Page 7 of The Play Maker

With that, he turns and heads toward the rink, blowing that fuckass whistle I hear in my nightmares.

I exhale a heavy breath, rip off my helmet and skates, and toss them onto the ground. Sinking into a seat, I bury my face in my hands. God, I’m such a screw-up. I feel like a walking failure. A goddamn idiot. Dumb. Lazy. Selfish. Should’ve never skipped that lecture on muscles and bones or whatever shit Professor bushy brows was teaching.

“Dude, are you crying?”

I peek through my fingers to see Cole standing with his helmet under his arm.

“Get fucked.”

He scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “We told you this would happen, genius.”

I tilt my head, resisting the urge to throw something at him. “Yeah, I got it. Anything else you wanna rub in while you’re at it?”

He pops his gum. “Better start getting comfy on the bleachers.”

I narrow my eyes, grab my water bottle, and chuck it at him. Of course, the bastard dodges it, and it sails past him, slamming into the back of the bleachers.

“Ah!”

My eyes widen at the sound of a girl’s voice crying out in pain.

“Oh, fuck,” I mutter, quickly jumping to my feet and shoving Cole out of the way. I rush over to the girl who’s holding her head, looking like she’s about to pass out.

“Shit. I’m so fucking sorry,” I say, kneeling next to her. “I didn’t mean to hit you.”

She groans, which… good sign, I guess. Means she’s alive, and I didn’t just take someone out with a damn water bottle. Silver linings.

“You okay?” I ask.Stupid question, Austin. Of course she’s not okay. You nailed her in the head like an absolute dumbass.

Cole crosses his arms behind me. “Going on a violent streak, Rhodes?”

I groan. “Just—get Coach or something. She’s not answering me, and I don’t know if I gave her a concussion or blinded her or deafened her or… whatever the fuck else.”

He sighs and heads off, and I hesitate before reaching out to touch her. Probably a bad idea. She might not appreciate the guy who knocked her out with a bottle trying to pat her on the head like a dog.

“Hey… can you hear me?” I try again. “Are you blind? Deaf? Did I break something? Jesus, I swear I didn’t mean to?—”

“God, just… stop talking,” she mutters, rubbing her head. “I’m fine.”

My shoulders drop. “Alright. Can you move your hands, though? Just so I can see for myself?”

She lets out another groan but finally pulls them away, and I scan her head for bumps, bruises, or anything out of place. Her dark brown hair is still in a sleek bun, not a single strand loose, which is kinda impressive considering I hit her in the head. No blood. No giant lump. So far, so good.

And then she looks up. Blinks at me.

And holy shit.

I’ve seen blue eyes before. Plenty of them. Buthers? They’re something else. Not just blue. They’re light, clear, the kind of blue that makes you forget what the hell you were just saying. The overhead lights catch them, turning them almost electric, like the damn sky cracked open just for me.

My brain completely short-circuits.

I definitely concussed myself in this whole process. No other explanation.

She winces, pressing her fingers to her forehead again, but my brain is still buffering, stuck on her eyes. Can’t look away from them.

I snap myself out of it because, oh yeah, Ihit her in the head.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask. “I can take you to the campus doctor. Or, like, pay for one myself. I don’t mind. I just?—”