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“What the hell is cryopreservation?” Nixon asks.
“It’s a way of preserving the fertility of young women before they start chemo.” Dr. Hendriks gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Think about it, and I’ll see you next week?”
CHAPTERTEN
PRESCOTT
“That’s how you do it, boys!” Scotty yells as we make our way to the locker room.
If you listen hard enough, you can still hear the buzz of the crowd as they leave the stadium after the game. My ears are ringing from the yelling fans and the crushing of the pads, the adrenaline still running high in my veins.
“Motherfucking champs, that’s what we are,” somebody screams, choruses of agreement going through the room.
I don’t bother pointing out that there are still way too many games to play, and everything can change. Even my dark heart feels a flicker of hope that maybe the championship isn’t that far out of our reach.
My eyes meet Nixon’s, and for a split second, a silent understanding passes between us. Then the reality sets in—everything that has played out in the past week comes rushing back, making him scowl.
“You’re still far from being champs,” Coach chastises loud enough to be heard over the racket in the locker room. I turn away from Nixon and concentrate on Coach instead. “The Saints surprised us with that interception…”
Somebody groans in the background. “Seriously?”
Coach must hear it, too, because his eyes narrow at whoever said it. “Yes, seriously.” One thing’s for sure. He doesn’t share our enthusiasm. “However, you recovered really well. That doesn’t mean you can relax now.”
He isn’t wrong. Today’s game was tough. The Saints didn’t want to go down without a fight, and that’s exactly what we gave them. We looked like we’d gotten off a battlefield, our black-and-gold uniforms stained with a mix of sweat, grass, and mud. In the end, we won by one touchdown, but it was a close call.
Coach continues talking about the game, dissecting some of the key moments like he always does, but I’m only half listening as I take off my shirt and shoulder pads.
Jimmy, our PT, walks around the room, handing out ice packs left and right.
“Damn, that looks nasty,” he says as his eyes fall on me.
I glance down, noticing the shadow of a dark bruise forming over my ribcage.
“Need me to look at it?”
“Nah,” I shake my head, grabbing two ice packs, and placing one against my side and the other on my knee. “I’m good.”
I sit down, a jolt of pain going through my body. At this point, I’m not sure what hurts more—my knee or ribs.
“You sure?” Jimmy gives me a doubtful look.
“Yup,” I try my best to hide my grimace. “Peachy.”
There is no way I’d admit out loud that I’m in pain. Especially not in front of the Coach, or the rest of my teammates, for that matter. We’re halfway through the season, and the team has a shot at going all the way. I’m not about to lose it all because of a little pain.
“Clean up.” Coach looks around the locker room, giving us a warning stare. “Don’t party too hard. I’ll see you all tomorrow morning so we can go over today’s game and start the prep for our next away game.”
With that, he leaves us to patch up and shower. Pulling off the ice pack, I inspect the bruise. I got it when a defenseman crashed into me in the fourth quarter. It’s going to be one nasty motherfucker, that’s for sure.
Placing my hand against my side, I push to my feet.
Holy shi—
Intense pain spreads through me, making my breath hitch and my knees buckle. I’d probably end up on my ass if I weren’t expecting it.
Bruised ribs, probably.
“You should let Jimmy look at it,” Nixon mutters by my side.
