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I stand and take a step back, giving her space. “I know you can, but I’m here to help, if you’ll let me.”
She drops back into the chair and closes her eyes, swallowing a couple of times. “I’m not weak.”
“I know you’re not. I can grab that first aid kit?”
She nods once. “Down the hall, second door on your right. In the second drawer of the vanity.”
I walk down the hall, taking in the art hanging as I pass—stark, black-and-white photos of derelict houses, beautiful despite their dilapidated state. I pause for a moment, staring at a hauntingly gorgeous photo of a woman in an elaborate dress, kneeling amidst the chaos and debris. A shiver runs down my spine, and I remember I have a purpose and continue down the hall.
I pass the first door without glancing inside and keep going until I reach the next one. I flick on the light and step in. The room itself is white, but the shower curtain boasts a cityscape in cartoon figures and bright colors, making the room feel sunny and personal.
I’m hit with a more potent version of Clover’s perfume, or body wash, or whatever she uses or wears to make her smell the way she does—like cloves and cinnamon and lemon and something that reminds me of comfort and holidays. The space is neat and tidy, towels folded and hanging on the bar, and the vanity free of clutter, apart from an electric toothbrush and one of those foaming hand soap pumps.
I glance in the mirror, my reflection staring back at me.Help her, set her at ease, keep the flirting to a minimum, then get out. I look past myself and realize I can see directly into her bedroom. It’s different from the one at her cabin and nothing like college-kid bedrooms, with posters and laptops and clothes strewn over the floor. Everything is color-coordinated, sophisticated, and organized. I drop my gaze, aware I’m in her personal space and seeing parts of her life she hasn’t invited me into.
But I can be helpful. I can smooth over some of the hard edges I’ve created with the whole sauna incident, with the awkwardness of this semester.
I open the second drawer down on the vanity and find several rolled washcloths in a variety of colors. On the right side is a small first aid kit. I turn on the tap, letting the cold water run, and wet a dark washcloth, wringing it out before I carry it and the kit back to the kitchen.
Clover is sitting exactly where I left her, dabbing at her palms with the now-pink-tinged paper towels.
“I brought a washcloth. They were in the same drawer as the first aid kit,” I explain as I set them on the table and pull out another chair. “I made sure to pick one that wouldn’t show the stains.”
“That was very thoughtful.”
I shrug. “When you play hockey, you get used to dealing with blood.”
“Hockey is an aggressive sport,” she murmurs.
“It can be, if you’re playing with emotions and not your skill set.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s a lot of testosterone and competitive personalities, especially when we’re all trying to impress the coaches and scouts, which breeds aggression.” I position myself at an angle, so I can reach her hands, but I’m not invading her space as much as when I was crouched in front of her. I flip the lid, remove a couple of iodine pads, and tear one open.
“Have you had many injuries?” she asks, her gaze going to my right eyebrow.
When we were together in the summer, we talked, but mostly it was light stuff. Easy conversation. We avoided personal details and focused on orgasms and the intense chemistry we seemed to share.
“Enough. I’ve gotten slashed with a stick and fractured my wrist once, and I got a puck to the head and needed stitches.” I tap the eyebrow she’s looking at. “We were playing street hockey, and I’d taken my helmet off for a minute. My best friend hit a slap shot. It ricocheted, and the result was this and a mild concussion.”
“How many stitches?” She reaches out and smooths her finger across my eyebrow.
I clear my throat before I reply. “Seven or eight, I think.”
“I’ve never had stitches.” She drops her hand back to her lap. “Have you had many concussions?”
The concern in her tone is a little surprising.
I’m used to the lecture from my dad about the dangers of head injuries, so I know better than to get into it on the ice, for the most part. But sometimes it’s hard not to drop the gloves and throw down when I know I could beat the hell out of the guy.
“Nah. Just the one. My dad had a bad accident once, though—took him out of the game for the rest of the season, and he missed the playoffs that year. When he woke up in the hospital, my mom was there, and he couldn’t remember who she was. They were engaged at the time, and all he knew was that he loved her. He tells me that story every time I get into a fight on the ice about something stupid.” I take one of her hands in mine.
Her fingers are long and slender, delicate, like they’re made for playing the piano. I focus on the injuries, and not the fact that I know what they feel like on my body. The pad of her baby and ring finger are both missing skin. I give those my attention first, using the iodine to clean them of whatever dirt is left and then blowing on them, like my mom used to do with Lavender whenever she would fall and scrape her knees, which was often. Lavender isn’t known for her gracefulness. Neither is my mother.
“You’re going to need bandages on these two fingers for a day or two.” I pluck the clear ones from the kit, which will be a lot less obvious.
“That’s probably for the best,” she agrees. “You have younger siblings, right?”
