Bella dreams of tourneys. She dreams of wearing layers and layers of hockey gear in the coldest rink on hottest day in July. She dreams of sweltering in UnderArmour. She dreams she's the only man against an army. Monsters out of mythology books that multiply and multiply and multiply. She throws up an arm to shield herself.
Bella wakes with a start.
Her left arm waves, then drops back to the mattress. There is a mattress. She is in bed. She is looking at the crackled taupe paint on her ceiling. She breathes in deeply and her lungs stretch to capacity. It was just a dream. The monsters were a dream.
The heat is not a dream.
Winnie Vaughn is effectively molded to her side, wrapped up in her RMU blanket, breathing warm puffs of air against Bella's neck. Bella squeezes her eyes shut. Beads of sweat trickle around her ears and her collarbone, and her pillowcase is damp. Normally, Bella would kick off all the sheets and turn down the furnace (and piss off her roommates as a result). Today, she combs she fingers through Winnie's hair.
With a sleepy whine, Winnie somehow manages to tuck herself even closer to Bella.
"We gotta get up soon," Bella murmurs. She brushes Winnie's hair aside. She grins. Thank goodness Winnie can't see her.
"Winn?"
A moan that sounds a little like "Noooo" rumbles against Bella's chest.
"You got a doctor's appointment," Bella says gently.
"I hate doctors," Winnie mumbles to Bella.
"It'll be good, I promise."
"Mmm."
"... Or are you just gonna lay there?"
"Be nice to me, I got a doctor's appointment," Winnie says as she untangles herself from Bella's blanket.
"Okay." Bella murmurs, "I'll be nice,"
Bella Cahill took a full year to recover from surgery. The first four months, she couldn't even shoot a puck. It was worth it in the long run, but man, what a year.
Bella went under the knife in late November of her first year, around the time Robert Morris played Westwood State, which kind of sucked. That game is hyped to the max every year. Bella spent the day in a hospital bed in Illinois.
Four months later, she began the slow, bizarre process of re-learning her life's work. Nine months later, the next NCAA hockey season began, and Hanna Richards started as Robert Morris's center. One year later, Bella traveled to Westwood State for the first time, and watched her team lose in Westwood Station. She didn't properly play until her third year of college.
That's a long time.
Recovering from surgery is the worst. It's all about starting from scratch and building up a lifetime of hockey skills in a matter of months. Definitely, certifiably the worst, registered trademark. You feel like you're drowning, like water replacing the air in your lungs, like threads and loose seams replacing your veins, and the doctors have the nerve to say "you're getting better. You're improving so much." They have the nerve to call it recovery.
It wouldn't feel so bad, you know, the 42%, the 52%, the 68%, if you couldn't remember 100%. But of course you can. You can remember the week before the injury when you felt invincible and unbreakable and everything came easy as the low-scudding clouds. That's the strongest memory you'll have—the feeling of soaring on wax wings.
But surgery? It's not an instant fix. It's a process. And Almighty Hell, the weeks after surgery feel like a bigger setback than the day your wings melted. Because you can remember the flying. Every step of the way.
Every minor triumph, every centimeter added to range of motion, every half-pound of resistance, you might as well be swimming in circles through quicksand. You know it's not good. You know what good is. You know what you're capable of, you know what the clear, open sky smells like, and now you're just looking up at it from a hole in the mud.
Recovering from surgery would be a breeze if you couldn't remember what it felt like to be whole.
The weirdest part, though, is when you're whole again. It is, after all, a process, and there's no glorious, definable moment when the body just starts clicking. When you are finally healthy again, it's hardly noticeable at all.
You get out there. You do what you do. And it's easy to forget the swirling, heavy feeling of recovery. But that process remains there, a part of you, and you are stronger for it.
When they finally drag themselves out of bed, Bella leaves Winnie to the shower and sneaks downstairs in search of breakfast. Or she tries to sneak. She's rummaging through the vegetables in the bottom refrigerator drawer when someone clears their throat behind her. Bella bangs her head on the freezer door as she whirls around.
