her looking at me with eyebrows raised.
“Are you kidding me?”
I winked at her. “I get that a lot. Would you believe me if I told you I never work out?”
But my winning brand of humor wasn’t gonna derail this one. Her mouth set in a stern line, and she stuck her arm out in front of me.
“Give me your hand.”
I reached over with my left and interlaced my fingers through hers, deliberately ‘misunderstanding’ the instruction. She glaredat me, but only once I batted my lashes like a bashful virgin did she swat my hand away.
“Stop messing around.”
