“Maybe we should try it slowly at first. We want to get the move down before we increase the speed.”
“Sure, slow, okay,” he replies, sending the puck back to me as he retakes his position.
I fire off the puck again, and this time he goes at half speed, reaches the corner of the net, and then guides the puck around it. But he’s too wide, and when he tries to pass the puck to me, it doesn’t have the right angle and skims across the ice in the wrong direction.
“Maybe without the puck for now too,” I suggest with a shrug.
“How about without a net?” he replies.
“If we take away the net, how will you know . . .”
He shakes his head, laughing.
“Oh, you were joking.”
“You’re quick, rook, but I’m quicker,” he says, scooping the puck from in front of me and taking off toward the net again. I rush after him, and hold my breath as he gets so close to the net he almost brushes against it. His legs push out, his whole body angling toward the net as he skims around the back, and then when his hands have rounded the other side, he sends the puck forward toward me.
I’m excited for all of one split second, and then Reid loses his balance as he tries to get himself upright again and falls face first onto the ice. Fuck.
“Reid,” I yell, crouching to check him. He lifts his head, and blood coats the smooth white surface and gushes from his busted nose.
“Well fuck,” he says, pushing up and knocking me onto my ass in the process. “I broke my fucking nose.”
“Shit, umm, I’ll grab the first aid kit. You get to the bench,” I say, and I’m off the ice then back with Reid so fast I actually don’t even remember grabbing the bag.
“How bad is it?” Reid asks, moving his forearm away. His nose is split along the bridge, and blood is running down both cheeks. He almost looks like one of the vampires from that show where they cry blood. His eyes are sunken, and dark circles have already started to appear.
“Umm, better than Boston last year,” I reply, trying to give him a reference.
“So, New York the year before?”
“No, more like the bust-up against Washington.”
“That was pretty fucked,” he replies as I hold gauze over the wound to stop the bleeding. “I should probably go see the medic.”
“I’ll clean up the ice,” I say, but Reid shakes his head.
“Nope, rook, you come with me. I’m going to be walking with my eyes practically blindfolded by all this gauze, so it looks like you get to prove I can trust you now.”
“What about the blood?”
“Topher will call the maintenance crew to get it. It’s basically a biohazard, so it has to be cleaned up by professionals.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“Positive. Plus, my head’s starting to get a little woozy, so maybe you can, you know, hold my arm, if that’s . . . okay?”
“Sure, yes. Whatever you need. Fuck. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you to try it.”
“It’s my own bloody fault for not wearing a helmet.”
I link my arm with Reid’s, and we start the slow walk inside. The medical team is here first before anyone else, which is how I’m able to get my early practices. You can’t even set foot out on the ice unless there’s a trained medical person on site. I always pass Topher in the morning on my way through. He’s usually sitting with his giant purple smoothie, reading his paper—an actual paper, like the printed kind. He says he likes the way the ink feels against his fingers or some shit. I scroll through the top stories on my social feeds in the morning over breakfast too, but my fingers don’t look like I’ve spent the night trying to raise the dead afterward.
“Holy shit, what the hell happened to you?” Topher asks as soon as we’re through the door. He’s up from his chair in a second and pulls a pair of gloves from a box on the wall.
“He fell,” I say, and Topher frowns, scrunching up his mouth in disbelief. “I’m being serious.”
“He’s twelling weh twooth,” Reid mumbles through the bloodied gauze still against his face as he sits on the side of one of the beds.
