Between games Tara pulls me into the physio medical room again.
She peels the edge of the tape back just enough to inspect it.
The gauze is darker than it was this morning.
“It’s seeping,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t be playing another full game.”
I pull my jersey back down before she can say anything else.
“It’s fine.”
She gives me a look that clearly says she does not believe that.
“Leonora…”
“It’s holding.”
Barely. But holding.
She exhales slowly.
“Be as careful as you possibly can.”
“That’s not something I can control.”
“You can try.”
Then the whistle blows somewhere out in the arena and the noise swells again.
Game three.
No time to rest.
No time to think.
Just back onto the ice.
This game feels immediately harder.
Not in the dramatic way yesterday’s Wolves game did - no dirty hits or chaos along the boards - but in the slow grinding way games sometimes become when two tired teams refuse to give anything away.
The puck moves up and down the ice.
Opportunities appear and disappear before they can become anything real.
Every shift takes a little more effort than the last.
Fatigue creeps in slowly, settling into my legs and shoulders. The cut throbs harder when I turn too quickly.
But I keep playing. Partly because Tara hasn’t pulled me yet. Mostly because I know something else. My lie isn’t going to hold forever. Every shift here feels like borrowed time.
And if this is the last weekend I ever get to play like this - I’m not wasting it sitting on the bench.
Not now. Not when Zane is skating beside me.
