Page 21

Faulker’s fists clench. “How many?”

“Six.” I shrug. “I asked.”

“You’re concussed?” Lenzin asks.

“No.” I lie because that spotlight thing, I actually hate it and wish to make it go away.

“You are too.” Hildy scolds me

Lenzin continues the line of questioning. “Dizzy?”

“No.” I give Hildy a look so she doesn’t tell him I am, he needs to chill out.

“Vision.”

“Clear,” I smirk slightly. “You done with the checklist, doctor?”

He steps closer and lowers his voice. “I should have walked you three out.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, this is not on you,” I repeat, then looks beyond me.

“Deacon and Aleks.” He tells me.

Reznik steps around me, “And me.”

“You’re an asshole,” I state, and he lowers his head.

Lenzin looks at Hildy. “Who grabbed you?”

“I don’t know,” she says gently. “It was crowded.”

Her hand rests unconsciously over her stomach. “We’re all fine, and Lenzin, this wasn’t Reznik’s fault.”

“I will make this right,” Reznik states as he steps forward.

Tonight I watched him skate, watched him throw a punch, watched his face under his gear on the arena screens while thousands of people shouted his name. None of that prepares me for the inconvenient reality of him standing in a hospital exam room, close enough that I can see the faint crease his loosened tie has left against his collar.

He's taller than he looked from the stands. Of course he is. His shoulders nearly fill the gap between the curtain and the wall, and his dark suit looks as though he's been wearing it for hours. One side of his collar has folded inward. His hair is damp from a shower, I assume, and wavier than I thought.

His eyes find mine; up close, they’re darker. I notice that before I notice the tension in his jaw, before I see his gaze drop to the stitches above my eyebrow.

I hate that I notice.

I hate even more that the first thing I feel isn't anger. It's a brief, unwelcome awareness of the distance between us, of how much space he takes up in this little room, of the fact that he looks like a real man instead of the larger-than-life hockey player I'd been watching all night.

Then he sees the blood on my jersey.

Whatever he was going to say disappears. His mouth parts slightly, and his gaze returns to my face.

“Anna.”

My name comes out low and rough. Not a practiced line for a camera. Not a remark meant for the crowd.

Lenzin rises. “He shouldn’t be here.