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“Defenseman.” A grimace works its way onto my face. “But I don’t play for them anymore. I’m just going to call a rideshare.”

She keeps looking at me, and her eyes are all sad and warm. It makes my chest tight.

“Can I give you a ride? I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

My brow furrows and I carefully avoid her gaze, shaking my head already.

“I’m not a weirdo.” She laughs, but it’s nervous, shaky. “My name is Sahara. I just . . .” She says sharply, “I don’t think you should be alone right now. I was . . . Well, I heard you and your coach and—”

Shaking my head harder, I shove myself up to stand.

“Yeah. Well, it’s my fault anyway. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” I keep my voice low and calm, moving as slow as I can. If she heard, then she knows, and I don’t want her to be afraid of me.

I turn, deciding the only way out of this is through the damn arena, praying it will be empty enough to make it out alive. Maybe if I grab my sweatshirt out of my bag and slide it on, hood up, no one will recognize me.

Only when I turn—he’s right there.

Coach Nate Harris, standing just up the stairs of the back entrance into the building, looming over me and cast half in shadow, only backlit from the windowed doors behind him. He’s in the same suit, a crisp gray with a navy tie that looks rumpled and worse for wear now.

Swallowing, hands shaking, I dart toward him before I can think too much about it. My stomach swirls like I might throw up, but I manage to keep it down as the words spill out, “Is he okay? Rhys— I . . . I didn’t mean to hit him that hard, I swear. I didn’t even know we were so close to the boards. I’m so fucking sorry.” I wince as the curse leaves my mouth, before apologizing for that too.

“Just . . . I know I shouldn’t be allowed to ask, or maybe you can’t tell me, but I just— I’m really fucking worried about him. Is he okay?”

My breaths are heaving by the end of my question, an almost dizzying sensation making me sway.

Harris doesn’t say anything at first; he only watches me, and then his eyes flicker carefully to the woman still hovering behind me. Maybe the mom of one of his players.

“You’re bleeding, kid,” he says.

I raise the cloth to wipe at my lip and my eyebrow, both coming away red before I curse a bit and hold the tissue against each cut as we stare at each other.

“He’s in the hospital. That’s all I know right now.” He clears his throat. “He wasn’t . . . he didn’t regain consciousness before they took him in the ambulance—”

A noise I didn’t intend to make leaves my mouth as I step backward, nearly tripping down the stairs, as I head toward the bushes and throw up.

Again.

It’s mostly water and embarrassingly loud dry heaving because I haven’t eaten anything since lunch hours before the game. Carefully slipping to my knees, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and then pull my suit coat off, the back of my neck slick and sweat-damp.

“Hey.” A low, gentle coo alerts me before a hand presses lightly to my shoulder blade. It’s Sahara, looking over my kneeling body with heavy concern. And Coach Harris, just behind her, his hand on her arm, watching her with heavy concern.

My stomach somersaults again.

Not just some woman, then. Harris’s wife.

“Why don’t you let me drive you wherever you’re going? Nate needs to ride back with the team,” she says, still in that same, calm placating tone. “What’s your name?”

“Toren,” Harris says for me. “I’ll drive you both back to the hotel. Johnson and the other coaches can manage the boys. I need to head to the hospital afterward anyway.”

I’m already shaking my head. “No. It’s— It’s fine. I need to—”

Harris steps forward, catching my swaying body in his grip. I don’t have it in me to fight him as he holds me up.

“Breathe, Kane. Everything is going to be okay. Just breathe.” My eyes burn and I rub at them again, trying desperately to keep the sob from bursting out of my chest. “Take a breath and just come with me, okay? We’ll get it all figured out.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”