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“Deeply embarrassing.”

That almost gets a smile.

She looks down at her own hand.

“He’ll still be there Monday.”

“Yeah.”

“Everybody laughs when he does it.”

I know what I would tell a rookie. Keep skating. Stay out of the box. Don’t let one idiot decide what your shift looks like.

That advice lands better when the person hearing it is six foot two, wearing pads, and getting paid to be hit.

“I hate that part,” I say.

“You?”

“I get called a coward about once a month.”

She looks at my shoulders, then my hand.

“You?”

“Usually by somebody trying to get me into a fight I don’t need. Walking away works for the team.”

“And for you?”

“No. I skate away pissed off.”

She considers that.

“I tried walking away. He stands in front of me.”

Gabi’s hand stills on the printer.

“Does your mother know that?” she asks.

The girl shakes her head.

“Tell her that part,” Gabi says.

“She’ll go back to the school.”

“She might.”

The girl picks at the edge of the wrap.

“And if he grabs me?”

Now she’s asking.

“Then you get away. If you can’t, use your elbow to make room. The second you’re loose, leave. Straight to an adult. You don’t stay to finish making a point.”

“With my elbow.”

“To get away. That’s the whole job. Twenty-seven bones in your hand. Wrong tool.”