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“You broke her damn leg?” I shout. The edge of my voice is razor sharp, enough to cut through the chaos.
Frankie Boucher hunches over. “It really was an accident.”
“You’re an asshole,” the other one of Luz’s friends spits out, with tears in her eyes. “You couldn’t just wait your turn like everyone else, huh?”
“Well, she was taking too long…”
“Shut up, Boucher,” I bark, running a hand through my hair hard enough to hurt. “Just shut the hell up. Not a single word more.”
“That’s enough,” Coach Young says. “If anyone else utters one more word, you’ll be suspended. I don’t care if you’re a Strike or a Bolt.”
“Captains, you’re in charge until we come back.” Coach Young glares at both of us. I notice that while we were being fools, he and a woman from the Strikes’ staff patched up the injured girl enough to take her to the hospital.
“Yes, sir.” I ball my fists, watching the procedure without being able to help, feeling like this is very much my fault for not keeping Boucher and his buddies in check.
CHAPTER 34
LUZ
After JT was taken to the emergency room by the coaches and the rest of the staff herded us into our respective locker rooms, it took a hot minute for everyone to go from keyed up and wanting to murder somebody to quietly seething. Once that transition was complete, Chelsea was able to tell me what happened.
JT and Boucher got into a verbal fight. It wasn’t that Boucher was violent toward her, or at least not intentionally. But as they fought, he tried to pull her away from the leg extension machine, and her leg caught on the mechanism. While she tried to free herself, JT fell down on the other leg and broke it.
The second I walked into the facility, I heard screaming. I raced over to the gym with my heart hammering in my throat, fearing I’d find an axe murderer running rampant. Instead, I found my friend lying on the floor with tears streaming down her face thanks to the excruciating pain. And that jerk Boucher standing over her, a stricken look on his face as if he were innocent of any culpability.
Two hours later, hackles are still raised and feathers are ruffled. I pace up and down the women’s locker like a caged lion. We take turns restraining each other every time the urge to go kill Boucher overpowers one of us. I feel it creeping up inside me again.
“Sit down, Captain. You’re riling everyone up.”
Brit’s voice snaps me out of it. I glance around, and sure enough, the scowls around the room would normally be enough to make a grown man cry. Except Frankie Boucher is not a grown man. He’s a man-child.
I drop down on my bench and clasp my hands together. One of my knees bounces so violently, it rattles the row of lockers behind me.
When my phone buzzes, I almost confuse it for the noise I’m making. I pick it up and find a text from Coach Young ordering us to go into the big conference room. Typically we use it to review games, discuss plays, and make big schedule changes, but I have a feeling we’re headed toward the slaughterhouse this time.
With a bracing breath, I stand up. “Everyone, follow me.”
“Where are we going?” Chelsea’s voice is a mumble. That’s all she’s been capable of since earlier.
“Probably to go get our eardrums blown,” I respond.
I march us over to the conference room, my steps growing heavier. They’re not getting us all here to tell us even worse news, right? Like the injury’s so grave JT might never get to play again or something like that, right?
It’s perfectly warm in the corridor, yet I grow cold as an icicle. I fall back behind the group of Strikes entering the room. I just can’t bring myself to go in yet. Rubbing my hands up and down my arms, I tell myself I’m probably overreacting. JT’s leg looked bad, yeah, but I shouldn’t really project what happened to me onto this incident. I need to cling to hope that she’ll pull through without a hitch after a couple of months.
From around the bend, I catch sight of Max herding the Bolts over. His eyes widen, and he halts. One by one, the Bolts stop behind him in time to keep from toppling like dominos. I shut the door to the conference room and head over to him.
He glances back at his guys. “Stay back.”
For once they obey, maybe collectively embarrassed by one Bolt’s behavior. As they should be.
Max and I meet in the middle. His eyes roam up and down my frame, looking for injuries.
“Hey.” His voice is feather-soft. “Are you okay?”
I hug myself and consider putting on a brave front. But there’s no point. The concern scrunching up his eyebrows tells me he can see right through me.
“Not really. I’m a mess. Everyone is.”
