Page 82 of Slap Shot

She’s bent over the sink with curved shoulders, and the sight causes me to do a double-take.

“Hey,” I call out. “Are you okay?”

When she turns to look at me, her cheeks are streaked with mascara, and I catch the bloodied paper towel wrapped around her hand. I move to her as quick as I can, registering the knife on the counter and pushing it out of the way.

“What happened?” I look around the room then back at her. “Did someone do this to you?”

“That damn knife is the culprit. I was cutting some onions for breakfast tomorrow. Trying to get ahead of the game, you know?” Madeline huffs out a sigh. “My grip slipped. I sliced my finger instead of the onion, and I made a mess.”

“What do you need?” I turn on the sink with my left hand and wet a stack of paper towels. “Do you need to go to the emergency room? What about stitches?”

“It’s not that deep. I’m just trying to get it to stop bleeding.” She holds her hand above her head. Her eyes land on the temporary sling around my shoulder, and she gasps. “Oh my god. What the hell happened toyou?”

“Bad hit in the game. It’s not broken. Just bruised.”

“Wow.” Madeline laughs. “What a pair we make.”

“Between the two of us, we almost have a healthy human. Let’s get you bandaged up. I have a first aid kit in my bathroom.”

“I’m okay. Really. It’ll stop bleeding soon.”

“That wasn’t up for debate, Madeline,” I say, and when I turn and head for my bedroom, I’m glad to hear her following me.

“Is your head okay?” she asks. “That must’ve been some hit if you’re wearing a sling.”

“I hurt like hell, but Lexi told me I’ll be okay in a few days.” I push open the door with my hip and flip on the bathroom light. “Take a seat.”

“I don’t get a tour of your room?” Madeline sits cross-legged on the closed toilet seat. “I saw a headboard out there.”

“Do most people not have a headboard?”

“I’ve heard rumors about men putting pillows on the floor and calling it a mattress. Sheets and a headboard are impressive, yes.”

“The bar sure is low.” I squat and open the cabinet under the sink. I rifle through the toilet paper and electric razors, finding the first aid kit and setting it on the vanity. “Antibiotic ointment first, then a bandage. I’ll put some gauze on it after to hold everything in place.”

“This isn’t your first time patching someone up, is it?” Madeline asks.

“I’m a hockey player, Mads. I’ve seen lots of injuries.”

“I’m guessing you’re not squeamish.”

“Nope. Blood doesn’t faze me.” I put on a glove from the kit and move the blood-soaked paper towel away from her finger. When I see the cut, I grimace. “Shit, Madeline. This is deep.”

“Not deep enough to warrant stitches. I’ve had worse.”

I don’t like the sound of that one bit, but I toss the paper towel in the trash can and open the tube of Neosporin. “Can you wash your hands for me?”

She leans over and turns on the faucet, using soap and water to clean the wound. I’m impressed when she doesn’t flinch. “You’re up, doc.”

I laugh and squeeze out some of the ointment. Dabbing it on the cut, I sigh in relief when I can tell she’s right about not needing stitches. I toss the tube back on the vanity and peel open a Band-Aid.

“Did you and Lucy have a good night?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Madeline smiles at the mention of her daughter, just like she always does. “We did some homework, then we made cookies for Lucy’s class. I left you a couple in a bag on the kitchen counter. I figured it could be a consolation prize after a rough game.” She pauses and glances up at me. “We watched the first period, and it wasn’t pretty. I’m sorry you all had a bad night.”

“It’s part of the sport, unfortunately. It sucks, but it doesn’t do us any good to dwell on it. What kind of cookies did you make?”

“Snickerdoodle. You, um, mentioned they were your favorite on Thanksgiving, so I wanted to give them a try. I think they turned out okay, but you’ll have to be the judge.”

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