43. …
Chapter forty-three
…
Iclimb the stairs in a daze.
Nobody is here now. The crowds have filtered back inside to watch the final period.
Only a few blurry workers mill behind the merch stands, chatting to each other as I slowly make my way past.
One foot in front of the other.
My feet feel like cement, dragging as I pull myself up the steps. A wall of heat crashes over my sweat-soaked skin, noise slamming into my skull that I flinch back from.
And all the while, my pulse throbs from the raw, burning brand in my neck.
I stumble my way past familiar faces, my lips mouthing an apology as I edge my way back to my seat. Lauren stands. Her face swims in and out of my vision. “Rosie?”
As I take my seat, I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
I stare blindly out at the arena, waiting for it to be over.
Cheers erupt around me, everyone around me jumping from their seats. But I… can’t move. Lauren slips her hand into mine. “Your skin is like ice. What happened?”
Every thought feels like sludge. Vaguely, I see faces peering at me in concern. Katie is frowning, her mouth opening and closing.
I feel the same way that I did beneath Carter’s shower. As if I’m floating, somewhere far away from my body. Except for the pain.
I am nothing, apart from pain.
My lips shape a word.
The same word. Over and over again.
My eyes find a figure on the ice.
Not him—
I find another, the number 19 printed on the back of his jersey. Somebody shakes my arm. “What’s wrong with her?”
Number 19 staggers, dropping down to one knee. A scarlet jersey skids to a stop beside him, hands gesturing before a navy jersey knocks him out of the way.
I watch from far away as the scarlet jersey skates to the boards below us. Gloved hands bang against the glass.
“Rosie?” A hand yanks at my sleeve.
The hands bang again. The player pulls his helmet off, yelling words I can’t hear. Faces turn toward me.
My lips form the word again.
He rakes a hand back through dark hair, turning to look at the ice and back at me.
He doesn’t understand. None of them do.
My hand creeps up to my neck.
“Rosie.” I flinch back from the sound. “Shit—is that blood?”
My fingers brush against the wetness on my jersey before they find the edges of the scarf.
I don’t take my eyes off the scarlet jersey. He’s watching me too, pushing away the people who grab at his arm, shouting at him. Others turn my way, but I keep my eyes on him as the buzzer sounds.
And I pull the scarf from my neck.