I see it happening in slow motion. The recognition spreading across faces. The way their eyes track from my face to my hair to the helmet lying on the ice like evidence.
I reach up, instinct, trying to tuck the hair back in, to hide it, to undo what’s already done. But it’s too late. It’s far, far too late.
The sound comes next.
Not cheering. Not booing. Something in between. A wave of noise that rolls through the stands, confusion and shock and the sharp inhale of three thousand people realizing exactly what they’re seeing.
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking.
The helmet is lying on the ice ten feet away, the strap dangling loose.
And then I hear his voice.
“LEE!”
Zane is already moving, skating between me and the crowd, his body trying to block the view. His hand finds my arm,steady, grounding.
“Get your helmet,” he says, low and urgent. “Now.”
I move without thinking. Skate to the helmet, scoop it up, shove it back on. The strap is broken, it won’t fasten, but I don’t care. I just need it on. I just need to hide.
The whistle blows.
The ref is skating toward me, arm raised, face unreadable. I see him say something into his headset, see the other officials converging near the bench.
On the bench, Coach Calloway is frozen. His face is white. His hand is gripping the boards.
I can’t read his expression. I don’t want to.
The ref reaches me. “Off the ice. Now.”
I don’t argue. I can’t. Blood is roaring in my ears as I skate toward the bench.
The crowd noise is louder now. Some of it is ugly.
Zane is beside me again. I don’t know when he got there. He’s saying something - I can see his mouth moving - but I can’t hear the words. Just the sound of my own breathing, too fast, too shallow.
The bench opens. I step over the boards.
Coach Calloway is there. He’s looking at me, and I see it now - the shock, yes, but something else too. Something that looks almost like understanding.
“Get her to the locker room,” he says to someone. Tara. Tara is there, her hand on my arm.
I let her pull me away. I let her lead me down the tunnel, away from the lights, away from the noise.
Behind me, I hear the whistle again. The game is starting back up.
Without me.
ZANE
I watch her go.
The tunnel swallows her and I’m still standing at the bench.
“Blake!” Russo’s voice cuts through the noise. “Get your head in the game.”
I turn. The Wolves player who hit Shaw is in the box. Kozlov. He’s sitting there staring at nothing, like he can’t quite believe what just happened.
