6. Chapter 7
Mara
Jimmy Sullivan looks like he hasn't slept in three days.
He's the team's trainer, and right now he's got an ice pack in one hand, a phone pressed to his ear with the other, and two players waiting outside his door. I catch his eye as I pass the hallway and he mouths sorry at me like he owes me something.
He doesn't. But I stop anyway.
"What do you need?"
"Kincaid." Jimmy lowers the phone. "Cut his hand on a skate blade during drills. It's not bad, but it needs cleaning and a wrap. I've got Reyes with a pulled quad and Kelly's knee is..."
"I'll handle it."
It comes out of my mouth before I think about it. I'm already reaching for the supply cabinet beside his door.
Jimmy blinks. "You sure?"
"I'm certified. Go."
He goes. That's the thing about chaos. It doesn't wait for you to second-guess yourself.
I grab what I need and head toward the Sports Medicine Room.
Dane is sitting on the edge of the table, right hand wrapped loosely in a towel, jaw set like he's daring the pain to say something. He's still in his gear from the waist down. No jersey. Just a black compression shirt pulled tight across his shoulders, tattoos visible on both forearms.
I don't look twice.
"Jimmy sent me." I set the supplies down. "Let me see it."
He glances up. Doesn't move. "I'm fine."
"I didn't ask."
Then he holds out his hand.
The cut is on the heel of his palm, an inch long, clean. Not deep enough for stitches. Deep enough to sting. I pull on gloves and get to work, keeping my grip certain and my eyes on the task.
He watches me. I can feel it and love it.
"You do this a lot?" he asks.
"Patch up hockey players because the trainer had an emergency?" I press a gauze pad to the cut. "First time."
"I meant the first aid thing."
"I've been working at rinks since I was fourteen. You learn to handle what needs handling."
He's quiet for a moment. I reach for the antiseptic. He doesn't flinch when I apply it, but I feel the small tension in his hand.
"Fourteen," he repeats. "Your dad coach you?"
"He coached everyone. I mostly stayed out of the way and watched."
I start the wrap. His hand is large, the knuckles scarred in a way that tells its own story. I don't ask about it. He'll tell me or he won't.
"Must be nice," he says. "Having someone in your corner."
"He is."
"I know." His voice doesn't carry any edge. Just something flat and tired underneath it. "I'm not saying he isn't."
I tie off the wrap, but I don't step away. There's barely two feet between us and the room is small. I feel the warmth of hand as I let go and want to keep holding on.
"You don't have someone?" I ask. It's the wrong question. I know it as soon as it's out.
Dane looks at his hand. "I've got an agent who texts me when I'm trending and a GM who traded me like I was a baseball card. So. No."
He says it matter-of-factly. Not fishing for pity. Just stating the facts.
That's what gets me. Not the words. The lack of self-pity in them.
"That's why you're angry." I pull off one glove. "When you got here. It wasn't about the team."
"The team's bad enough on its own."
"Dane."
He looks at me then. Full on. It's the first time I've casually said his name out loud and we both notice it.
"Six years in Vancouver," he says. "Then three in Tampa and three in Pittsburgh. Now here." He flexes his wrapped hand carefully. "They move you when you've got nothing left to give them or when they can get more for you somewhere else. Either way, you're an asset. Not a person."
I don't say anything back to him. But I think it, and he watches my face like he can hear it anyway.
"You don't say much," he says.
"Neither do you."
"I say enough."
"You say exactly what you need to and then you stop." I pull off the second glove. "I noticed."
He tilts his head slightly. The corner of his mouth doesn't quite move, but something near it does.
"That's a complaint?"
"Observation."
He's looking at me the way he did in yoga. The way he did in the hallway. Like I'm this issue he hasn't solved yet and he's not in any hurry.
Something tightens in my throat. Unwelcome and specific. I start cleaning up the supplies. Methodical. Keep moving.
"You should ice it tonight," I say. "And don't grip the stick too hard in practice tomorrow, or you'll tear it open again. You’ll be ready for the next game."
"I'll manage."
"I'm sure you will." I drop the used gauze in the bin. "You manage everything on your own, right?"
"Got a problem with that?"
I turn back around. He hasn't moved. He's watching me with that deliberate, careful attention that I've stopped mistaking for indifference.
"No," I say honestly. "I recognize it."
We're looking at each other in a quiet sports medicine room, and the air between us has shifted into something I don't have words for. I feel this tug to go back him.
I should leave. I've done what I came to do.
My phone rings.
Dad.
I pick up before I think better of it. Old habit.
"Hey." I step back, half-turning toward the door.
"Where are you?" His voice is level. That's never good. My father yells when something small bothers him. When it's serious, he goes quiet.
"Sports Medicine Room. I was helping Jimmy."
"Are you alone?"
I glance over my shoulder. Dane is still on the table, watching me.
I step fully into the doorway, lowering my voice. "What's going on?"
"I heard Kincade was in your office yesterday." A pause that weighs about a thousand pounds. "Explain."
Office. He said office.
We were in the training room. Someone shaped that story on its way to my father.
I look back at Dane one more time. He's on his feet now, jersey in hand, expression closed. Like he read the shift in my body and filled in the rest himself.
I turn back to the door.
"I'll call you back," I say.
"Mara."
"Five minutes, Dad."
I hang up.
I set the phone down on the supply shelf and stand there for a second.
Someone is watching us. Paying close enough attention to spread rumors and make sure they get back to my father with a version they shaped.
Evan.
It has to be.
I turn around. Dane is standing with his jersey in hand.
"Your dad," he says. Not a question.
"It's fine."
"It's not."
I don't argue with that. He's right and we both know it.
"Someone told him you were in my office." I keep my voice even. "Which didn't happen. But someone wanted him to think it did."
Dane's hands go still at his sides. That same controlled tension I've seen him hold on the ice when he's two seconds from a penalty and choosing not to take it.
"Evan," he says.
"Probably."
"I'll handle?."
"You won't." I say it fast. "If you say anything to Evan, it looks like you're defending me. Which gives this story more air. Which is exactly what he wants." I cross my arms. "I need you to do nothing."
He stares at me.
"I mean it. Please."
Something moves behind his eyes. Not anger. Something harder to name. He nods once, short and tight.
"Fine." He finally agrees.
I pick up the last of the supplies. "Your hand will be fine for Saturday’s game. Have Jimmy look at it on Friday."
"Mara."
I stop.
"Thank you." He says it quietly. No performance. No angle. "For the hand."
I wasn't ready for that.
"You're welcome," I say.
I make it out the door before he can see whatever is happening on my face.
My phone is already ringing again before I hit the hallway.
I answer on the second ring.
"I heard Kincade was in your office," my dad says again. No greeting this time. Just the weight of it. "Explain."