I don’t know anything.
22
LEONORA
“Don’t move.” Tara’s voice, right beside me. “Leo. Don’t move.”
I blink up at her. I’m in the little physio room I got ready in, lying on the training table.
Her face is calm, but her eyes are full of worry.
“You’re bleeding. Her hands press into the area under my collarbone firmly. You’re ok, don’t panic. But we need to get your gear off so I can treat it.”
I nod - or try to. The movement sends a sharp spike of pain through my collarbone. I gasp.
“Easy. Slow.”
Her hands don’t stop working. She’s already reaching for the straps on my shoulder pads, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. The Velcro rips loud in the quiet room.
“Can you lift your arm? Just a little.”
I try. It hurts. Everything hurts.
“I know,” she murmurs. “I know. Almost there.”
She slides the shoulder pad off my left side carefully,then my right. The blood-soaked jersey comes next - she has to cut it away from the slice on my skin, the scissors cold against my skin.
I shiver.
“Sorry. Almost done.”
The padding falls away, then the jersey. Until I’m lying on the table in just my sports bra, the air cold against my bare skin, the wound under my collarbone exposed and stinging.
Tara leans closer, studying the wound with focused attention.
“Good,” she says quietly. “Good.”
“That’s… good?”
She glances up, and there’s something like relief in her eyes. “It’s superficial. Broken skin but it’s clean. Nothing major.”
I exhale. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath.
She reaches for her kit, pulling out a small bottle. Dermabond - medical glue.
“I can glue it,” she says, holding it up so I can see. “You’ll have a hell of a scar - right here, see?” She traces a line just under my collarbone. “But you’ll be back on the ice for tomorrow’s games if you want.”
I wince. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve done this a hundred times.” She tilts the bottle, checking it. “This stuff works faster than stitches and you won’t feel it once it sets. Just don’t touch it for the next hour. Don’t even look at it wrong.”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat - something between relief and hysteria.
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow it’ll be sore. But you’ll play.” She meets my eyes. “If you want to.”
If I want to.
