Page 2

TWO

AUGUSTE

Blood.

I know the smell of it over any other. The way it burns up my nostrils, prickles down my throat… even when it’s not mine.

It doesn’t bother me.

Well, not normally. Not until now.

The girl is laying limp on the ice. The gash on her head is pouring down her temple and into her hair like a waterfall.

“Fuck, man! She’s bleeding,” Jayden mutters beside me, looking down on her with me and Spinny, our second goalie.

Shit!

“Shit, how bad is it?” Dylan pushes between us, crouching next to me. “My God, you knocked her clean out, Bruce.”

“Coach Nilsson is going to kill you,” Coach Hollinger grinds out between clenched teeth as he crouches above her head.

I look at him confused— Why would Coach kill me over a stray puck?

“She shouldn’t have been there,” I grumble back, shucking off my glove to check her heartbeat on her wrist. “And anyway, she’s not fucking dead.”

“But you will be when he finds out you cracked his daughter’s head open on our first day back.”

I freeze. “Wait. What? Come again.”

“Oh fuck, Bruce, you’re so fucking dead. You better start praying for a Lazarus effect or something,” Morrow says as the girl finally stirs since I caught her and laid her down on the ice .

Fuck. Fuck…

Open your eyes and be okay.

I’m not a praying man, but I think this girl is making me one.

“Can we get some space, please!” The medic orders, dispersing the guys as he gets the smelling salts out.

Baited breath.

That’s all I am right now.

She coughs, eyes blinking open. Stark. Confused.

Deer in the headlights.

Looking straight into mine.

Bright blue.

Snow White.

That’s the first real thought that pops into my head.

Not: Thank God.

Not relief.

Snow —fucking— White.

Obviously I’ve lost my mind because the instant she sucks in a deep breath, I shovel my hands beneath her and lift her up into my chest, skating her straight to the bench. Logic says that’s where I should stop, right?

That’s logical.

But, no. No.

That is not what I do.

I’m panicking at the sight of all the blood as I race her to the medic’s room with Doc chasing me.

“Okay, Bruce,” he says as I continue clutching her in my arms above the assessment bench.

Her stare is still dazed and on me, as though she’s trying to process what in the fuck is happening. I hope she works it out for the two of us soon.

There’s a possibility I’m about to have a heart attack when she sputters, “Ugh… that was… ugh… wow.”

“Fuck,” I mutter back. “I didn’t… I didn’t even see you.”

My voice is low. Too low and rough and guilty .

“Okay,” she croaks, attempting to push herself out of my hold. “Ow.”

Instinctively, my hold tightens slightly as I tell her, “Stay with me.”

“Trying,” she breathes. “You’re… umm… really warm.”

“How about you put the patient down,” Doc says with a tray of paraphernalia, ready to stitch her up. “Let me take over now, Broussard.”

I nod, placing her on the table and edging to the side so that he can do his thing while I ensure she doesn’t die of some kind of complication like in those shows Sabine watches. It’s the last time I tell my baby sister to turn that shit off, seems like I could’ve learned a thing or two…

“Auguste?” Doc peers up at me and side glances to the door. “You can step outside now.”

“Is she okay? She’s not going to pass out again or… or go into a coma or have one of those… whatdoyacallit… ana… anade… anedema?”

“Anedema?” He looks at me like I’ve grown another head.

“An… aaa… e-ne-ma…” I enunciate.

The girl’s face drops with a gasp, meanwhile he rolls his lips together.

“I don’t need an enema,” she blusters after a second, pushing herself to an upright position.

Doc chuckles, lightly dabbing some gauze over the gash that disappears into her hairline. “I think he means an aneurysm, and no, you’re not having either. You might have a concussion, though.”

“Aneurysm… yeah, that’s it,” I say, trying to ignore his nod to the door.

I’m not sure I should leave without making sure she’s alive and well.

“You can go now, Bruce,” Doc vocalizes.

I look from him to her. Trying to remember the questions to ask to make sure someone doesn’t have brain damage.

“Ughh… What’s your name?”

The girl swallows. “Courtney.”

“Courtney… last name?”

With a panicked expression she opens and closes her mouth.

“Shit. You remember your last name, right? Who you are?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

Big, teary eyes look up at me from beneath mascara smudged lashes. “Didn’t even last a damn day,” she mutters before whispering, “Nilsson. My name is Courtney Elouise… Nilsson .”

“Fuck, so it is true.” A part of me was hopeful it wasn’t. That it was all bullshit to make me sweat. “Fuck. What day is it?”

“Ahm… Tuesday?”

No. Today is most certainly a Thursday. “What year?”

Dazed, Courtney blinks up at me.

Courtney . The name suits her.

