Page 21 of The Cutting Edge
My phone is still on the tray where I left it before they took me to get the CT scan, but my necklace is not. Logan must still have it. Grabbing it to check for messages, I realize it’s almost one in the morning, because apparently all the cool kids like to get their CTs at midnight and there was a bit of a wait.
I can’t remember the last time I felt so exhausted and wired at the same time.
There’s a lot to unpack.
First things first, my head hurts like hell. I pop up selfie mode on my phone and snap a picture of the general vicinity of the bandage. Zooming in on the photo, I can’t really see anything but the gauze, and the spot where a bit of blood has seeped through. Gross. I hope it wasn’t all bloody and gross like that when Logan was here.
Because,you know, a girl likes her head injuries to look presentable when a handsome gentleman drops in for a visit.
Taking a quick video this time, I try to get a better look at my wound. It’s not exactly award-winning cinematography, but at least it gives me a blurry picture of my head and the bandage that covers whatever scary thing is underneath.
I say a quick thanks to the Universe that I didn’t need stitches, at least. Because having my head shaved is not on this week’s bucket list.
Logan must have texted me just as he was leaving because there’s a text from him at the top of the list.
Just checked in with the home nurse. Ms. Markham had a bit of a rough time around 10 pm, but she’s asleep now and seems to be through the worst of it. Sorry for the late text, but I didn’t want you to worry about her. I hope all went well with the CT scan. PS: Don’t worry about your necklace – I promise to keep it safe.
Well, that was nice. I wonder what it means. He’s either an incredibly caring and conscientious guy, or… well, I don’t know what it means. It’s too much to unpack tonight. Suddenly I just want to sleep.
I send my coach Susanne a quick text letting her know I’m in the hospital and won’t be at practice at 6:00 tomorrow morning. She’s probably already in bed, but I’m hoping she’ll check her phone before she heads out to the rink at 5:30 in the morning.
I’m definitely more of a night owl than a morning person, but rink time is cheapest at the crack of dawn, so that’s when I skate.
There’s also a text from Marissa, my bestie-slash-roommate-slash-boss.
The skating complex is a big facility, but gossip travels fast and it’s not every day somebody gets a puck to the head, especially not from one of the NHL’s star shooters, Logan Rivers.
Holy hell, Coco, are you okay? One of the Slashers' coaches called me to let me know what happened.
Don’t stress about coming in tomorrow, Emma’s going to cover your classes. Coming home early, I’ll see you at home tomorrow night. I’ll be up until about 11 if you feel like talking.
I do, but it’s long past 11.
Instead, I see what the internet knows about Logan Rivers.
As it turns out, quite a lot.
Chapter eight
Logan
I'monfiretodayand it feels so fucking good.
I've already sunk my third goal in twenty minutes and I feel like I could single-handedly win the Stanley Cup all by myself. Even against Pittsburgh.
Maybe I should be shuttling little old ladies around every night.
Or maybe Coco truly is a real-life lucky charm.
By all accounts, I should definitely not be playing as well as I am today. I didn't eat dinner until long after midnight, standing in front of the fridge. I got like 5 hours of sleep when I usually need eight. Poppy woke me up at 6 am for an update on Coco. And despite the fact that my thoughts are constantly being interrupted, remembering every teeny tiny detail of last night -- Coco yanking my chain in the hospital last night, wondering how she's feeling this morning, obsessing over the gold flecks in her green eyes, how beautiful she looked even with the bandage and the blood, and a million other non-hockey thoughts, I’m playing like a champ. Her green stone necklace was still warm from her throat last night when I put it around my neck to keep it safe – and even now, I can feel its warmth under my sweater as I take another lap around the rink. It doesn't seem to matter that I'm barely paying attention to what I’m doing -- I'm in the flow, having one of those magical days where you can see the puck and the other players like they're moving in slow motion, but for everybody else the game is moving at top speed. Where opportunities and openings appear as if by magic. Where the puck may as well have guard rails that deliver it straight to the back of the net.
Players live for those days. They're everything you love about the game, wrapped in a big fat bow, and concentrated into a few magical hours.
It's like really good sex. But with skates. And a helmet. (Actually, those two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.)
Another opening. I thread the needle between two of my teammates and sink puck number four. Our head coach, Michaels, gives me a nod from the bench. Coach Rocco, the other assistant coaches, and some of the other players are lined up on the rails watching me play. They know a razor when they see one.
"What did you have for breakfast, dude?" asks Cam Murphy, aka “The Hitman”, my best friend on the team and our left wing as he pulls up to flank me. "You're in the zone today. Did you get laid last night or something? Fuck a leprechaun?"
