“Coach, I’m a trained first aider,” I say quickly. “She needs to go to the hospital but the open wound needs cleaning and wrapping before she goes anywhere.”
Brady’s lips are pinched into a hard, concerned line but she gives me a tight nod.
“Stas,” I say softly. “I’m going to pick you up and carry you to the first aid room, okay?”
“Why are you talking to me like I’m a child?”
Aaron snorts beside her and wipes his hand down his face, looking at the ceiling in a mixture of amusement and despair. The guy is a jackass, but there’s no denying right now that he does care about her. He looks worried sick and he’s not even fighting me about checking her over.
“I’m glad that bump to the head didn’t get rid of your charming personality,” I say playfully. “I’m going to carry you because you haven’t got guards on. Plus, I’m scared if you walk and you collapse, when I catch you, I’m going to hurt you where that big-ass bruise is going to be. Can I pick you up?”
She grumbles expletives under her breath and gives me a halfhearted nod, paired with an eye roll. “I’m heavy,” she mutters as my arms scoop under her legs and around her waist.
We leave Brady and Shithead behind us as I start the walk toward the locker rooms, where the first aid room is. “Shut up, Anastasia. You’re not even half my warm-up weight.”
She wiggles in my arms, and I realize she’s trying to elbow me in the ribs. I’m too preoccupied trying to open the door with my ass to be worried about her being annoyed. Setting her on the medical bed, I take a step back and as soon as our bodies are apart, she punches me straight in the arm. “You can’t tell me to shut up, I’m injured.”
“I’m fucking injured now.” I moan, gripping my bicep. “Jesus Christ. Who taught you how to throw a punch?”
“Sabrina. She has seven older brothers.”
I collect the supplies I need from the cupboard—saline solution, gauze, and an ice pack—enough until she goes to the hospital. I wash my hands thoroughly, dry them, and reach for some gloves. “You’re not allergic to latex, are you?”
Her eyes narrow, lips pulling into a tight line. “No, Nathan. I’m not allergic to latex.”
Suppressing a snort, I brush off the obvious latex connotations that have her glaring at me. “Glad to hear it. We don’t want to add a swollen face to your list of injuries.”
I think I get a smile, but I might have imagined it.
I start on the semi-dried blood on her face, cleaning the area thoroughly, while working into her hairline. I must reach the cut because she winces, and her hand shoots out to grip my sweatshirt. “I’m sorry,” I coo, trying to work as quickly and light-handed as possible.
The blood is soaked into her hair and every time I dab, the gauze picks up more. Her hand is still gripping me, foot moving up and down in the air, and it’s clear she doesn’t like being tended to like this.
I need to distract her, but I can’t think of anything to say that won’t make her remember she’s avoiding me. “You’re a phenomenal skater, Stas. I couldn’t stop watching you.”
“Until I bowling balled across the rink and tried to take down a board with my body, you mean?”
Her eyes look up to meet mine, a 100 percent confirmed smile on her face, definitely not imagining this one. “Yeah, until the human bowling bit, you were breathtaking.”
“Thanks,” she mutters, looking back at her hands. “Why are you here so early?”
I round up the used gauzes now her wound is as clean as I can get it and throw them into the medical waste bin. I don’t know how to answer her question without ruining this nice, semi-normal moment we’re having right now.
“I wanted to see you. You’ve been avoiding me, and I wanted to check you were okay. Can you raise your left arm for me? That’s the side that took the impact, right?”
“Right,” she repeats back, ignoring everything else I said. She grimaces slightly, but overall the movement is fine, nothing’s broken from what I can tell. I strap the ice pack to her shoulder, where the majority of the inflammation is, and give her one last look over.
“Ice pack for no more than ten-minute intervals, okay? You feel dizzy?” She shakes her head. “Sick? Headache? Dazed and or confused?” She shakes her head again, this time with a skeptical eyebrow raised.
I reach down to unlace her skates, pulling each one off her feet and placing them behind her. “I want you to go to the hospital. They need to check you over to be on the safe side, and you need to rest this weekend.”
She snorts loudly, hand flying to her mouth to smother it. “Sorry, that was rude. It’s just that I’m competing tomorrow, I can’t rest.”
“Anastasia…”
“It’ll be fine. Are you done, Dr. Hawkins?” she says, releasing me and attempting to jump down from the bed. My hands instinctively grip her hips to keep her in place, but I let her go like she’s made of lava. Her eyes meet mine, something uncertain swimming in them. “Nate, I—”
The door opens behind us, and Shithead walks in, carrying a pink gym bag. Like I didn’t already have enough of a reason to want to strangle him. He places her bag behind her, handing her some sneakers, which she pulls on. He examines her head like he’s got a clue what he’s looking at.