Page 17 of Playoff

I grab a towel and hurry onto the ice, meeting him just before he gets to the boards. I move his hand away and cover the wound with the towel.

“I think that’s going to need stitches,” I say. “Come on.” I guide him toward the tunnel and we walk back to the locker room in silence. He sinks onto the nearest bench and I pull the towel away.

“Bad?” he asks.

“Not terrible, but you do need stitches.”

“Do what you need to do. I have to get back out there.”

I almost smile.

I hand him the towel. “Hold that there—let me get my stuff.”

I gather what I need, mentally preparing myself.

I’ve stitched up guys dozens of times. That’s not a problem.

Stitching up Blake…well, that could be difficult.

I’m not even sure why exactly.

I move the towel and look at the wound.

The blade of the skate did the most damage across a two-inch area just above his left eyebrow, leaving some jagged skin and enough blood to make a mess.

“That’s gonna leave a nice scar,” I say, dabbing at the blood. “The puck bunnies will love it.”

“How do you know I don’t have a girlfriend?” he counters.

I shrug. “That never stopped you before.”

He sighs. “Are we really going to do this now?”

“We’re not going to do anything. I’m going to give you some stitches and then you’re going back to the game.”

“Then why’d you say anything?” He winces as I wipe the area with alcohol.

“I shouldn’t have.” I focus on the job at hand.

“You still hate me.” He sounds more resigned than sad, but it irritates me, like he’s trying to make me feel bad about it or something.

“Hate is a strong word.” I try to concentrate on the stitches, knowing this is going to hurt. “I would have to still be in love with you to feel that strongly about you—and that ship sailed a long time ago. I can forgive, but you never forget. Are you ready? This is probably going to hurt.”

“And you’re going to enjoy that, aren’t you?”

I sigh. “No, I’m not. This is my job—not some teenage revenge fest.”

He snorts and then closes his eyes.

I do my best to make it as painless as possible, and though I can see his fists squeezed in his lap, he doesn’t make a sound.

“Just a few more,” I say. “Do you need a break?”

“No.” He says the word curtly but I can tell he’s just trying to not show me any weakness.

And that’s ridiculous.

“How about some water?” I ask, switching gears. I reach for a bottle in the nearby cooler and hand it to him.

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