Chapter 22 Stella
Stella
I twisted my ankle at practice this afternoon. I came down from a hit and landed on our setter. She’s fine, but I’ll be benched for a little while.
Nora and Rachel drove me to the hospital for an x-ray, but luckily nothing was broken. The doctor explained that minor sprains can take at least eight days to heal, but usually closer to two weeks.
I called my mother and told her not to worry. I also called the gym and explained that I wouldn’t be able to work for a little while.
Lastly, I called Colt. He came straight from practice and picked me up from the hospital, insisting that I could stay with him since his apartment was on the ground level.
My dorm building is older than most and doesn’t have an elevator.
Despite this, I tried to tell him that I was fine, but when we got to my building, and I realized it was a lot harder than I thought to go up the stairs on crutches, I caved.
He piggyback carried me up to pack an overnight bag and then back down to the truck.
Beau is lounging on the couch, watching TV, when we walk in. I look between the two boys, trying to get a read on the situation, but come up empty. Reading them is like trying to understand a foreign language.
“Stella, do you mind if I hop in the shower real quick?” Colt asks, glancing between his roommate and me.
I shake my head because he’s still sticky with dried sweat from practice. The “disheveled athlete” would be a hot look if he didn’t also smell like a dirty sock. I told him as much, earning a laugh and a “brat.”
My heartbeat picks up slightly when he kisses my forehead and walks to his room. He wouldn’t have left me out here if he were still upset with Beau. We would’ve gone to his room first if he didn’t want me to talk to his friend.
Which means my fight-or-flight response needs to chill out. Rationally, I know none of his friends would ever touch me. I just can’t seem to get my brain and my body on the same page.
I crutch myself over to the leather sectional and sit on the opposite side from Beau.
We both stare at the television—some ambiguous cop show playing—for a few minutes before he speaks.
“I—uh—I don’t want you to think I have a thing for you. I don’t.”
“Okay…” I leave a question hanging on the end of the word.
“I thought you were—I don’t know—just some puck bunny or something.
Trying to get with him and would move on when you got what you wanted.
He was falling for you, and I didn’t want you to hurt him.
So, I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions, and I was being passive-aggressive when I had no reason to be. ”
I nod my head in acknowledgment. “It just took me a while to realize he was a good guy. I…I don’t have the best experiences with…men. I wasn’t trying to lead him on.”
Beau nods, now, some of the awkward tension around us dissipating. “He didn’t tell me what happened to you, and you don’t have to explain. But just know that, if you ever need it, I’ve got your back. Whether you’re with Colt or not. I don’t fuck around with guys who hurt women.”
His eyes are stormy, contemplative.
I decide that maybe instead of hiding what happened to me, I should just explain myself.
If I want to make friends, I have to learn to start trusting people—even men.
I explain from the beginning about what happened with Dylan, seeing the anger blossom in his eyes.
I also explain the psychological conflicts I had with romantic relationships as a result of my father’s behavior, and Beau looks like he understands this mindset on more than just a surface level.
“Thank you for telling me,” he says finally, and it ends the conversation.
I pull out my laptop, deciding to work on some homework, and we fall into a much more companionable silence.
I wake to the smell of bacon cooking. Wrapped in a solid, warm embrace, a surreal feeling of rightness washes over me.
Trying to squirm out of Colt’s arms causes me to tweak my ankle, pulling a soft whimper out of my throat. As if he could feel my pain, Colt releases me and sits up.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was trying not to wake you.” I sit up, all too aware that my bedhead is probably atrocious.
Pulling the blankets back, I inspect my injured leg. “Swelling’s gone down,” Colt observes.
“Yeah, it’s just sore. I’ll live.”
He smiles sleepily and leans forward to kiss me, but I turn my head. “No, I haven’t brushed my teeth,” I complain, laughing. He levels me with an offended and annoyed expression, which only makes me laugh again before I get up, grab my crutches, and head to the bathroom.
The boys are in the kitchen when I emerge, feasting on enough bacon and eggs to feed a small army.
Colt stands, pulls out my chair for me, and makes me a plate before sitting back down at my side.
“So, Stella, are you coming to Denver with us over break?” Beau asks.
I scrunch my eyebrows and shoot Colt a questioning look.
“I was actually going to ask you yesterday before you got hurt. Then I forgot.” He looks sheepishly at his plate before continuing. “Every year, Beau’s parents take us to Denver, to the ski resort, the week before Christmas. I was going to see if you wanted to join this year.”
“I’ve never been skiing before,” I say. “But it sounds fun! I’d love to go, as long as my ankle is healed up by then.”
“We’ll fly out on the fifteenth, so right after finals week. Your two weeks of rest will be long past by then,” Beau replies.
“Sure, I’ll go. How much is it?”
“No, no. My parents won’t let you pay a cent. My mom, especially, will just be glad to have another female on the trip again.” Beau’s words are lighthearted, but the underlying tone is heavy. I get the feeling he’s not only referring to the absence of Colt’s mother.
The following week goes by without a hitch. I stay at the boys’ apartment. Colt and I finish our English project, him having done most of the heavy lifting.
I get off my crutches by the next Monday, and my ankle feels as good as new by that Friday.
Saturday night, I get the chance to go to another one of Colt’s games.
I’ve attended a couple of games in the weeks we’ve been together, but my attendance is rare because of my busy schedule.
This one happens to be an away game, just across the state line in Maryland.
Colt offered to let me drive his truck, but when I invited Nora to come with me, she offered to drive.
We sit with a couple of the other teammates’ girlfriends.
A girl named Skylar—a gymnast—who’s dating the goalie, Noah.
The other girl is a firecracker with bright red hair and a galaxy of freckles on her fair face.
Vivian. She’s been seeing one of the guys I haven’t met yet, sophomore Will Fischer.
This is by far the most fun and intense game I’ve been to yet.
Being four of the few people wearing blue in the sea of orange, we have lots of hecklers directing their comments toward us, all in good-natured rivalry.
I can feel my voice going raw after the first period.
Screaming, yelling, cheering. The energy is borderline euphoric. I feel drunk without a drop of alcohol.
Watching Colt skate is like watching a hummingbird fly. He’s fast, so incredibly fast. I don’t know the rules of the game all that well, but even I can tell he’s incredible. Better than incredible; he’s mesmerizing to watch.
Booker is also a force to be reckoned with on the ice. He and Colt are on the same line, and they work together like a machine. The score is 4-2 by the time the second period ends, Colt having scored two of the goals for our team.
Colt and Booker are back on the ice at the start of the third period, battling it out with the guys on the other team, who returned to the game like their lives depended on winning.
They’re more aggressive, more forward. Both teams are shoving and hitting and getting sent to the penalty box left and right.
Beau takes a hard hit by one of the other team’s D-men—a monster of a man—but bounces back like nothing happened. Halfway through the period, the score is now 4-3, and we’re all standing at this point. Everyone in the stands has abandoned their chairs, too much adrenaline pumping through the arena.
Colt gains control of the puck and starts racing toward the other end of the ice. An opposing player charges at him, and Colt pivots to dodge him. Only, as he turns, another player comes at him from the side, hitting Colt square in the face with his shoulder.
Everything that happens next occurs in slow motion.
The chin strap of Colt’s helmet snaps with the force of the hit.
His helmet goes flying off, skittering yards away on the ice.
Colt’s head and body whip back, and he’s falling, unable to catch his balance.
His skull cracks on the ice, like a gunshot going off; so loud I think it could’ve been heard on the moon.
Blood starts to pool around him, seeping out like a gory, deadly halo.
Shouts echo around the arena, and I don’t register that the loudest scream of all is coming from me.