“Probably.”
“That’s not encouraging.”
“Best I can offer.”
She holds out her hand.
I take it.
Chapter 3
Maya
His hand is largerthan mine, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, and currently trembling slightly from either pain or adrenaline or both. I pull, he pushes, and somehow we get him vertical.
He sways immediately.
“Whoa, okay.” I steady him, my hands on his arms, and I can feel the tremors running through his body. “Maybe sitting was better.”
“Can’t stay on the ice.” His words are slightly slurred. Definitely hit his head. “Need to… need to clean up the blood.”
He’s staring at the small puddle of red on the pristine ice with an expression I recognize. Guilt. Shame. The desperate need to erase evidence of weakness.
“The blood can wait,” I say firmly. “You need medical attention.”
“No doctors. No health services. No official record.” He’s swaying worse now, and I realize he’s probably got a concussion on top of whatever’s wrong with his shoulder.
“That’s the concussion talking.”
“No, that’s the…” He trails off, blinking slowly. “What was I saying?”
“That you’re making terrible decisions. Come on. We’re getting off this ice before you pass out and I have to drag your unconscious body to safety.”
I shouldn’t be doing this. Should call campus security, let professionals handle this, go back to my dorm and pretend I never saw blood on ice.
But something about the way he’s looking at me, like he knows, like he sees the same brokenness in me that I see in him makes it impossible to walk away.
I guide him off the ice, one careful step at a time. He’s taller than I thought, broader, and leaning on me more than either of us wants to admit. We make it to the bench where he apparently left his shoes.
“Sit,” I command. “Let me look at your head.”
He sits, and I gently probe the cut on his forehead. It’s not deep, but head wounds bleed disproportionately. The blood is already clotting.
“You’re going to have a nice bruise,” I say, “but I don’t think you need stitches.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve had practice.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He looks up at me, those eyes, gray-blue in the fluorescent lighting seeing too much. “Practice?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull out my phone. “I’m calling someone. Don’t argue.”
“Who?”
“My brother. He’ll know what to do.”
“Your brother plays hockey?”