"Oliver," she groans, rubbing the back of her skull.
He is perched on the counter, ankles crossed, with a steaming coffee mug clasped between both hands. Sam is there, too, leaning on the cabinets and grinning.
"You should really be more aware of your surroundings," Oliver says lightly.
"I live here," Bella reprimands. "I shouldn't have to keep my guard up in my own kitchen."
"Who knows," he says. "All kinds of people are spending the night here, these days."
Bella stares at him, but what she sees is a thunderstorm on the horizon. Her mouth opens.
Before Bella can think of anything to say, Oliver's face cracks, and he laughs so hard he has to set his coffee aside or else he'd spill. "You're ridiculous," he smiles. "No one's gonna hurt your friend, Bella."
Sam hip checks Bella so she can get a milk carton, then shuts the refrigerator door.
"I wasn't done with that," Bella huffs, and re-opens the fridge.
Sam takes a long swig straight from the carton.
"Are you kidding me?," Bella says, fully aware of how petulant she sounds. "Whose milk is that? I know for a fact it's not yours."
Sam looks at the carton and shrugs one shoulder. "I think it's yours."
"You don't even live here," Bella grumps.
Before Sam can come up with a snarky response, Winnie shuffles into the kitchen. Her hood is pulled up, but also has Bella's Robert Morris blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
"Hey, Winn," she says softly.
"Oh, sweet," Winnie says, voice still scratchy. "You making me breakfast?" She nods at the egg carton in Bella's hand and sinks into a kitchen chair. "I like them over medium, just the whites."
Bella stares—at Winnie's smirk, Sam's smug face, at Oliver, clouded in superiority.
"None of you live here." Bella turns her back on them to find a frying pan. "I'm making myself breakfast. You homeless people can all fend for yourselves."
"I ain't homeless," Sam gripes.
"I'm a little homeless," Winnie says.
"You're all children is what you are," Oliver says smoothly. He slides from the counter and slinks out of the kitchen.
Winnie blinks. "I'm 3 years older than you."
"Alright Vaughn. Time to get serious."
Bella turns around slowly. Sam has her arms folded across her chest, towering over Winnie, looking down on her with an igneous glare. Winnie looks over her shoulder, where Cass has appeared, mirroring Sam's austerity.
Bella clutches the egg carton a little tighter. "Sam—"
"We have a right to know," Sam interrupts. "What are your intentions with our center?"
The air rushes out of Bella's lungs as she rolls her eyes.
"I promise," Winnie says in deeply serious tones, "my intentions are inappropriate at best."
The stare-down lasts for several seconds. Sam cracks first, giggling like a maniac and collapsing into the chair next to Winnie. They bump fists like they've been doing it for a decade.
"Good freaking morning, degenerates!" Claire shouts as she enters the room. Claire always shouts when she enters a room. "Oliver said Bella was making breakfast!"
"Yeah, Bella, get cooking," Oliver says, peeking from over his girlfriend's shoulder.
Morgan files in behind them. Their kitchen is cramped enough without six huge girls and a gymnast stuffed inside, so trying to actually cook is about to be an Olympic event. As if on cue, Cass plants herself on the counter between the sink and the toaster.
"Really, Cass?" Bella says. "You think you might be in the way a little bit?"
"Yeah, but would you rather I help cook?" She threatens.
"No, God, never mind," Bella laughs.
Morgan ends up helping. They only have the one small frying pan, so they go three eggs at a time, one plate at a time. They end up using almost all the eggs in the house. Morgan cracks them while Bella keeps them from burning.
Cass holds out a hand for the first dish, which Bella pulls out of reach, saying, "Guests first."
Sam cackles.
Twenty minutes later, everyone has been served. The first people to eat are already stacking up their dishes and starting conversation when Bella and Morgan finally dig into their breakfast. Claire scoots onto Oliver's lap to make room for Morgan at the table. Bella remains standing.
"... nervous about the draft, you hear me," Cass is saying.
