Page 7 of Falling Offsides

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 doorsdown 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.”

---