“Year…”

“Yeah, what year is it? Do you know? Remember? ”

“Eighteen twenty six,” she hums, head tilting to the side with a gnaw of her lip.

“Are you sure? Are yo—” I pause at the quiver of her lips and Doc’s chuckle. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Well, if you insist on giving me a migraine on top of a scar… What’s a girl to do?”

Yeah, she’s Bobby Nilsson’s daughter alright—she has the same sick sense of humor.

“Honestly, I’m fine.” Her laugh turns to a grimacing hiss.

Okay. She says she’s fine. Acting like it too. Doc has the bleeding under control… I think it’s safe to leave her in his hands now.

Slowly backing out of the room, I ignore the assholes loitering in the corridor, waiting to drill me.

As predicted, a laugh snorts from nearby.

Fucking Rio.

“Smooth, Bruce,” Jayden says behind him. “Damn. That how you hit on all your girls? Literal head trauma?”

“She's not my girl,” I snap, flipping him off over my shoulder without looking back.

“You sure?” Matheo chimes. “You carried her like she is.”

“Shut up.”

Eli’s sombre voice mumbles out, “Is she okay? It was a deep cut. Looked like a good seven or eight stitches…”

Matheo whistles. “Oh, alguém está fodido.”

“What?” I can’t with his Brazilian ramblings right now.

“You’re so screwed,” he laughs in reply.

“What a start to training,” Jayden adds. “You literally tried to knock Coach’s kid off her feet.”

Sylkes finally finds his humor, laughing at Jayden’s remark.

My insides are so fucking tight right now. I came back early to work on strengthening, on making sure my shoulder is recovered for the next season. To work with these assholes and get our game fucking bulletproof, so we don’t choke like we did post-season.

Doc walks out of his room and behind him, Courtney Nilsson finally appears again. On her feet. Blood soaked into her white Comets sweater, crusted all over her forehead.

It’s only now I check the arms of my compression top and my shirt. I’m covered in her blood.

The guys all disappear into the recovery room a couple of doors down the corridor when Doc stops in front of me, still looking over his shoulder to make sure Courtney is able to follow.

“No real damage,” he states when she pauses beside him. “Seven stitches and one helluva of a bruise brewing. Like I told Courtney, there should be no driving or heavy machine operating. If she vomits, feels dizzy, faint… any of the usual concussion symptoms?—”

“I will go directly to the ER,” Courtney finishes for him, before turning to face me, “Thanks for not letting me faceplate the ice.”

“Remember, plenty of rest,” Doc reiterates before heading back towards the rink. “Definitely no driving.”

“Yeah, yeah… I’m getting an Uber,” Courtney grumbles with a roll of her eyes.

She looks fragile with her head wrapped in a thick bandage and her eyes smudged with mascara. Black tear tracks are dried on her face…

Ah man, I fucked up.

Clearing my throat, I tell her, “I’ll drive you home.”

Just as well that Coach had to leave early for a meeting with management.

“That’s not necessary.”

“It fucking is,” I retort, stepping closer and wrapping my arm around her waist to help her to one of the seats a few feet away. “You’re bleeding because of me.”

“I’m not bleeding anymore, and I’m not mad so you don’t have to do this.” She tries to wriggle away from me. When I don’t let go, she adds, “For real.”

“I don’t care if you’re mad. I care that your father knows that I am sorry and that I have done everything I can to make up for hurting you… he’s going to kill me.”

A dark brow hitches. “Aww, you’re scared of Coach...”

“Correction: I’m terrified of Coach. That man has my future in his hands.” I ease her down into the chair opposite the locker room door. “I’d like to avoid being murdered. Or worse—traded to bumfuck nowhere.”

That gets a laugh out of her. One that trills in spite of her wince as she holds her head in her hand.

It grips something in my chest. Fisting it so tight that I can’t say shit to convince her while she bites her lip. Deliberating. No, from the pull of her brows, she’s debating with herself before she finally sighs.

“Okay. Fine. But only because buttfuck nowhere would totally be worse than death. ”

“Exactly,” I say, walking backwards into the locker room. “Don’t move.”

“Yes, sir.” Her tone is a total tease, and when I level her with a glare, she asks, “What?”

“You’re a total brat, aren’t you?”

Courtney grins and now, I’m not certain that giving her a ride is the right thing to do.

Of course she moved.

By the time I came back out Courtney had a carry-on, her camera bag, and a backpack sitting with her, along with a sickly smile on her face.

At least she let me carry it all to my SUV.

I shoved it all in the trunk with my kit and made quick work of hauling her ass inside before someone saw us and rumors spread.

It’s gonna be bad enough when Coach finds out I almost cracked his daughter’s skull, I don’t need him getting other ideas from the rumor mill.