Page 57 of Body Check

The puck goes straight into the back of the net, the lamp lights up, and the entire bench deflates.

Three to zero, Buffalo.

McKittrick slams his helmet onto his head, striding out onto the ice. He doesn’t get in place for the face-off; no, he goes straight to the bench, where Coach proceeds to harangue him until both of them are red in the face.

The hockey player jerks his head in a nod, his entire posture stiff. Tension sets into his shoulders, and I know deep in the pit of my stomach that this isn’t good.

When the shifts change and McKittrick is back on the ice, he’s immediately cross-checked by Hastings.

McKittrick tumbles to the ground in an awkward heap, his helmet clanging loudly against a stanchion in the boards, and my blood runs cold.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

He’s on the ground for three, four, five seconds, before the refs blow the whistle and call the play dead. Derek strides forward, Lewis opening the gate for him, and Jenkins and Easton escort he head athletic trainer onto the ice. The two players glide him down to the opposite end of the ice, where the captain lays in a crumpled heap.

But he’s getting up!

McKittrick forces himself to a sitting position, and then uses his stick to balance. Derek hovers over him, talking to him, and McKittrick must say the right thing, because Derek nods and helps him up.

Hunched over with his stick across his knees, McKittrick is breathing hard, but I can see that he’s in pain. A lot of it.

My heart hammers rapid-fire in my chest, like it’s me who’s under attack. Everything in me freezes solid, fear rooting me to the spot.

McKittrick reaches the gate, limping down the chute to the dressing room. I don’t know what to say. Do I say anything?

“Amelia,” Derek barks. “You’re my eyes out here.”

“You got it,” I say, saluting him.

Right. I have to work. I have to focus.

If anything else happens tonight, I’m on deck. Not that anything will happen. There is only seven minutes left in the period, and⁠—

Oh, fuck.

Jenkins and Hastings are fighting.

Reaching into my med bag, I pull out an ice pack and a clean towel, knowing I’ll need it in approximately three point six seconds.

And when Hastings lands a right hook to Jenkins’ face, it’s over. The two fall to the ice, grappling with each other, until the refs break up the fight. Jenkins gets sent to the bench for repairs, while Larsson takes his spot in the sin bin, serving his teammate’s penalty.

I hold the ice pack to Jenkins’ knuckles, which are busted and bloody.

“What the fuck, kid,” I mutter, inspecting his face. He’s sweaty and flushed, but aside from a bruise blooming on his cheek, he doesn’t appear broken.

“He had it coming,” the rookie mutters.

“Gotta learn you can’t punch above your weight,” Easton says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good tilly, though. Has to happen sometimes.”

“I led the AHL in PIMs,” Jenkins mutters. Penalty Infraction Minutes.

He bounced around the minors for the last two years, but it seems like he’s in the big club for a while. If this didn’t change the team’s perception of him, that is.

“Well, you’re not in the AHL anymore, you’re in the NHL now, and we do things a little differently here,” Easton says. He shakes his head. “Welcome to the show, rookie.”

The remaining few minutes of the game wind down, scoreless on our side, and the somber team makes their way into the dressing room.

I head straight for the medical bay, where I write up a brief about Jenkins’ hand. I’m just finalizing the report on my tablet when footsteps make me look up.

When he’s on the ice, he’s McKittrick, but when he’s alone in here with me, he’s Jason. I can’t go back to last names after he was inside of me. Consumed me.

And right now, I don’t think he even recognizes that I’m here. He slams the door shut, and then throws his helmet across the room. It clangs off a cabinet, and he slams his fist against the door, punching twice. He sweeps an arm across a tray of medical supplies, sending them clattering to the floor. He looks around the room, eyes wild and unseeing, until he sags against the door, breathing hard.

Out there, he’s a fierce competitor, insanely stubborn. With me, he’ll find he doesn’t need to be so fucking stoic all the time. He can feel his feelings, whether he’s ready to do it with an audience or not.

When he doesn’t move, I clear my throat. “Are you done?”

He jumps, whirling around to face me. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here.” Setting my tablet aside, I face him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jason scowls. “No.”

“Okay. Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”