Page 27 of Icing the Cougar
Maybe she won’t come.
Maybe she’s smarter than I am.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
The next five minutes feel longer than the whole game. I pace the locker room, back and forth between my stall and the showers, hands raw and stinging, face burning. I imagine Trinity seeing me like this—eyes swollen, lip split, blood on my neck where I missed it with the towel. If I could climb inside a locker and shut the door, I would.
A heavy knock. I jump like I’m busted sneaking a cigarette, and then Trinity’s voice on the other side. “Can I come in?”
I clear my throat, which does nothing to fix it, and croak, “Yeah. It’s open.” I want to be cool about it. Fail. I’m a goddamn wreck.
She steps inside with her hair pulled up in a bun. She’s in jeans and a faded hoodie with my jersey over that. The only thing she says for a whole five seconds is “Holy shit.”
I try to smile. “Guess you saw the main event.”
She stands in the doorway, hands in pockets, eyes scanning me from forehead to fists. “I saw,” she says. “You okay?”
“I’ve had worse.” I’ve been stomped before. That’s not what hurts.
Trinity comes closer, her sneakers squeaking on the tile, and I brace myself for whatever she’s about to say. Maybe this is the part where she tells me it’s over, that she doesn’t date men who punch their problems. I’d deserve it.
Yet she just stands there, five feet away, and says, “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Not really.” I do, but not the way she means. “You ever get so mad you can’t see straight?”
“All the time,” she says. “Usually at people who try to fix me.” A tiny smile. “Or at myself.”
I laugh, and it hurts. “Same.”
She steps up, close enough that I can smell the lavender in her shampoo. Her hand hovers by my jaw. “Can I…?”
I nod, and she touches the split lip, feather-light, eyes searching for the places I’m most damaged. “You’re going to have a shiner,” she says, tracing just under my eye. “And you’re definitely going to need stitches.”
“I was hoping for a scar. More intimidating.” I mean it as a joke, but my voice cracks and it’s embarrassing.
Trinity sits down on the bench with her knees touching mine. “Want me to patch you up?” She looks so much older than me in this instant as she’s so calm.
I nod again. “Sure. There’s a med kit in that closet across the room.”
She gets up, walks to the tiny closet, and I hear her rummaging through the first-aid box. The sound of her moving is oddly comforting, like she’s done this a hundred times before. She comes back with gauze and tape and the world’s tiniest scissors.
“I’m not very good at this,” she says. “Maybe ask your athletic trainers to take a look at it when you’re ready.”
“I’m fine. The other guy is worse.”
She grins, but it fades when she sees the cut on my cheek. She wets a towel and dabs at the blood, and for a while that’s all there is as her hand is steady, her breath measured, my heart trying to pound its way out of my ribs.
“Why’d you let him get to you?” she asks, finally.
I don’t answer at first. She waits. She’s better at silence than I am.
“He brought up my record,” I say. “From when I was a kid.” I look away, out to where the floor is covered with skate marks and shredded tape.
“I know you mentioned that you had a rough up bringing,” she says it soft.
I swallow. “Yeah, I was angry all the time. Took it out on whoever was closest.”
She’s still working the gauze, not missing a beat. “You think you’re still that kid?”