"It'll be great." Sam waves a hand dismissively and looks up at Bella. "So, Cahill, how does it feel to rub a win in Westwood's face?"
Winnie fixes Sam with one of her trademarked Eridian Vaughn Stares.
"I'm—I just ...um." It might be the first time Samantha Adamsen has ever been rendered speechless.
"Screw you." Winnie comments.
The silence is painfully awkward, and Bella feels like she should be the one to step in, but she has no idea what to say.
Then an incredible thing happens. Cass bursts into laughter.
"She told you," Cass says. "The girl set you straight."
But that's when Claire starts to crack up, too. She drops her forehead onto Oliver's shoulder, which is also shaking with laughter.
Sam chuckles cautiously.
Bella steals a glance at Winnie, whose eyes glint from the folds of her hoodie. She fixes Bella with a devastating grin.
Sam turns to Bella and says, weakly, "you know about this? You know your girl got some attitude?"
"She's got a mouth on her, that's for sure," Bella says, matching Winnie's gaze evenly.
Bella thinks maybe the comfortable limbo of her life is sliding out of place. Her non-celebrity college-hockey status. Her unfinished business degree that she didn't care about to begin with. Her morning breakfasts with her weird puzzle-piece family. Her on-and-off love life which, let's be real, was more of a lust life.
——
Winnie's good mood has drained away by the time they pull into a parking space under the towering Robert Morris University hockey complex. Without a word, she twists her bag out from the backseat and heads for the big glass entryway. In the fall, it looks more imposing than usual. None of the prairie phlox bushes or blue violets that bloom in spring. This time of year it's bare branches and smoky grays and sharp corners and exposed concrete. It can't be worse than Westwood Station, but if Westwood Station is what you're used to, well.
Winnie's red and black training gear sticks out like a scar in the RMU entryway.
"You okay?" Bella asks as she leads Winnie down toward the medical wing.
"I'm fine," she says curtly.
"It'll be good, in the long run," Bella says. "Since you're going to the Olympics."
"Hopefully."
Bella cringes. "Either way ... you know you can stay with us. And I'll be there. No matter what."
Winnie levels her with a terse gaze. "You sure you want me around."
"... Of course. More than anything."
"I don't know if your roommates want me around."
Bella doesn't know what to say to that.
Robert Morris's University's Head Athletic Trainer for hockey is Emma Temple, a pretty, olive-skinned woman with severe eyebrows and a severe demeanor. She's very single-minded in her approach to injury recovery. To be fair, she's got one of the most important jobs in college hockey, and Bella can only appreciate her for doing it so well.
Bella loves her, but she also suspects she might be an underground mixed-martial-artist by night.
Winnie, on the other hand, closes off the minute Bella introduces them.
"So," Emma says, shaking Winnie's hand and giving her a careful sweep from head-to-toe. "You didn't mention the 'friend' you were bringing in was Westwood State's own Eridian Vaughn."
When her gaze latches on the Tundra logo across Winnie's chest, her eyebrows soar. She turns to Bella and shoots her an acidic smile.
So, not that she's nervous, but Bella is fairly certain Winnie and Emma both want to hit her right now.
"I know it's a little—weird," Bella says. "But she might have had a concussion on Monday. And, um. Some other injuries."
Winnie is scowling unhelpfully at the Robert Morris mural splashed across the hall.
As Bella had predicted (or hoped), Emma's ethics as a medical professional win out over misgivings she has about rival hockey players. She drags a mostly unwilling Winnie through a series of exams, including state-of-the-art concussion detection technology, a brief physical, and a series of X-rays. It all takes about an hour.
While Winnie is getting scanned, Bella flicks through her emails. She selects two agencies that seem the most promising and shoots off polite replies. She saves their phone numbers into her contacts.
"The shoulder injury is pretty straightforward," Emma says. She shuffles through X-rays and selects two to clip up on the illuminator. She circles a vague area of the shoulder joint with her finger. "This is some standard wear-and-tear, signs of repeated minor injuries that build up over time, that sort of thing. It's not unlike a baseball player's shoulder. They spend all day throwing, and eventually the motion takes its toll."
