Page 129 of Almost Rotten

“Nothing,” I clip out.

“Tremblay,” Coach Connors barks. “Get over to the trainer. Now.”

Frustration explodes in my chest, joining the pain. Here we fucking go.

I can’t sit out. I have to finish this fucking game. Atty and I are the top pairing on defense. We’ve only let one in on our shifts, and the team can’t stand to look any worse than we already do.

“Come with me,” I murmur to Atty.

He hits me with a hard scowl. For a few seconds, I worry he’s going to deny playing along and covering for me. Then with a huff, he heaves off the bench and follows.

“Tell them you strained your wrist,” I hiss as we make our way over to the trainers.

He startles beside me. “I didn’t—”

“Just fucking do it. Go with McGrady. I don’t want him touching me.”

He gives me a hard glare, the small shake of his head almost imperceptible because of his helmet.

McGrady is older. He’s smart and thorough. He doesn’t miss a fucking thing. If he looks me over, I have no chance of getting back out there.

Despite his reservations, Atty holds his wrist and beelines for McGrady.

With a sigh, I make my way over to one of the student trainers.

She fumbles with her clipboard and dives right into the standard questions required for concussion protocol.

I didn’t even hit my head.

This’ll be a piece of cake.

By the time we’ve both been released, there are only eight minutes left of game play.

Coach puts us right back into the mix, thank fuck, and as I skate to center ice, I ignore the warmth pooling in my torso. I keep going, keep pushing. It’s all I can fucking do.

Chapter fifty-six

Sawyer

He’s not okay.

The crowd burst into cheers when Atty and Ty returned to the game.

But I know Ty too well and I’ve watched him play for too long to believe he isn’t hurt. Badly.

He’s favoring one side. His crossover is laughably slow and he hasn’t even attempted a corkscrew since he’s been back on the ice.

Atty can tell, too, based on the way he keeps yelling at him then shaking his head.

Why the hell is he out there?

Do his coaches and the trainers really believe he’s fit enough to play?

With every second that ticks by in the final period, my anger builds.

By the time the final buzzer sounds, I’m irate.

We lost. Six to three.