I think about the game - about the hits, the blood, the moment the stick caught me. But tomorrow there’s another game. Another chance to play.
“I want to.” I say.
Tara nods once. “Good. Now this might sting.”
She cleans the wound first - a cold antiseptic that burns worse than the original cut. I grip the edge of the table and stare at the ceiling, counting the tiles.
Twelve tiles across. Fifteen long.
The burn fades.
“Okay,” Tara says. “Here we go.”
The Dermabond is cold when she applies it, spreading across the wound in a thin layer. I feel it pulling and sealing, the skin drawing together beneath it.
“Hold still. Just a few more seconds.”
The room is quiet except for the hum of the lights and Tara’s steady breathing. Somewhere far away, I can hear the muffled roar of the crowd - the game must be over. We won. I think we won.
“Done.”
Tara leans back, examining her work. “Keep it dry tonight. Tomorrow before the game I’ll check it, maybe put a patch over it for extra protection.”
I look down.
The cut is sealed - a red line under my collarbone, angry but closed. It will scar - I’ll have a permanent mark from this night, this game.
“Thank you,” I say.
Tara meets my eyes. “You’re welcome.”
She reaches for a blanket, draping it over me - over my bareshoulders.
“Rest for a few minutes,” she says. “Then we’ll get you back to the hotel.”
She stands, turning toward the door.
And that’s when it opens.
23
LEONORA
I hear footsteps. Skates on concrete. Then the door opens.
Tara’s voice is shrill. “You can’t be in here.”
“Is he okay?”
Zane.
He’s standing in the doorway, still in full gear, helmet under his arm. His face is pale. His eyes are wild.
He’s looking at me. I sit up on the table and swing my legs round.
He’s looking at the blood on my jersey on the floor - it looks dramatic. His eyes find my wound. Then he’s looking at my face - my actual face, without the helmet - without anything to hide behind.
His eyes drop to my chest. To the sports bra. To the shape of my body that the gear usually hides.