Winnie shifts uncomfortably on the exam table, and Bella resists the urge to cross the room and hold her hand. This isn't about her, she reminds herself, and sticks her hands in her pockets.
"I haven't hurt my shoulder that much," Winnie croaks.
"Sure," Emma says, "but it's combined with overuse."
Winnie doesn't say anything.
"So," Emma says, glancing between Winnie and her clipboard. "The X-ray shows a few other things to look out for." She switches out one of the X-rays. "Here's your right arm. The metal plating right in here. Was the break recent?"
"Couple years."
The X-ray of Winnie's metal arm is fascinating. Winnie's bones and flesh are a ghostly gray, but the metal reinforcements pop out of the frame, stark and white and real. It isn't shaped the way Bella imagined; from this angle, it looks like a crocodile skull in profile, its blunt little teeth sunken into the bones of Winnie's upper arm.
Emma is still speaking. "... would have removed the plates and screws, by now." She frowns. "It really just needs time to heal well."
Winnie laughs, a dark, low sound unlike laughter.
Switching out another slide, Emma gestures toward what looks like Winnie's ribcage. "Here are the ribs you mentioned," she says absently. "This one here hasn't aligned well, but that can fix itself with enough rest. And here ..." she switches out another slide, "is the part I wasn't expecting."
A spectral image of Winnie's skull fills the screen. Bella feels a dull ache in her temple.
"If you look closely at the skull here, there are signs of cranial calcification," Emma goes on. She points at a few spots on the X-ray. "The size and placement are normal for people with repeated head trauma. It looks like you've suffered concussions before the championship game?" She tilts it like a question, even though the X-ray more or less answers it for her.
"Yeah," Winnie says.
Emma watches her closely for a split second before continuing. "Symptoms are usually mild. Some people don't experience any at all. It can include memory lapses, headaches, problems with concentration and coordination. You ever feel anything like that?"
"Yeah."
Emma nods. "It's common with hockey players and other athletes who participate in contact sports. How many concussions have you had?"
The way Winnie glares at the X-ray screen, Bella half-expects it to freeze solid. She doesn't answer for a long time. Finally: "Six."
Bella feels another vicarious throb in her own temple.
"Okay," Emma says smoothly. "That makes sense, with what we're seeing here. Were all the concussions hockey-related?"
Winnie stares some more, and glares some more. It's honestly impressive how well Emma is handling Winnie's ability to drag out silences. Her reticence is superhuman, and she just takes it in stride.
"Like I said, it's very consistent with—"
"No," Winnie interrupts her.
She raises her eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"
"The third one wasn't hockey-related."
"How did it happen?" she asks politely.
Bella holds her breath.
"Car crash," Winnie says, maintaining careful eye contact with the screen on the wall.
"Oh!" Emma looks like she keeps discovering puzzle pieces scattered around her house, and as exasperating as it is, she always knows exactly where they fit. "Well, again, from what we're seeing here, that's perfectly normal. How long ago was the accident?"
Another long, elastic pause. "Four years ago," Winnie says. "About four years."
Bella tries to follow the conversation and simultaneously do the math in her head.
Emma sighs. "Was it a serious concussion?"
"Pretty serious." Winnie's hand drifts to the scar inside her elbow. "I lost a lot of my memory. They called it some kind of amnesia."
Four years ago, Bella had just finished her last high school hockey season.
"Do you struggle with day-to-day tasks? Or did you forget some things that happened before the accident?" Emma asks, smoothing a hand over the papers on her clipboard. "Maybe the days leading up to the injury?"
Winnie blinks rapidly. Her eyes drift toward Bella, but then she jerks her head to face Emma. "Everything is kind of spotty, when I try to remember," she says. "And a couple months before the accident ... kind of just a blur."
Four years ago, Bella called Winnie and got a wrong number.
"Sounds like retrograde amnesia. It primarily affects long-term memories," Emma says. She smiles gently, but Winnie isn't looking at her. "We see this all the time. It's rarely debilitating in any way. As for any other lingering symptoms, we see tons of athletes every year who experience issues with memory, concentration, even depression."
