I test my weight on it subtly.There's a dull ache that wasn't there before, but nothing I can't handle.“It's good.Tape's holding.”
Coach doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go.“We've got Southern Collegiate tomorrow night.Home game.They're third in the conference, and they're going to come at us hard.”He pauses, watching me carefully.“Can you play?”
The question hangs between us.I should probably say no.Should probably admit that my thigh is already starting to hurt and Mark's tape job—good as it is—doesn't feel as supportive as Ally's.Should probably take the night off and let my body actually heal, but if I say no, Coach is going to ask why, and then he's going to pull up my treatment records and see that I just got switched to a new therapist.
He'll want to know why, and I don't have a good answer for that.At least, not one that doesn't involve the words “face” and “riding” in the same sentence.
“I can play,” I say firmly.
Coach holds my gaze for another beat, then nods.“Fine.But if that leg starts acting up—and I mean at all—you come off.No arguments.We need you healthy for playoffs more than we need you for one regular season game.”
“Understood.”
“Good.Now get back out there and stop trying to murder Bridges.”I push off the bench and glide back onto the ice, where Cade is waiting with a puck by his stick and a curious expression.
“So,” he says as I coast up beside him.“Hart finally broke you, huh?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Please.You're skating like a man possessed, and you nearly decapitated Dash with that shot.Something's up.”He grins.“Let me guess, she turned you down?”
If only it were that simple.“She transferred me to Mark.”
“Shit, man.”He glances toward the training room doors like Ally might materialize.“I get it.Must be hard to move from the hottie with the warm hands to Mark.”He winces underneath his helmet.“He's a good guy, but those hands are rough.”
I flick the puck off his stick, sending it across the ice.“You done?”I ask.
“No,” he snorts.“And I won't be until you tell me what you did to make her run.”
“Nothing.”
“Sure,” he drawls out.“That's why you're acting like this is an actual game with something on the line.”
I grumble in response.
“Here’s my advice, unsolicited and free,” he says.“Stop skating like you’re trying to punish the ice.You blow that leg, Coach benches you, and then Mark gets to see your ugly crying face every day.”
I scoff.“I don’t cry.”
“You absolutely do.You just call it ‘sweating aggressively,' and expect the rest of us to go along with it.”
Asshole.
Coach's whistle blows.“Cross!Bright!Stop gossiping like teenagers and get in position!”
We separate, moving into formation for the next drill, but the pain is building now, and by the time practice ends, my thigh is seizing up.
I feel it, but I bite my tongue before I let anyone see it.I want to play tomorrow.
Ineedto—to get my frustration out, and get my mind off her.
I take my time and wait until everyone else has left before I even attempt to move through the locker room.As I peel off my gear, my thigh is actively screaming.I move carefully, deliberately, each step a reminder that Ally Hart isn't just good at her job.She's irreplaceable, and I just lost her.
There's something deeply pathetic about buying ice cream at 2 P.M.on a Tuesday.
I know this because I'm currently walking across campus with a grocery bag containing a pint of cookie dough, a pint of mint chip, and what's left of my dignity—which, for the record, isn't much.
It's been five days since I rode Jay Cross's face in the training room and then fled like the building was on fire.
