She laughs loudly, throwing her head back, and I feel myself grin and laugh along a little.
“Just focus on what I’m doing,” she says. “Or turn on the television.”
“Nope. I’m focused. I’m focused.” I round my shoulders and take a breath. She looks at me, amusement lighting her eyes as she shakes her head. I look at her hands again as she rolls on the bandages. “Did they teach you how to do this in medical school?”
“Can you believe they didn’t?”
“What the hell?” I ask. “And you’re a doctor?”
“Not yet.” She looks up at me. “I’m prepared for my residency program, where I’ll learn essential things.”
“What about drawing blood?”
“I can do that.”
“What about IVs?”
“I can also do that.” She glances up at me. “I’ve been wrapping my wrists and ankles since I was thirteen.”
“Oh? You were out in the field, fighting people?”
She laughs. “Sometimes, I fell and caught myself wrong or punchedthe pitcha little too hard after a loss, and my ankles. . .well, that’s obvious.”
“You punched ‘the pitch’ when you lost a game?” I hiss, jerking my hand away from her when she wipes a nasty cut I have on my left middle knuckle.
“No, we won the games.” She meets my eyes again and pulls my hand back. “It was usually when I missed a penalty kick.”
“You got mad enough to punch the field because you missed a penalty kick?”
“The pitch,” she says, sounding annoyed. I bite back a laugh. “And yes, penalty kicks are freaking easy. I shouldn’t have missed those.”
I stare at the top of her head for a moment, while she looks down and wraps new bandages around my left hand. I don’t care what she says, she’s meant to be on the field — pitch, whatever the fuck it’s called.
“You’re too competitive not to play,” I say.
“I’m not going to play, but if I did, if I decided to try out for the pro team,” she starts, “We’d never see each other.”
“Of course, we would.”
Her head snaps up and she stares at me. “You’re getting back on the ice before the next season starts.”
“Let’s say some miracle happens and I do get back on the ice,” I say. “I’d be done around the same time your season is starting.”
“How do you know?”
I cock my head. “Come on, Lyla James.”
“You’re insane.” She laughs as she starts picking up the bloody bandages and used tape. “What are you going to do, travel with me?”
“That’s exactly what we’d do. You’ll travel with me and I’ll travel with you.”
“Lach,” she says in a voice that asks me tobe realistic. I don’t like it.
“We’ll ‘put a pin on this,’” I say, smiling when she rolls her eyes.
“Fine.” She gets out of bed and walks to the bathroom. I stand up and follow her.
I cross my arms and lean against the door frame. “Have you spoken to your dad?”