Winnie nods slowly, tracing the path of her scar with a forefinger.
Deep in Bella's chest, a burning sensation begins to flower. It feels the way a campfire looks, popping and crackling, the dark blue center crumbling under the force of nothing.
"Those kinds of things are all very treatable," Emma goes on, flipping to a bottom page on her clipboard. "We prescribe minor pain medications and anti-depressants pretty often, actually."
Four years ago, Bella thought she would never talk to Winnie again.
"I'm not saying we should get into that today," Emma reassures her. "Just saying it's something you can investigate, if you think it's necessary."
"Yeah."
"It all just depends what's the best fit for you and your lifestyle."
"Can I still play hockey?"
Now it is Emma's turn to fall silent. She frowns and shoots Bella a brief glance before turning back to Winnie. She sets the clipboard beside her on the examination table. "Honestly ... yes," she says, and the sincerity is evident in her voice. Bella covers her mouth with one hand. "There's nothing stopping you from playing hockey once your body's back to a hundred percent."
"You mean my shoulder."
"And your ribs, and the lingering concussion symptoms." Her face is soft. She looks like Bella feels—like she wants to give Winnie a long hug and wrap her in a soft blanket.
It's difficult to read Winnie's expression. She still looks like she's trying to carve a hole in the floor with her scowl. When she speaks, her voice cracks. "Is it always going to hurt?"
"Listen," Emma says in her firm, Head-Athletic-Trainer-tone. "It's still very important that you take time to let these injuries heal. Continuing to play through this kind of damage is the stupidest thing you can do, no question," she says candidly. "I'm serious. None of this 'popping-your-shoulder-back-in-just-to-lose-the-National-Championship' crap. It's a process. There would be, at the very least, eight weeks of physical therapy leading up to surgery."
Winnie makes a face, but doesn't argue.
"After that, though, yes." Emma shrugs and picks up a clipboard. "It's a personal decision. There are risks, of course, but there are always risks for long-term injury in the sports world." She licks her lips. "It's a serious decision, though. Further damage to your head could lead to something ... more permanent."
Winnie frowns, and her eyes roam the floor, as if trying to read something.
Emma's lips curl in a crooked smile. She props the clipboard on her hip. "Now. I've got a meeting with one of our surgeons, but I hope this helped. We perform outgoing exams for all our athletes," she gives Bella a pointed look.
"I'll schedule mine, I promise," Bella says.
Emma rolls her eyes. "And I'm sure Winnie is someone any Olympic team could deal with. Please, really, if you have any other questions, just get in touch."
She breezes out of the exam room, leaving Bella and Winnie alone, burning bright against the sterile white room.
"Want to go for a walk?" Bella offers, because those training rooms are the worst.
Winnie doesn't answer. She slides off the exam table, pulls on her sweatshirt, and bends over to retrieve her bag without looking at Bella. She is sluggish and stiff. Bella wonders if it's because of latent hockey injuries or something else.
She holds the door open and follows Winnie into the hallway. They settle into a leisurely pace.
"So," Bella begins clumsily. "Car accident."
Winnie sucks in an audible breath. "Summer before senior year," she confirms. "Sorry. I would have ..."
Bella says. "It wasn't your fault, what happened."
They turn the corner and find themselves at the head of a long glass corridor, overlooking the RMU weight room.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Winnie says. "I'm sorry I disappeared, and all."
Bella has a flashback to the national championship game; to Winnie's desperate confessions after RMU won in regulation. "You don't owe me anything," Bella assures her.
"My friend was in the car, too." Winnie blurts, and she looks away with a pained expression. "She didn't make it."
"Oh my god." Bella almost trips. She hates herself when all she can say is, "I'm sorry."
"When I woke up, I was handcuffed to the hospital bed."
What?
There is pressure in Bella's ears; the sound of a tin whistle. This must be what it feels like to fall from a thousand feet.
