Page 73 of Get Me to the Starting Line
Instead, I do the most irrational thing I can think of.
“Julien,” Leah answers on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”
Right, I’ve never called her before.
“Uh, n-nothing.”
Silence.
There’s too much silence and it feels charged. I haven’t heard from her since I got out of the hospital. And even when she was there, there was distance. I hate it. Is it because she thinks I’m weak?
“N-Never mind, I’m sorry.” I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. Calling? Getting hurt? I don’t know. She speaks before I can hang up.
“Do you need help?”
“It’s okay, I’ll figure it out.”
“Julien, what do you need?” She sounds so exasperated with me, I smile.
“My elevator is broken.”
“Text me your address.”
And then she hangs up. I know exactly why as the protest dies on my tongue. She didn’t give me a chance to decline. Left with no other choice, I text her my address.
Leah Harrison
Be there in fifteen
Four words and my heart is in my throat, temporarily distracting me from the ache in my hip and the pit of fear I plunged into after waking up in the hospital. I’ve taken some hits over my career—it’s not uncommon, though it is majorly frowned upon.
Don’t touch the goalie.
I’ve watched the video of the Toronto player losing all control and skating right into me after I saved his shot. I didn’t have time to get out of the way. I felt it. Every agonizing second.
The shock quickly led to the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Worse than when I tried baseball in the sixth grade and got hit in the forehead with a broken bat. Trying to get up was no use—I couldn’t move. I was frozen on the ice and the pain damn near made me pass out.
Finding Leah in the stands, seeing her face, was the one thing keeping me conscious. Though it was a blur through the glass and the sheen in my eyes, I could see her watching me. She kept me grounded.
But when I woke up at the hospital and she was there, her eyes were guarded. My knack for one-word answers and lack of conversational skills might have rubbed off on her.
Something was wrong, but when I asked what, she told me to shut up. So I did.
I don’t have to wait long. Leah rushes into the lobby, greeting my doorman briefly. She’s not what I expected. I always picture her in her running clothes, or more recently, nothing but my jersey. I’ve never seen her in jeans.
They fit her like a glove, accentuating her hips and clinging to her strong legs. My mouth waters. Her cropped knit sweater barely hits the top of her high-waisted pants and when she moves, I catch a sliver of skin. The cream fabric hangs off one bare shoulder and I want to run my fingers over it to relive the smoothness of her skin.
She scans me from head to toe, taking in my brace and crutches.
“Give me your keys,” she demands by way of greeting.
“Why?”
She looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “So I can get some of your stuff,” she says, like it should be obvious. Her hand is out, waiting for me to relinquish my keys.
“I don’t want to go to Adam’s, I just need help up the stairs.”
She snorts. “What floor are you on?”
