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Tears stream down her face in a way I haven’t seen since we were kids.
I take a step back, my heart lurching. “Isla…”
“Leave me alone.” Her voice rises an octave. “Never ever talk to me again. I hate you.”
She turns around and pulls the door open.
On instinct, I reach for her, catching nothing but air as she takes a step forward. Like she’s trying to put a wall between us, she tugs the door closed behind her in the hopes I won’t follow.
Except the heavy door slams on my hand before I can pull back.
The crack that follows sounds like a sound effect from a movie. It’s sharp and loud, and it echoes through the empty hallway. For a second, I don’t feel anything. Then, the pain hits, white-hot and pulsing, crawling up my arm like fire.
“Fuck.” I cradle my right hand with my left, clenching my jaw. “Fuck!”
She flies back through the door, eyes wide, mouth agape. “Oh my God! Michael…I didn’t see…”
“I know,” I grit through my teeth.
She was facing forward. She had no clue I was trying to stop her.
“Michael, I’m—”
“Just go,” I growl. “I’ll ice it. It’ll be fine.”
She clutches the strap of her bag, her knuckles going white. “But maybe you need—”
“I said go,” I snap. “Don’t bother pretending to care about me.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “I do care.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. Leave.” I turn around and stomp back to the locker room, still cradling my hand. “I have practice in a few minutes.”
“I care about you. What you said isn’t true. Not true!” she cries, her voice shaky. “Not true!”
Without looking back, I step into the locker room.
Her words, not true in that heartbroken tone, play over and over in my mind.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ice queen
MICHAEL
Sixteen years old
“Does it hurt?” Sienna asks, trailing her fingertips over my cast.
“It’s tolerable,” I grumble, pulling away.
After the whole ordeal with Isla, I put on my gear for practice but could barely hold my stick. Coach forced me to show him my hand and then called my dad. Dad was there twenty minutes later, and he took me to the hospital for X-rays. I fractured the fourth metacarpal. The doctor called it a clean break. That’s a fucking joke. As if it being clean would hurt less.
“How long do you have to wear a cast?”
“Six weeks. It could be another four weeks after that before I’m cleared to play again.” Six to ten weeks. No hockey. No practice. No scouts.
“Aww, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe Isla smashed your hand in the door like that. I never would’ve thought she could be so vile.”