Winnie runs a hand through her hair. "I couldn't remember anything and I was confused and I just wanted to go home." She blinks hard. "But people were telling me I killed this kid. And her parents wanted me locked up."
The words tumble out as if Winnie's exams knocked down some kind of dam, and Bella doesn't want to hold her back—but she also wants to scream.
"Nothing happened," Winnie says. "They tried to press charges, but they didn't really have an argument, and I couldn't remember anything, so I was unreliable. They just knew what crowd we ran with." Winnie grimaces. "'She was high, she was drunk, she killed my baby.' They were convinced I was stoned."
"Were you? High?" Bella tries to keep her voice steady.
Winnie doesn't answer for a long time. She gazes across the forest of workout equipment and the red, white, and blue weight room.
"I can't remember."
A part of Bella's chest shatters.
"I can't remember," Winnie mumbles. "I mean, I did get high that year. Once or twice. But we were in the middle of play-offs, so I don't think, with drug tests ..." Panic begins to rise in Winnie's voice. "And—I wouldn't—I mean, that's, I wouldn't—and I never did it before. But I'm—I just can't remember."
"Hey, hey, hey," Bella cuts her off gently. She leans into Winnie's line of sight, and Winnie promptly shuts her eyes. "Listen—they would have known if you were intoxicated somehow. You were in the hospital, they would have taken blood tests, they would have had proof." She says it again. "They would have had proof."
"Yeah. I guess. I'm not in jail, so, you know." Winnie sounds bitter, and she sounds unconvinced. "I just wish I could know. It feels so weird not knowing."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Sure," Winnie says. When she opens her eyes, they look extra bright. "I still wrecked the car, though. And my friend. She still died. It still happened."
"Accidents happen."
"It sucks," Winnie whispers.
"I'm sorry." And Bella doesn't want to ask, but she does. "Were you two close?"
Winnie leans forward to rest her forehead against the glass. "I didn't remember her at all, for awhile."
"Oh." That sweeps any hint of jealousy from Bella's mind, because that's—awful. That's just awful.
"I started getting things back. Later. Tatum. We called her Tater." Winnie looks away. "Kinda makes it worse, you know?"
"Yeah." Bella doesn't know.
"I remember some of the things we did. We saw a couple movies together. I have really strong feelings about Tate and Steak-N-Shake. Nothing specific, though."
"That's awful."
"Some days, I wish I remembered better," Winnie says. Then she ducks her head and adds, almost inaudibly, "Other days I just wish I forgot everything."
"I'm glad you didn't forget everything," Bella tries.
"Bella, I—" Winnie sucks in a sharp breath and looks at Bella. Her eyes shine pink. "I didn't forget you."
"... What?"
"I promise, I didn't forget you," she says desperately. Her voice begins to crumble. "I just didn't—I didn't remember you right away." The last words come out in a desperate sob.
"Oh, Winnie, it's fine, I don't care about that." It's like stabbing; it's like being shot in the gut. Bella can actually pinpoint the moment her heart breaks. Winnie doesn't deserve a fraction of the pain she's suffered, and the worst part is—this is it. This is all Bella can do. If only she could take it away; if only she could soak up all the pain until Winnie was clean and dry and smiling again.
Of all the injustices in the world that she can't fix, this one hurts the most.
"I was just trying to figure things out," Winnie gasps. "Nothing—everything came back slow and it—by then it had been forever, it had been months, and I didn't know how—you weren't there, so—"
Bella's ringtone cuts her off.
They stare at each other for a split second. Bella scrambles for her phone while Winnie swipes at her eyes.
Bella fully intends to hit Ignore—and then sees the name of a sports agency flashing on the screen. "Oh, crap."
"What's wrong?"
"It's an agent," Bella says. She glances at Winnie. "I'll call them back."
"Screw that," Winnie says bluntly. "Answer it."
"Are you—?"
"Answer. It."
Bella's fist clenches around her phone, and she tries to keep her voice from shaking when she says hello. Winnie drifts down the hall, and Bella follows her a few feet back. She doesn't pay attention to where they're going.
