Page 162 of The Fine Line

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Bennett’s eyes flick down. His brows furrow.

I wipe my glove across my face. Blood.

I drop the glove, bring my bare hand to my nose. More blood.

I swallow hard, trying to say something—anything.

Then the announcer’s voice booms over the speaker:

“Five-minute major penalty on number nineteen of the Chicago Blizzard.”

Bennett lets me go.

With a five-minute penalty and only two and a half minutes left on the clock, I skate off the ice.

Locker room. Gear off. Clothes on.

I leave.

I skip post-game. Skip press. I know I’ll get fined. I don’t care. I just have to get out.

On my way home, my phone starts buzzing, and when I see it’s an incoming call from Bennett. I decline it.

When he calls again, I shut my phone off.

At home, I dump my gear. Take a scalding shower. Then dropto my knees at the coffee table. I flip open the jewelry box, pulling out one of the baggies of pink pills and the mini paperweight I keep in it.

I crush up the pills inside of the bag and then dump the powder out on the table’s surface. Just as I begin snorting it—there’s a loud bang at my door.

“One sec!” I call, continuing the line. Another knock—louder this time.

“Goddammit, Sid—yes, I want to go out!” I rip open the door. “Just give me a fucking?—”

It’s not Sid.

It’s Bennett.

“Who’s Sid?”

“No one. I—I thought you were someone else,” I say fast. Scratch the back of my head. “How did you even?—”

“You texted me your address. For Mom’s Christmas card.”

“Right.”

Shit.

His eyes flick over me. “You were in a daze before the game.”

“I told you—I was tired.”

“Then you came out wired.”

“Yeah, well.” I sniff. “Game-time adrenaline.”

Bennett takes a step forward. “You’ve lost weight. You’re pale. Your eyes are bloodshot. You look like you haven’t slept in?—”

“Are we doing a Twilight reenactment here? Because I’m fresh out of body glitter?—”

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