Page 91 of The Chase

“Oh shit, that’s Fitz,” Brenna says. “What the hell happened?” I guess she hadn’t been watching, either.

The freshmen in the row ahead help us out. “He took a shot to the face,” one girl says.

“What!” My heart jumps to my throat.

“He laid out to block Cassidy’s shot,” Weston explains. “Puck was deflected.”

“But he’s wearing a visor,” I protest.

“Visor’s probably what cut him,” Jake says wryly.

“He’s fine,” Weston says. “Doesn’t look too bad.”

Now that the whistle has been blown and the players have skated away from the net, I can clearly see the red drops staining the white surface. It’s not as much blood as I thought. But still.

My panicked gaze seeks out Fitz. He’s on the Briar bench. His head is being tipped back by a woman I assume is the team doctor. She’s pressing a square of gauze to the outer edge of his right eyebrow. Not his eye, then. Relief flows through me.

Fitz is arguing with the doc. His mouth is moving, and his body practically vibrates with frustration. He wants to go back on the ice, but the woman keeps shaking her head. She readjusts the gauze, and my stomach churns when I glimpse the river of blood pouring down the side of his face.

“He needs stitches,” Brenna says unhappily.

Fitz flings a gloved hand toward the scoreboard, I assume to point out the game clock. There are eight minutes left in the third. Clearly he’s determined to keep playing. The doconce again shakes her head, unyielding. Then Coach Jensen shouts something at them, and Fitz stands up.

With my heart still lodged in my throat, I watch as he’s ushered away. He slams an angry glove against the boards before disappearing in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.

I’m already marching toward the aisle. “Later, spies,” I call to the Harvard boys. To Brenna, I issue a sharp order. “Come on, Bee.”

I expect her to object, insist we need to watch the rest of the game, but she surprises me by following me down the steps. Outside the rink doors, I gaze imploringly at her. “Can you sneak me into the locker room? Or the medical room? Whatever you call it. I want to make sure he’s okay.”

She nods, her eyes softening. “Sure. I’ve got you.”

In the hallway, she takes the lead, while I scramble to keep up with her brisk pace. When we reach a door that requires a keycard, Brenna whips one out of her purse and holds it to the scanner. It turns green and off we go. Being the coach’s daughter comes with perks, apparently.

The doctor who’d been arguing with Fitz exits the locker room at the same time we approach it.

“Hey, Alex,” Brenna greets her. “How’s Fitzy?”

“Physically? He’s fine. I stitched him up.” The woman—Alex—rubs the bridge of her nose. She’s visibly aggravated. “But his attitude could use an adjustment. Your dad said he’s done for the night.”

Brenna nods. “Makes sense. We’re ahead by two.” She gestures to me. “You mind if Summer pops in to see him?”

Alex scrutinizes me for a moment. She’s a short, stocky woman with sharp features and a narrow jaw, but there’skindness in her eyes. Finally she nods. “Be quick,” she tells me. To Brenna she says, “If your father asks, I never saw either of you.”

“You rock, Alex.” Once the team doc disappears around the corner, Brenna gives me a cheeky grin. “I’ll stand out here and keep watch. If someone comes, I’ll hoot like an owl.”

I swallow a laugh. “Solid plan,” I reply, reaching for the door handle.

When I enter the locker room, I find it completely empty. No Fitz, only sleek benches, padded lockers, and a faint whiff of sweat and old socks. In all honesty, the room smells a hell of a lot better than other locker rooms I’ve been in. Briar’s hockey facility boasts the kind of ventilation system other teams probably have wet dreams about.

The sound of rushing water captures my attention. I glance toward the wide doorway across the room. Wisps of steam float out of it, but I don’t see any light. There’s nothing but darkness beyond that doorway.

“Fitz?” I say warily.

A beat.

Two.

Then his equally wary, albeit muffled, voice replies with, “Summer?”

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