Two weeks after the incident,and I feel like I could fight a bear. Even with the coach thinking that all I’d suffered was a sprain, I’d still been forced to sit out for the games against Vegas and Toronto. He assures me I’ll be able to play in the game against New York next week if I’mfeeling better—something I’ve already assured him I am—but given that the team doctor hasn’t cleared me for play yet, thinking that it’s just a sprain, I haven’t really had a choice but to play along. Even if it makes me feel like I’m coming out of my skin.
I’ve been walking around the Back Bay area for the last hour or so; there’s a small rink on this side of the city where I can usually get some skating in without being recognized—as long as I wear a hood and a face mask—and I need the time on the ice today more than ever.
My arm isn’t really sore anymore, but there’s a tightness to it that, if I’m being honest, has been there for months. Like the bones don’t want to work like they should. It’s fucking terrifying,because it means that the doctor has to be right about everything he said. And even with seeing the X-ray evidence, some part of me had been willing to convince myself that it was all a mistake—that if I ignored it, it would just go away.
If the stiffness above my wrist is any indication, it’s clear that I’m kidding myself.
I shuffle along the brick-laid sidewalk, adjusting the mask on my face as I pass by several little shops. There’s a bookstore just up ahead—I haven’t seen the inside of one of those since college—and just beyond that there’s a tiny little coffee shop with a wooden sign hanging outside. When someone exits the door as I near, I get a blast of fresh coffee beans, and with the dreary gray of the sky and my even drearier attitude, coffee seems like just the thing.
I pull open the door and step inside, tugging at my ball cap to make sure it covers my eyes. It’s not like I don’tlikethe attention I get when I’m recognized, but it just feels like a chore today. The line inside isn’t too long, and I settle at the back of it as I take in the place. Tiny tables, intimate lighting, chalkboard signs—it’s a typical coffee joint. But when my eyes land on the counter, I realize that couldn’t be less true.
Because sitting behind the counter is a very familiar face.
I knew she lived somewhere in the area, but it never occurred to me she might be working somewhere over here. I assumed that between her dad and Ian, there would be no reason for her to be. So it’s strange to see Abby Thompson in an apron and a green visor—looking her usual bored self as she gives someone their change.
A smile touches my lips behind my mask as I watch her. She looks like the picture of ennui, with her thin-lipped smile and her slightly glazed eyes—and I can’t say why it’s so endearing to me,how constantly grumpy she is. Sure, Ian can be a grump sometimes, but Abby really makes it her own.
I wait patiently for my turn, already planning the way I’m going to tease her about her visor, but just when she gets done with the customer in front of me, she says something to her coworker, stepping aside and moving around the counter to settle into one of the little tables in the corner.
Ah. On break then. Even better.
I get my order in as quickly as I can, carrying it over to the same table and dropping down into the seat opposite her as she gives me a confused look. I tug down my mask to grin at her, and the immediate roll of her eyes gives me the strangest urge to laugh.
“What are you doing here?”
I shrug, taking a sip from my cup. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Are you stalking me now?”
“Consider it a compliment,” I tease.
“I consider it a felony,” she grumbles.
I can’t help it then; I do laugh.
“I really was just in the neighborhood. Complete coincidence, I swear.” I look around the shop, taking it in again. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
She arches one delicate brow. “Why would you?”
“I just thought it might have come up in one of our many heart-to-hearts.”
“We could never have a heart-to-heart,” she scoffs. “You like the sound of your own voice too much.”
“It is a very nice voice,” I answer seriously.
She eyes me then, a little wrinkle forming at her brow. “How’s the arm?”
“Oh, it’s…” I bristle, feeling that increasingly familiar pangof fear reverberate through my chest. “It’s fine,” I say. “They were making a fuss over nothing.”
She levels me with a stare. “Oh, really.”
“Really, really.”
She shakes her head. “You’re impossible. You know I’m living with Ian right now, right? I know you begged them not to tell your coach how bad it is.”
“Wait, hold up. You’re living with Ian?”
“And Lila.”