"Hello," a brisk voice says on the other end of the line. "My name is Reagan Price of Fischer Sports Management."
It's funny that so many words fly through Bella's mind and all she can manage out loud is "Oh."
"We're seriously interested in representing you, Bella."
This is happening right now.
They amble down another corridor, one with a series of blue benches along the wall and heavy oak doors on all sides.
"Will you want to see me ... play or anything?" Bella asks as she sinks onto a bench.
"I don't think that will be necessary," Agent Price says. "I've been watching you for a long time."
And that's how Bella gets an agent.
It's stupid, really, after the weeks she's spent agonizing over emails, the months of nervous energy, telling herself she might not even enter the Team USA draft. Bella is still thinking about amnesia and broken bones when she asks, "What do I do next?"
Bella feels dizzy. They discuss training camps and draft regulations and the Olympics. It's still just a verbal commitment, but it's enough. Bella's not exactly the type to shop around.
Bella stares at the tile pattern on the floor. "Are you the ones who work out of ...?"
"Minneapolis."
"Right," Bella says. "Are we ... do we need to discuss contracts, or anything?"
"It's a little early for that," Price says. "But if you have any specific questions, please feel free to ask. You may already know, Olympic agents can claim no more than four percent of a player's contract. But we can discuss other details in person."
"In Minnesota."
"...Yes."
"If you don't mind me asking," Bella says, "who else do you represent?"
Price names a few big names in hockey, including former RMU center Hanna Richards. She's also interested to hear the name of female basketball player Mary Grace Angelo.
This is insane, Bella thinks. She played the National Championship Game five days ago.
"Thank you for your time, Bella," Price finally says, her tone formal. "We'll be in touch."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am," Bella says, but Price has already hung up.
When Bella looks up, totally dazed, Winnie is nowhere in sight. She checks the clock on her phone and realizes she'd been talking to Price for almost half an hour, which seems like nothing at all when it's your future on the line.
And yet.
Bella is halfway through a totally-not-hysterical text when the nearest oak door swings open and she hears Cassidy Therrien's voice.
Winnie steps into the hall.
"Oh my God, sorry I took so long," Bella says instantly, leaping to her feet and shaking with relief. "I didn't mean to ... ditch you."
Winnie's face is blank. She sways a little.
"Are you okay?" Bella wants to ask again and again, are you okay, are you okay, until the answer is yes.
Winnie lists forward, a subtle creaking motion. It's not really an answer.
Bella closes the distance between them, and whatever storm loomed on the horizon burns itself out there, furling away into a distant forecast.
"I'm tired," she whispers.
"I know," Bella says.
Over Winnie's shoulder, Cassidy Therrien appears in the doorway. She is holding an unmarked folder under one arm.
Bella pulls Winnie a little closer.
For a moment, Therrien watches the two of them, her gaze steady and studious. She gives Bella a little nod before retreating back into her office and closing the door.
——
"Come on," Winnie says. "Just five minutes. Just—I won't use my shoulder. I won't even use my right arm."
"You're not lifting any weights!" Bella scolds.
"I'm getting skinnier as we speak," Winnie whines.
"Doctor's orders," Bella says, "You need to rest."
"Sit-ups?"
"You have three broken ribs!"
"Come on!" Winnie throws her left hand in the air. "Do you think these abs just happen all on their own?"
"Get a room!" a voice wails. They turn around and find Sam and Cass, both in sweaty workout gear.
Turns out they're headed to the rink to pass. As soon as Winnie hears this, she whips around and stares pointedly at Bella. It's a losing battle, really.
When Bella doesn't protest, Winnie starts nagging Sam for a left handed stick. They try to pass while traveling down the cramped hallway, forcing Bella to dodge ugly passes because her friends are idiots.
"Okay, okay, god, stop!" She shouts, intercepting Sam's already sub-par pass. Sam, Winnie, and Cass all watch her with round eyes. Bella sighs. "... At least wait until we get on the ice."
