I tell myself it’s because I’m concerned. Because she fell. Because she might be hurt.
But I saw her stand up. I saw her laugh. I saw her leave the ice under her own power. She’s fine.
So why am I still thinking about her?
Chapter 3
Gwen
By the time I get off the ice, my entire body feels like it has been personally insulted by physics. The universe has made this something personal.
My knee throbs in that dull, blooming way that suggests I’ll wake up tomorrow and briefly forget I’m not made of rubber. My hip feels like it’s already drafting a complaint letter. And my pride well. My pride is a collapsed soufflé on the floor of a public kitchen.
Which is to say: it’s fine. Everything is fine.
The stands are still loud, but the noise is receding now, turning into a distant roar rather than an immediate threat. People mill around with hot drinks and rosy cheeks, waving at players, taking photos near the Grizzlies banner like this is the kind of night you put in a scrapbook.
I consider leaving. Right now. Immediately. Before anyone can approach me with the words “You were so brave,” which is a socially acceptable way of saying, “I watched you fall and lived to tell the tale.”
But Tess has my elbow. Not gripping, not dragging. It’s just there steady, like she’s an anchor disguised as a five-foot-nothing woman in a hoodie.
“You ok?” she asks again, quietly, like she already knows the answer but wants to give me the dignity of deciding how honest I want to be.
I open my mouth.
What comes out is, “If anyone needs tips on how to meet the ice up close and personal, I’m basically a consultant now.”
Tess’s eyes narrow. That look means she’s about to do that thing where she doesn’t let me joke my way out of my own feelings. Tess is very supportive. Tess is also allergic to avoidance. Owning a bakery for a decade will do that to a person.
“Gwen,” she says, voice gentle but firm. “Are you ok?”
I blink at her.
My brain scrambles for something clever. Something deflective. Something that keeps the moment light and breezy, like I am a woman who did not fall in front of half of Chicago only minutes ago, only to be pulled to her feet by a Grizzlies player with kind eyes and a hand that felt like the opposite of panic.
“I’m good,” I say, and the lie comes out smooth. Practiced. A little unsettling.
Tess holds my gaze.
“Mm,” she hums.
That’s it. Just mm. A single syllable that contains an entire dissertation on emotional repression.
Behind us, Leo appears like a summoned demon.
Leo’s grin widens. “I’m proud of you.”
The sincerity underneath it hits me like a small, unexpected shove.
I pause. My throat tightens for half a second, which is unacceptable, so I immediately say, “Don’t get emotional. You’ll ruin your brand.”
Leo laughs. Tess rolls her eyes. And just like that, the moment relaxes.
See? Humor works. Humor keeps everything from getting too close.
We move toward the seating area because Tess is still lightly guiding me, and Leo is still hovering like a meddling guardian angel who cannot be trusted. People keep passing, tossing glances at me like they recognize me not as me, but as The Girl Who Fell.
A woman in a puffy coat smiles brightly as she walks by. “You were so cute out there! I love your dress!”
