The ball snaps from hand to hand until it lands in mine, and I angle myself into their largest player. I may not be as fast as Kaia or as sneaky as Sunday, but my strength is my asset. I dig my cleats in and drive forward, my hand screaming and my thighs shaking as I overpower the girl trying to slow my path. Two more join her, hands and hair being slammed around as they team up on me. Cosy slams into my hips, doubling our drive and pushing me forward another few feet before my toe slips and the huddle crashes into the ground.
I push the ball out, protecting myself the best I can beneath the pile of bodies, and I feel it slip from my fingers. It’s another ten seconds before I can confirm that Kaia has it and we’ve scored. Every Hillcat glances at the clock. One minute left.
It’s enough.
I can hear them all say it as we scramble to find our composure.
Cosy claps her hands together loudly, signalling the ball release, and we take off. I keep my hand at my side as I try to focus on the field. Sunday cuts left, and Kaia follows as the ball slides into the winger's hands. Cosy chops a her down with a hard hit, and the two of them go down in a huddle, knocking the ball loose and ripe for Sunday.
She pops it out to Margie, wide right with a fat gap. Her eyes narrow on the goal posts, and I do my best to slow the chasers on her tail, pushing myself faster than I’ve played all day to throw my body at her as she gets held up at the line.
“I’m here,” I call, driving at her hips until she’s over and can curl into herself, aiming the ball for the ground. The whistle blows, and the ref is screaming as the clock winds down. The ball is clear, and we’re only down the conversion. Margie kicks the ball out as fast as she can, sets it up, and it slips through the uprights perfectly.
I grab Kaia by the waist as we celebrate, trying to ignore the screaming pain at the base of my fingers as everyone cheers and high-fives.
Fuck.
An hour later, after a shower and a quiet cry, I leave my duffle in the Bronco, pull out my Hollow T-shirt, and wander through the back of the bar in search of a bucket to fill with ice before my shift. It’s already starting to get busy as I shove the shirt into the pocket of my jeans and slip past Boone with my hand tucked out of sight. Brighton is talking to a couple in a booth across the room, and everyone else who might tattle is busy.I just need ten minutes with it on ice, then I can work and sleep.
I grab a bucket from under the bar and start to fill it with ice to the brim, tempted to stick my throbbing hand in it right there and then.
“What are you doing?” Brighton is too big to move that quietly.
“Getting ice.” I turn to him with a fake smile, and his calm eyes rake over me like they always do after games, searching for damage. He used to only do it to Sunday, but lately it’s become a new habit that makes my ears hot and my chest tight.
“For what?” His head cocks to the side as he crosses his arms, his biceps straining distractingly against the black fabric.
“One of the kitchen girls asked for it…” The words come out choppy, and I try to hide my confusion, but Brighton sighs.
“There’s ice in the kitchen.”
“Shit, there is?” I look over my shoulder at the kitchen and curse myself for not looking in there first when Brighton catches my wrist, and I hiss in pain.
“What did you do?” His fingers are tight on my wrist, but gentle at the same time. I gaze down between us at my swollen knuckles and the torn skin on my hand.Hiding it from coach was probably idiotic but I've been in too much trouble lately and figured I can sleep it off before practice tomorrow.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” I say, and his grip tightens. “Got stepped on in the game today, it’s just swollen—” Before I can finish the sentence, he slips his hand forward and presses his palm against mine, forcing my swollen fingers straight. I punch him in the chest with my good hand, and he grunts, baring his teeth from the contact, but he shakes his head. “That fucking hurts,” my voice quivers, the pain vibrating up and out of my throat as I pull my hand back from his.
“You’re going to the hospital.” He turns from me and grabs the bucket of ice, only to dump it out in the sink.
“It’s minor, Brighton. They’re just gonna send me home with some ibuprofen.” I shake my head.
“And that’s their call, not yours,” he says, moving toward the exit of the bar.
“I have a shift,” I argue, and he rolls his eyes at me, stepping back into my space with two long strides.
“You’re not working. They’re dislocated, Rhea.” He lowers his tone, and the use of my actual name and not the usual annoyed Hellcat makes me shiver.
“So relocate them.” I scrunch my face up at him, and he just shakes his head. “Should be easy, you've probably done it lots in the field, right?”
“That’ll hurt, it’s dangerous...” He palms my hand again, and I try to hide how much it hurts right now.Please stop doing that, I think as his thumb draws a lazy circle over the inside of my wrist. “And I’m not a doctor.”
“It’ll hurt either way,” I argue and he drops his head with his eyes closed, more arguments forming on his angry pout. “I’d rather it hurt with you.” It rolls off my tongue brazenly but at least it's the truth.
Brighton steps forward again, staring at my hand as he gently inspects which fingers are the worst.I can tell you, it's the ring finger and the middle finger. They feel like they’re trying to claw their way off my wrist.He looks up at me and his jaw ticks, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Did you know you’ve got freckles like the Little Dipper right here?” he asks me out of nowhere, and my brows furrow. “Right here, it’s the cutest thing on your stubborn face.” He nods to the left side. I open my mouth to question him, but a sharp, snapping pain radiates up into my elbow, and it takes everything in me not to cry out in pain. “Hospital. Now.” His hand closes around my elbow as agony shoots through my hand—he’s put them back. “Please.” It comes out rough, and the softness of the demand catches me off guard enough to nod.
“You know that was rude,” I say as he lets go. “Lying to distract me.”
