3. Maya
Maya
His hand is larger than mine, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, and currently trembling slightly from either pain or adrenaline or both. I pull, he pushes, and somehow we get him vertical.
He sways immediately.
“Whoa, okay.” I steady him, my hands on his arms, and I can feel the tremors running through his body. “Maybe sitting was better.”
“Can’t stay on the ice.” His words are slightly slurred. Definitely hit his head. “Need to… need to clean up the blood.”
He’s staring at the small puddle of red on the pristine ice with an expression I recognize. Guilt. Shame. The desperate need to erase evidence of weakness.
“The blood can wait,” I say firmly. “You need medical attention.”
“No doctors. No health services. No official record.” He’s swaying worse now, and I realize he’s probably got a concussion on top of whatever’s wrong with his shoulder.
“That’s the concussion talking.”
“No, that’s the…” He trails off, blinking slowly. “What was I saying?”
“That you’re making terrible decisions. Come on. We’re getting off this ice before you pass out and I have to drag your unconscious body to safety.”
I shouldn’t be doing this. Should call campus security, let professionals handle this, go back to my dorm and pretend I never saw blood on ice.
But something about the way he’s looking at me, like he knows, like he sees the same brokenness in me that I see in him makes it impossible to walk away.
I guide him off the ice, one careful step at a time. He’s taller than I thought, broader, and leaning on me more than either of us wants to admit. We make it to the bench where he apparently left his shoes.
“Sit,” I command. “Let me look at your head.”
He sits, and I gently probe the cut on his forehead. It’s not deep, but head wounds bleed disproportionately. The blood is already clotting.
“You’re going to have a nice bruise,” I say, “but I don’t think you need stitches.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve had practice.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He looks up at me, those eyes, gray-blue in the fluorescent lighting seeing too much. “Practice?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull out my phone. “I’m calling someone. Don’t argue.”
“Who?”
“My brother. He’ll know what to do.”
“Your brother plays hockey?”
“Unfortunately.” I dial Carter, praying he answers even though it’s past eleven PM.
He picks up on the second ring. “Maya? What’s wrong?”
“I’m at the arena. Found someone injured. I need your help.”
“Who?”
I look at Ryder. “What’s your last name?”
“Beaumont. Ryder Beaumont.”
I hear Carter suck in a breath. “You found Ryder Beaumont? Injured? At the arena this late?”
“Yes. Can you come?”
“I’m on my way. Don’t let him convince you he’s fine. He’s not fine.”
Carter hangs up, and I turn back to Ryder. “He’s coming.”
“Great. Your brother is going to tell everyone I’m injured, I’ll get benched, and my entire future is over.”
“Your future is already over if you keep destroying yourself in secret.” The words come out sharper than intended.
Ryder looks at me with something like understanding. “You sound like you know something about that.”
“I know enough.”
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us carefully not looking at the blood still on the ice. Both of us carrying secrets we’re not ready to share.
“Why are you here this late anyway?” Ryder asks finally.
“Couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I walk around campus when I can’t sleep.”
“And you just happened to walk past the arena?”
“I heard someone skating. Got curious.” I don’t mention that I’ve been avoiding the ice arena for two months, that walking past it tonight was a test I clearly failed, that hearing the sound of skates on ice triggered something I’ve been trying to bury.
“You skate?” he asks.
“No.”
“That was a very fast no.”
“Because the answer is very definitely no.”
He studies me, and I can see him putting pieces together. The way I reacted to the blood. The shaking hands. The panic attack I barely controlled.
“You used to skate,” he says quietly.
“I used to do a lot of things.”
Before he can push further, Carter arrives, bursting through the arena doors with the energy of someone who’s been told his teammate is injured and his sister is involved.
“What the hell happened?” he demands, looking between us.
“Practice accident,” Ryder says at the same time I say, “He fell.”
Carter’s eyes narrow. “What kind of practice has you here at eleven PM?”
“The kind where I don’t have to watch every move,” Ryder snaps back.
“The kind where you can destroy your shoulder without witnesses?” Carter’s voice is sharp. “How bad is it?”
“It’s fine.”
“Stop saying that.” Carter crouches down in front of Ryder. “Let me see.”
Ryder reluctantly shrugs off his jacket, and I watch Carter’s face go pale as he sees Ryder’s shoulder. I can’t see it from my angle, but Carter’s reaction tells me everything.
“Jesus Christ, Ryder. This isn’t ‘fine.’ This is—” He stops, visibly controlling his anger. “We’re taking you to the ER.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“Carter, if I go to the ER, it gets documented. If it gets documented?—”
“Then it gets documented. Better than permanent damage.”
“You don’t understand the pressure?—”
“I understand that you’re about to fuck up your entire career because you’re too stubborn to admit you need help.” Carter stands. “Maya, help me get him to my car.”
Together, we manage to get Ryder standing again, then walking, then somehow folded into Carter’s passenger seat. He’s arguing the entire time, but his words are getting more slurred, and I’m increasingly worried about the concussion.
“I’m coming with you,” I say.
Carter looks surprised. “You don’t have to?—”
“I’m coming.”
I climb into the back seat before he can argue, and we drive to the nearest emergency room in tense silence.
The ER is quiet at midnight on a Tuesday. Carter checks Ryder in—“hockey injury, possible concussion, shoulder damage”—and we’re ushered to a curtained area to wait.
Ryder sits on the examination table, looking miserable and defeated. Carter paces. I sit in the corner, trying not to think about the last time I was in an emergency room.
“You should call someone,” Carter says to Ryder. “Your family. Coach.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Ryder—”
“My father will make this worse. My brother will say I told you so. And Coach…” He trails off. “Coach will bench me for the season.”
“Maybe you need to be benched,” I say quietly.
Both of them look at me.
“Maybe,” I continue, “constantly destroying yourself trying to live up to impossible expectations isn’t actually strength. Maybe it’s just… giving up in a different way.”
Ryder stares at me like I’ve slapped him.
“Maya—” Carter starts.
“No. He knows I’m right. He’s just too scared to admit it.” I stand, suddenly exhausted. “I’ll be in the waiting room.”
I leave before either of them can respond, before I have to see the truth of my words reflected in Ryder’s face.
Because I’m not talking about him anymore.
I’m talking about myself.