I take a hit to the eye. Another to the mouth. Blood—mine or his, I can’t tell—spatters across the ice.
The refs finally pull us apart. I’m breathing hard, my knuckles throbbing, adrenaline coursingthrough my veins. Kowalski is yelling something at me, but I can’t hear him over the ringing in my ears.
Five minutes for fighting. Penalty box.
I skate to the box and drop onto the bench, grabbing a towel to wipe away the blood and sweat from my skin. The arena is loud—cheers from our fans, boos from theirs, the usual chaos of a rivalry game.
And then, for some reason, I look up.
Into the stands. Into the crowd.
She’s here.
Winnie.
She’s sitting in the WAG section, in the same spot Tori usually claims. Her hair is down, falling around her shoulders in soft waves. Her face is pale and worried, her eyes fixed on me as if I’m the only person in the building.
She’s wearing a jersey.
My jersey.
Number 44. She’s here, wearing my name on her back as if she’s claiming me the same way I claimed her all those weeks ago.
Something cracks open in my chest.
The rest of the game is a blur.
We lose, 3-2. I play marginally better after my stint in the box, but it’s not enough. Nothing I do is enough tonight. When the final buzzer sounds, I skate off the ice with the weight of the loss on my shoulders and Winnie’s face burned into my mind.
I shower quickly. Dress even faster. I ignore the post-game debrief, the disappointed looks from my teammates, and the reporters hovering near the lockerroom exit. I need to find her. I need to see her. I need to—
She’s waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall, wearing my jersey.
I stop walking.
My whole chest does something I don’t have a name for.
She texted me. She came. She’s standing here looking at me with those blue eyes, and I can’t—I can’t read her expression yet, but she’shere.She’s here, and that has to mean something.
“Win.” My voice comes out rough, cracking over the single syllable. “I’m glad you came.”
She pushes off the wall. Not toward me, not yet, but toward me-ish.
I close the gap a little more. My hand finds the sleeve of her jersey—my jersey—and I touch it without thinking. “You texted me,” I say. “Said we needed to talk.”
She nods.
“You’re right. We do.” I pull in a breath and let it out slowly. “I just—I made a lot of mistakes, and I’m not even sure how to start.”
“Banky.”
She only calls me that when she’s not angry with me. I file that away.
“I know I hurt you.” The words come out rough, and I take a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Win. The last thing I ever—” My voice cracks. I keep going anyway. “The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you.”
Her arms cross over her chest, but it’s not defensive. It looks more like she’s holding herselftogether.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the trade,” I say. “I’m sorry I shut you out. I’m sorry I made you feel like you did something wrong when the only person who did anything wrong was me.”
