“Is there a reason you didn’t text?”
“I kinda left the rink key too…”
He pulls the bloody towel from his nose. “How’s it looking?”
I blink, shocked at his coolness, and honestly… a bit disappointed. I lean down to get a closer look. “Uh, I think the bleeding has stopped? Hang on.” I put on the disposable gloves provided in the first aid kit and rip open an alcohol wipe. “Tell me if this hurts.”
The cold wipe makes him wince, but he doesn’t stir otherwise. I clean him up the best I can with the tiny wipe but he is still not pretty to look at.
He says in a low voice. “Am I all set, nurse?”
Who am I kidding? Even with his white fur stained with blood, he’s looking pretty.
I ball the wipe in my fist and pull the gloves off. “Maybe you should see a real nurse.”
He stands up and tugs at the hem of his jacket. The blood stain is obvious even on black fabric.
“I’ve got a spare in my office, come on.” Technically he’s not forcing me to follow but he doesn’t give me much time to say no, walking briskly back to his office. Once we’re outof earshot of the rink he adds, “You can grab the key while we’re up there.”
“Christos—”
“Wait.”
The rest of the walk back to his office is silent. Once he shuts the door to his office, the walls come down.
“I didn’t give you the rink key as some romantic gesture.” Fingers still bloody, he picks up the note, the loose key clattering to the desk. He gestures at it with the note. “Take it.”
I’m standing on the other side of the desk, flash-frozen as I watch him read the note. His eyes drag across the page, getting heavier and heavier with each new line. Only when he’s finished do I grab the key from the desk and bolt.
I’m halfway to the door when he asks, “Why didn’t you text?”
It takes a second for me to figure out he’s not talking about the note. Not that that clarity offers any answers.
“You could have texted me—I would have responded. Just like how you could have told me you didn’t like our rules and I would have listened! You have to tell me these things Christos.”
His shoulders slump. “I meant to text you after the game,” he says, deflated. “Tell you not to come over because I wasn’t in the mood. I’m sorry.”
I’m not sure I deserve an apology.
“You had every right to be upset. Upset with me, with the world…” I bite my lip, not sure if I push back. Ask him the thing I’d wished I’d asked him when we were fighting. “But why didn’t you tell me you hated the rules?”
He huffs, lifts his hand to fiddle with his hair but thinks better of it once he remembers the blood. Wiping his hand on his shirt he explains, “I thought they were the only way for us to be together. Like an ultimatum.”
“I didn’t mean for it to come off that way.” But I can’t blame him for thinking that. I barged into his place, I kissed him, I laid down the rules. “I thought that would protect us.”
His face sours, and I can tell he’s been holding onto this since our fight. “Us or you?”
“Me,” I admit. “I wanted you to like me. Me. Not the figure skating champion or the Olympian… You were so interested in my wins, and I needed to know you liked me without them.”
His brows furrow. “I liked you before I knew about that stuff.”
“But you liked memoreonce you knew.”
He places a bloody fist on his desk. It’s like he just now notices the mess, grabbing some cleaning wipes meant for furniture and wiping off his hands. The silence is tense, but I think we’re better for it.
Nonchalantly, he mentions, “I finished To Frost the Thaw.”
I breathe, “Really?”
