Jake left Murphy and joined me. "Let me see."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." Jake knelt on the ice next to me. "Damn, Evan. He got you good."
I stared down at my hand, watching blood seep between my fingers. The injury didn't shake me, but Jake's reaction did. Anyone watching would have thought someone attacked his family.
Nobody had ever defended me like that.
Not in juniors, when teammates let casual slurs slide by without comment. Not in foster care, when bigger kids took my things and I learned that speaking up only made me a more visible target. Not anywhere, really.
I'd learned to fight my own battles because no one else would fight them for me.
Jake had been ready to drop gloves with a massive bruiser over a stick to my hand.
"Can you move your fingers?" Jake asked.
I flexed them experimentally. They worked, mostly. "Yeah."
"Good." He stood and offered me his hand. "Come on. Let's get you looked at."
I took his hand without thinking, and he pulled me to my feet with surprising gentleness.
Then reality crashed back.
I was bleeding on the ice. Half the team was staring. Jake Riley had just gone to war for me.
And the worst part? The absolute worst part?
I liked it.
I liked having someone in my corner. I liked how he'd said "get the fuck off him" and meant it.
I was in serious trouble now because people left. They always left. And getting used to having someone defend me would only set me up for the inevitable moment when I'd have to defend myself again.
I pulled my hand away from Jake's and skated toward the bench, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
Behind me, I heard him following, but I didn't turn around.
Some walls existed for good reasons.
When I reached the bench, it was a fishbowl. I was the star creature with all eyes on me.
Luka, one of the trainers, already had his kit out by the time I slumped onto the players' bench. "Let's have a look." His voice was matter-of-fact as he stared at my palm. "Could be worse. You're lucky—blade caught the meat, not the tendons."
Jake dropped onto the bench beside me without asking. He was breathing harder than he should have been for a simple scrimmage, probably still riding the adrenaline from his face-off with Murphy.
"You need stitches?" Jake asked.
Luka shook his head. "Nah. Clean cut, good bleeding. I'll butterfly it and wrap it up. He'll be fine."
"Good." Jake's voice dropped so that only I could hear it. "Can't mess up that face."
My entire nervous system short-circuited.
Heat crawled up my neck, and I prayed it wasn't visible.
"Thanks."
