I puff out a breath. “I don’t have?—”
“Shh.” Kennedy give me a single razor-sharp glance. “The adults are talking.”
Cole barks out a laugh while I choke out an “Excuse me?”
“Only a child would continue to play after an injury that could be made worse by—you guessed it—continuing to play. Unless he had a concussion and wasn’t in his right mind.” She turns back to Fallon without missing a beat. “So? Concussion?”
“No concussion.” The trainer tilts her head to the side. “The puck hit his thigh.”
“Okay, just confirming.” Kennedy’s frown slowly transforms into a sardonic smile. “I figured it was his natural idiocy that made him think it was a good idea to play the third period, but I wanted to at least give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Hey—” I protest.
“How bad is the leg?” she asks, still not looking at me.
“Deep tissue contusion on his inner thigh. He’ll be black and blue for a bit.”
“And he played an entire period on this?”
“Over a period, actually.”
Kennedy’s jaw tightens. “Of course he did.”
“To be fair,” Fallon adds, though her tone suggests she’s not actually interested in being fair, “most goalies would have done the same thing. They’re a rare breed. It comes with the position.”
“That’s not an excuse,” my adorably angry girlfriend grouses.
Then, finally, she turns to look at me. Concern and anger war in her eyes, and I can’t tell which one is winning. She crosses her arms again, the movement snagging my attention.
Shit. Her hands are shaking. It’s almost imperceptible, but the fear is there.
Guilt twists in my gut, competing with the throbbing in my thigh. “Kennedy?—”
“Nope. You don’t get to talk yet.” She looks back at Fallon. “What does he need?”
Fallon rattles off the care instructions again, and she nods along. When she’s gotten them all, she finally—finally—turns her full attention to me.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
She lowers her chin, her brows lifted. “Without limping?”
I hesitate before answering. It’s a terrible mistake, because before I can force myself to downplay the pain again, she looks at Cole, who’s watching the scene unfold like he’s taking notes for Logan. “Can you help him to the car?”
“Wait, what?” I straighten, and my thigh screams in protest. I suck in a sharp breath and hope my voice sounds normal when I say, “I can walk.”
It doesn’t.
She ignores me. “Cole?”
“On it.” He grins at me. “Don’t fight it, man. You’ve already lost.”
“I haven’t lost?—”
“Cameron.” Kennedy steps closer, her voice sweet, but her eyes steel. “Please shut the fuck up. You’re going to let Cole help you to the car, you’re going to take your medication, and then you’re going to let me take care of you. Understood?”
The fight drains out of me, my whole body sagging. “Understood,” I mutter.