She leads the way, holding the puck hostage. Behind her Winnie mumbles, "Dunno why everyone thinks I'm the one with the temper."
"Right?!" Cass exclaims. "Me neither, man. It's 'cause she smiles and bats those eyelashes at all the reporters when the cameras are rolling. Fake."
"I'm not fake," Bella protests, and Cass smirks.
"Dude, she's always been that way," Winnie says. "She smiles pretty for the press, then on the sideline she's all cursing like a sailor."
"Yes."
Heaving another exasperated sigh, Bella slips into the rink.
RMU practices in here. It's not heated well, but it's protected from the whiplash winds. There are two full rinks, towering goal lights, terrible lighting, and a white dome swooping overhead.
"You impressed?" Sam asks Winnie as they lace up their skates.
Winnie bites her lip. "The one at Westwood is nicer."
Sam looks flabbergasted. "You're a liar, man."
"I'm speaking facts!" Winnie says. "Everybody knows Westwood is better than RMU. It's the CCM money."
"The what?!"
"You have an UnderArmour deal," Winnie deadpans, shaking her head as if she's personally ashamed by Robert Morris's equipment contracts. "Second rate."
Winnie looks serious, but she's not fooling anyone.
"I'll show you second rate." Sam pushes Bella aside and skates toward the center of the nearest rink. "Hit me!" She calls for a pass.
Winnie probably shouldn't be passing, but Bella has managed to talk her down from free weights and cardio and hack squats. Anyway, she's clearly about to collapse from some kind of hockey-withdrawal. Plus, she's left-handed. Passing leisurely won't set her recovery back any further than a strong handshake.
She sends the puck to Sam in a neat line. While they watch it fly, Winnie turns to Cass with half a smile. "Does Bella still cuss out referees?"
Cass rolls her eyes. "Oh my god. She needs one of those leashes, like the ones for kids? With little backpacks?"
From across the field, Sam calls "Cahill!" and sends the puck back to Bella.
"There was one time this reporter called Sam Adamsen a thug, you hear me?" Cass tells Winnie.
"This Sam Adamsen?!" Winnie asks, nodding to where Sam roams the ice, about a hundred feet away.
"Yeah, that puppy dog. A 'thug'." Cass rolls her eyes. "I thought Bella was gonna blow a fuse."
"I don't like reporters," Bella grumbles. "Or jerks," she adds bitterly.
"Somebody pass the puck!" Sam yells.
"Wait." Winnie puts a hand on Bella's elbow to stop her from passing. "Let's see if she can defend at all."
She dashes toward Sam, skates around the blue line, and she sinks it top shelf, easy as ever.
So maybe Bella has selfish reasons for letting Winnie play. That's fine.
The four of them skate lazy routes and shoot passes and gently lose track of time. Sometimes they defend each other; other times they pass wrong-handed, which results in clumsy shots, except from Cass, who turns out to be surprisingly ambidextrous, and Winnie, who is "not allowed under any circumstances to even touch the stick with her right hand!" (After Sam gives the order, Winnie proceeds to both catch and shoot the rest of her passes one-handed.) Eventually, Bella and Cass bow out and flop side-by-side to watch Winnie and Sam play long-toss.
Cass bumps Bella's shoulder. "So she's staying, right?"
"You think she should stay?"
"Well yeah, she should stay," Cass says, giving Bella a funny look. "I want her to stay."
Bella smiles. "You could tell her that, you know."
"Yeah," Cass looks back across the ice. She even smiles. "Yeah, I might talk to her."
They watch as Winnie shoots another pass, her knee as a right arm replacement, and left hand on the top of the stick, easy and precise, a curve that lands neatly on the blade of Sam's stick, then pops back.
"Draw it back when you catch it!" Winnie calls.
"Don't tell me what to do!" Sam shouts, and shots the puck back.
"Go deep!" Winnie orders, and Sam does. Winnie waits and watches her skate before shooting and launching a shot into the opposite zone. Sam draws her stick back.
"Look at that, Cahill," Cass says. "Winnie has a better shot than you."