“Clark—”
“April—”
We both stop. It’s a painful anticipatory pause—themoment of decision between tearing off the bandage or peeling it back slowly. Either way, it’s going to be unpleasant.
“You first,” he says.
I take a steadying breath. “I want you to know that I don’t regret any of this. The campaign. Us. Whatever we were.”
“Whatever we were,” he repeats softly, but it almost sounds like he’s asking a question. “Me neither.”
“Even if it doesn’t?—”
His mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “Even then.”
We fall back into silence, but this time it’s heavier than one of the big rigs passing us by on the highway and follows us all the way to Kansas City.
After meeting with the dog sitter whom we arranged for the pack, I head to the arena. The game tonight is crucial. I sit with the WAGs who traveled for the away game. They seem to know something is wrong, but respect my silence. Jess squeezes my hand during the national anthem. Ella brings me overpriced arena nachos I can only bring myself to pick at. Whit just sits close, her presence a quiet comfort.
Clark is a mountain in the goal. He makes saves that seem impossible—glove saves, pad saves, an incredible stick save in the second period that has the entire arena on its feet.
But in the third period, everything goes wrong.
There’s a scramble in front of the net. Limbs and sticks flying. Clark goes down to block a shot, and suddenly, players are piling on top of him. The whistle blows. The crowd gasps.
Clark isn’t getting up.
My heart stops.
The trainers rush onto the ice. I’m on my feet without realizing it, pressing against the glass, trying to see through the cluster of players and medical staff.
“He’s okay,” Jess says beside me, but her voice is tight with worry. “He’s going to be okay.”
They help him to his feet slowly. He’s holding his head, looking dazed. The trainers guide him toward the tunnel, and right before he disappears, his eyes scan the stands.
Is he looking for me?
Our gazes lock for just a second, and I see fear, pain, and something else I can’t quite name.
Then he’s gone.
“I need to go,” I tell the girls. “I need?—”
“Go,” Margo says.
I run to Clark’s side.
26
APRIL
By the timeI navigate arena security and find the medical room, Clark is sitting on an examination table with an ice pack pressed to his temple. His equipment is half-off and he looks pale but alert.
His eyes widen when he sees me. “What are you—? You should be watching the game?—”
“Are you okay?” I’m across the room before I can stop myself, but pull back just before my hands touch his face to check for injuries or kiss him, I don’t know which. “What happened? Is it a concussion? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I’m fine. Just got my bell rung a little. Happens sometimes.”
