Chapter 28 Sloan
Sloan
Then - Seattle
My life changes forever on a Monday night.
Bohdan’s does, too, in a different, but all-encompassing, giant way just the same.
It’s a normal, regular game early on in the season.
A team they’ve played before. I wasn’t even planning on coming to this one because I’m teaching a seminar this week, but he asked—all formality and beautiful eyes and a smile I’d crawl for.
One brush of his mouth against mine, this promise of all the time we’d get to spend together later before he leaves for a road trip, wrapped up in those navy sheets that make Bohdan look more otherworldly than usual, and I was done for.
But he packed my textbooks in my bag for me and left them by the door.
I’ve seen Bohdan get hit before—all kinds of hits really, cross-checking, bodychecking, legal and illegal contact.
I’ve even seen him get a concussion before. More than once.
It’s not even the first time I’ve seen him hit the boards.
But nothing ever quite like this.
It happens too fast for me to even really notice. I’m more focused on the textbook in front of me, propped up on my knees, trying to concentrate on my proposal instead of the ambient chatter and noise of all the other partners sitting around in the lounge with me.
They’re up 3–1, and he’s already scored. He looks great, he always does, and I think it’s safe to be something other than ever present, ever vigilant.
I see it out of the corner of my eye, and I flinch when he’s smashed into the boards from behind. There’s a collective intake of breath around the room when his helmet smashes into the glass at this weird angle—right at the precipice of his visor and the plastic.
The whistle blows, and a fight starts somewhere on the ice.
But he doesn’t skate away. It looks sort of like the player who hit him was holding him upright—Bohdan staggers, and he looks a bit like he’s trying to brace himself against the glass before his knees buckle.
It’s when he hits the ice that I see the blood.
A small rivulet smeared across the inside of his visor that I can’t even be sure is there, until it’s joined by the rest—this crimson pool that somehow looks stark and beautiful against the ice, sparkling away on that giant television screen in the lounge, while Bohdan doesn’t move.
I think I start bleeding with him.