Page 76 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

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I still haven’t spoken to Theo. Other than the daily good morning and goodnight texts he’s been sending––though I still can’t figure out why––he’s been radio silent. Not that I blame him. I haven’t exactly been chatty. Truth be told, I’ve been avoiding the bastard like a bad stomach bug. It hasn’t stopped me from watching him on the ice, though. In a way, I’m afraid it’s the only time I’m actually able to get away with it. Watching him. Studying him. Remembering him. His hands on my body. His breath against my neck. The way his full lips pull up, showcasing a soft, barely-there dimple etched into his right cheek anytime he’s amused.

It’s hard.

Not knowing where we stand.

Not knowing where I want us to stand.

Not knowing where he wants us to stand.

I don’t do unknowns.

They’re messy. A waste of time and energy.

Doesn’t make it any easier to stop replaying what-ifs, though.

Nibbling on the inside of my cheek, I find his jersey number in the sea of players on the ice. The game’s in the third period, and the teams are tied three to three. We’re playing the Tornados who are currently number one in the nation. To be fair, it’s still early in the season, but it didn’t stop the Tornado’s rank from riling up the team before today’s game. The guys are amped up, and there have already been two fights. One between Depp and a left wing on the Tornados, and the other between Colt and their defenseman.

Things are heated, to say the least, and the timer is slowly ticking down, boosting everyone’s adrenaline and testosterone until I’m pretty sure the bench is reeking with it.

“Come on!” Logan yells, pounding his hockey stick against the ground as two of the guys on the opposing team slam Theo against the glass. I cringe as he somehow passes the puck to Colt at the center of the rink. The guys who’d pinned Theo sprint after it like cats chasing a mouse.

Colt races toward the net but passes the puck back to Theo at the last second, confusing the Tornados’ goalie as their defensemen scramble after it. Theo’s in position on the right side of the ice and slaps the puck into the goal. The red light illuminates, confirming the point, and the Hawks go wild.

“Yeeeesss!” they scream, their enthusiasm seeping into the crowd as everyone chants Theo’s name.

“Tay-lor! Tay-lor!”

The Tornados’ defenseman, however, is less than amused. My breath hitches as he skates back to Theo and says something. Theo grins and makes a smart-ass comment back to him. Or at least, I assume it’s a smart-ass comment. I can’t exactly hear their conversation over the chanting crowd. But it doesn’t matter because it must’ve had the desired effect. Theo looks arrogant as hell, and his opponent looks…pissed. With a smirk, Theo winks at me, still riding the high from scoring. When the defenseman says something else, Theo's amusement vanishes into thin air. With a final look in my direction, he turns back to the opposing teammate, his upper lip curling as he spits something back and shoves at his chest.

Shit.

The angry defenseman slashes at Theo’s face with his stick, and I gasp. The clang as it connects with Theo’s helmet makes me flinch, but it must still connect with part of his face because a loud curse rings out through the arena as his head jerks back and crimson liquid spills onto Theo’s white jersey. Like a rubber band snapping, Theo recovers and shoves the Tornado player, then throws off his gloves and skates closer, ready to rip the guy apart. Everything happens so fast. I’m not sure whose blood is who’s before the teams are in an all-out brawl, and the referees are whistling to break it up.

My hands cover my mouth as I watch everything from the bench, unable to tear the players apart even if I wanted to.

A few seconds later, a referee is escorting both men to their benches, and I catch a glimpse of Theo. Blood is pouring down his nose, and his knuckles are raw as he steps off the ice, his eyes blazing with fury. They’ve both been kicked out of the game. Not that I even care. His wounds need to be examined. Now. Clearly, they’re doozies.

Russ ushers me with him through the tunnel toward the locker room, trailing behind a very pissed-off Theo who obviously needs some medical attention.

“Ice pack,” Russ orders me, then calls out, “Straight to my office, Taylor!”

Theo’s shoulders are bunched, and his hands are clenched at his sides as he marches into Russ’s office without a word. He paces back and forth like a caged beast, muttering expletives under his breath as I race toward the massive ice machine at the back of the room and fill up a bag for his face.

Russ has medical gloves on by the time I return and motions to the black-cushioned table. “Taylor. Sit.”

“That motherfu––”

“I know,” Russ says. “Sit down and stop talking. I need to see if you’re gonna require stitches.”

Theo does as he’s told, albeit grudgingly, and tilts his head, giving Russ the perfect view of the cuts on his nose and lip. They look nasty.

Russ inspects them for a second, then barks, “Thorne, get some gloves on and a wet washcloth. We need to clean him up.”

I set the ice pack onto the bench next to Theo’s thigh and slip a pair of gloves on, wetting a small white towel under the faucet.

“Russ!” Tukani yells from the locker room. “Graves did something to his shoulder. It’s bad. Get out here!”

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