“I requested expedited review.”
“You leaned on someone?” How was this man even real?
“I communicated urgency,” he corrected.
I almost smiled. He had absolutely leaned. And I wasn’t mad about it.
A minor tear sounded manageable, but six to eight weeks without contact meant no blocking. No bouts. No adrenaline-soaked Saturday nights under rink lights with my girls screaming my derby name. It meant sitting and watching. How on earth was I supposed to deal with my life when my outlet was gone?
I swallowed. “Can we swing by the rink?” I asked.
He glanced at me. “You require rest. You were instructed to avoid strain.”
“I’m not skating,” I said. “But it’s our scheduled practice. I just need to tell them.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “You can call them,” he said.
“That’s not the same. They’re my people. I just . . . I need to see them.” The words slipped out before I could overthink them. “I need to show up, even if I’m on crutches.”
He studied me like that meant something.
“Okay, but we won’t stay long. You’ve had a long day.”
Relief bloomed in my chest.
“Deal.”
He didn’t argue again. He just nodded once and gestured toward the console.
“Put in the address.”
We pulled into the rink parking lot twenty minutes later. The Grimm Reapers logo loomed over the entrance like it always did, with chipped paint and flickering lights, feeling slightly chaotic. It was home.
The Renault car did not belong in the Roll-O-Rama parking lot. It gleamed in the late afternoon light, sleek and polished and entirely out of place among dented SUVs, bumper-stickered sedans, and Sonia’s perpetually questionable pickup truck. Raphael parked closer than I usually would. Of course he did. He got out before I could reach for the handle.
“I can manage,” I said automatically.
“I am aware.”
Which meant he was still going to help. He moved around to my side, opened the door, and offered his hand without looking at me. Not forcing. Just . . . there. I took it. Because the truth was, my knee throbbed like hell. He helped me pivot out of the seat and settle onto the crutches. He closed the door and locked the car.
“You’re coming in?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I blinked. “This is derby practice.”
“Yes.”
“There will be glitter and loud, brash women.”
“What if I enjoy both of those things?"
I laughed despite myself. I adjusted the crutches and looked at the rink doors. Six to eight weeks out. I squared my shoulders.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go tell my people I’m benched.”
He fell into step beside me. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside. And for the first time since the MRI, the ache in my chest felt steadier than the ache in my knee.
