Page 14 of The Cutting Edge
As I come closer, I see the bag is embroidered with the name “Coco” on the side. A bejeweled ladybug charm hangs from the shoulder strap. This must be hers. I’m tempted to look inside to confirm, but it suddenly feels like an invasion of privacy. The bag has her name on the outside, and her phone is ringing from the inside – I’m just going to take a leap of faith and assume it’s hers.
At the very least, I’ll have an excellent defense if it turns out I’m stealing some other poor skater’s gear.
Chapter five
Coco
HospitalTVisweird.For the last forty-five minutes, I’ve been watching some show about customs agents in Spain who arrest drug smugglers and people traveling with fake documents.
“Azul! Cocaína!” the agent exclaims when the chemical test for cocaine turns blue. Or my new favorite, the agent who examines passports with something that looks like a jeweler’s loupe, exclaiming in broken English, “Document false. You are arrest.”
It’s oddly soothing, like streaming Bob Ross videos or something, and quite literally the only thing I have to do without my phone or the rest of my stuff. There is a phone in my hospital room, but I don’t have anyone’s number memorized other than my own.
I know it’s only been a couple of hours, but I miss texting already. I quietly contemplate if this is what it feels like to be trapped on a deserted island.
It’s weird how untethered you feel when you don’t have your phone with you, isn’t it? Like, completely out of the loop from the rest of humanity.
Maybe I’m being dramatic, but in the dark and quiet of my hospital room, it doesn't really feel that way.
The agents on TV are asking a guy to play the guitar he brought with him on his flight from Columbia. He looks panicked, and then reluctantly picks up the guitar and starts strumming awkwardly. The guitar sounds especially odd, and it’s clear the man has never played an instrument of any kind. He begins to sing and it’s immediately obvious that the man doesn’t have a musical bone in his body. After a few off-key attempts, he hands the instrument to the officers and hangs his head. The agents have just pried off the face of the guitar and discovered a trove of small white bricks crammed into every crevice, and I say out loud to the TV, “Azul! Cocaína!”
Suddenly I hear a deep laugh emanating from the hallway, and then Logan’s face appears in the doorway, his fist poised to knock. “Are you watching that Spanish smuggling show?”
“Yes!” I exclaim, sitting up a bit straighter in my bed. Well,thisis a surprise.
I’m suddenly extremely aware of the fact that I’m wearing weird underwear under my hospital gown. It’s not weird-weird – like, it’s not edible; it doesn’t have red hots glued all over it. It's not made of 7 slices of American cheese sewn together or anything. But it’s not sexy lingerie or even old granny panties either. The underwear we wear with our skating costumes has crazy strong, industrial elastic around the leg holes so it NEVER rides up while you’re skating.
A wedgie is practically impossible. So that’s a plus, I guess.
But it’s also flesh-toned, and is practically like a second skin, and hot as hell – so if anybody was to catch a glance of them, they’d probably think I was naked under here. Which is the kind of assumption I’d like to avoid with my student’s very hot, professional athlete dad.
“Is it okay if I come in?” Logan tentatively knocks at my door, his forehead creased with worry.
“Hey slapshot,” I grin back at him. He seems like he’s taking this whole puck-to-the-head thing pretty hard, and I really don’t want him to. I’ve practically lived at skating rinks since I was a toddler – accidents happen.
His eyes still convey worry, but he smiles hesitantly in return, as something that looks like relief lightens his expression a bit.
I’m pretty sure I killed his plans for the night. Not sure why, but I suddenly feel a little giddy about that.
“Sure, come on in.” I sit up a bit straighter and adjust myself in the hospital bed as I try to keep from smiling.
“How do you feel?” he asks. “You look a little pale. Does your head hurt?”
“A bit,” I nod.
“God, I’m so sorry about the puck. Uh… I brought your stuff,” he says, holding up my skate bag as he gingerly enters the room. No Poppy this time. He seems even taller from my vantage point in the bed.
“Oh! A good samaritan” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Unless of course, you’re the kind of sneaky guy who steals innocent people’s practice bags.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” he smiles confidently. “Don’t keep me in suspense… which is it?”
“That’s not my bag,”
A panicked look crosses his face. “Wait! What?”
“Kidding. Thanks for bringing all my stuff. I realized after you left that I didn’t have my phone, or my ID, or even any shoes.”
“You didn’t want to walk out of the hospital tomorrow in your skates?” he grins at me, like the sun warming up the dark and antiseptic room.
