I must have said that last part out loud as I’m being lowered onto Nate’s bed, the rain and mud seeping into the white bedding.
“I’m just gonna–” Taylor starts, but Hart dismisses him with a wave of his hand. There’s the soft rustling of a bag, and then a chocolate bar is pressed into my palm.
“Not hungry,” I tell him, although I keep holding on to it. It gives my fingers a purpose, something to prevent them from shaking.
Hart doesn’t answer. Instead, he kneels in front of me, his fingers probing and prodding at my right knee.
“Does this hurt?” he asks as he gently rotates my leg left to right, just like the doctors did countless times.
I quietly stare down at his hands. I never noticed how long and delicate his fingers are, something you would expect of an artist rather than a hockey player.
“It’s okay,” I answer belatedly. The chaos in my head has quieted down, my nerves calming slowly as he bends my knee, then stretches it again without any pain. He brushes over my kneecap, and I jump on reflex when the discomfort returns.
Hart halts in his movements, frowning.
“It’s probably just bruised?” I ask while looking at Hart. It was meant as a statement, but I need someone else to confirm this for me.
“I guess. But if you’re in serious pain, you should go see the doc.” Hart is visibly unsettled by my reaction, and I can’t even fault him. A year ago, I wouldn’t have blinked at a bruised knee, let alone have it stop me from going onto the ice.
But there’s a constant fear living inside my chest now. I’m not the player I was a year ago—and I’m certainly not my brother, with two healthy knee joints and untouched ligaments. Returning after one rupture is difficult, but two in one year would put a death sentence to all my dreams.
Ourdreams, I remind myself as I fist the thin material of Nate’s sheets. It’s not just about me. We have wanted to do this, play in the NHL together, for as long as I can remember. And Iwas supposed to make this happen for him with this weekend’s game!
I grit my teeth. “No doctor. I need to be on the ice tomorrow.”
“Don’t be stupid, Nate. If you’re hurt you need to get it checked out. We can manage a game without you,” Hart argues.
For the first time all week, I’m curious if my brother told him about the scouts coming to see him play. Not that he needs to worry about such things—he got drafted five picks after me. Unlike my brother, we are both likely to be contracted by our team right after graduation.
Or at least Hart is.
Nate, however, still has to fight to keep the Pioneers’ attention. Tomorrow’s game is important to him, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me to do this.
I take a deep breath, then carefully bend and stretch my knee again.
“No doctor. I’m playing.”
“Why are you so damn stubborn lately?” Hart curses as I watch his fingers card through the black strands of his hair in exasperation. “I’m not saying you can’t play. Just…let me look at it.”
Before I can react in any way, he starts to push my pant leg up my shin, exposing my skin. My hands reach out to wrap around his wrists, stopping him just in time.
An inch further and he would have uncovered my scars.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” I hiss.
Hart blinks at me like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights, his blue eyes widened in surprise. A heartbeat passes without either of us moving, my fingers still clamped around his wrists like human shackles, then he leans back.
“Fine,” he snaps, shaking my hold off as he climbs up from his position on the floor.
A moment later, the door slams shut.
Xander, October 21st
The hotel we arrive at after a three-hour bus ride is at a weird level between dump and cheapest-available-family-friendly option. Not that we see a lot of it anyhow, just enough to arrive, store our gear and have lunch. Then it’s onward to the rink to get used to the ice. It’s only when we come back to kill some time before the game that I’m confronted with being unable to avoid Nate any longer.
After he snapped at me when I tried to have a look at his knee, I spent the rest of yesterday hiding away in my classes, the library and the gym. I made sure to come back late so he could pretend to be asleep. Even on the bus I sat at the front, my nose buried in one of my textbooks rather than chatting with my teammates. But of course, no one else got the memo that we’ve had a spat. We always room together, so naturally our coaches put us in one room this time as well.
I take a deep breath and stride in, grabbing my bag. Time to be an adult about this, I guess.
