Page 25 of The Season
My jaw ticks, and I make myself count to three before answering.
My first instinct is to tell him to go fuck himself, since he caused this mess to begin with. But he’s right, at least where the other students are concerned. The class can’t stop just because of Lily.
Still, the thought of leaving her…
“Go do a run,” I say, not bothering to look at him, because I’m tired of his face. Instead, I keep my eyes locked on Lily’s eyes. On the flecks of gold and green glinting as she stares back at me.
I’m checking her pupils for signs of concussion, I tell myself. That’s all. I’m being a responsible coach.
Except, for some reason, my hand is resting on her knee again, the closeness burning my palm even through the thickness of my glove.
“Go do a run, and then meet back at the base of Jupiter lift.”
Akiva takes off without a word, but Matty lingers, his too-large form shifting awkwardly as he struggles to stand in place on his board. “You too,” I tell him, sounding a little shorter than I would like. “I’ll stay with Lily.”
He grumbles some wordless protest, but obeys.
And then suddenly it’s just me and Lily. Alone. With nothing but the gentle crunching of the snow beneath us and the whisper of powder dusting off the nearby pines.
“I’m fine,” Lily says again, but there’s a faltering vulnerability to her voice that wasn’t there before.
I ignore her, and drop my hands to her boots. “Let’s get your board off, and see if we can get you cleaned up,” I say, deftly unclipping her bindings so I can slide her board free.
It’ll be impossible for her to get it on again in the powder, but if she can’t hike down, she shouldn’t be riding down. And it’s not that far to the base of Jupiter lift.
She winces as I pull the board free, and I eye her with worry before carefully turning it face down in the snow next to her. “Let me see you move your legs,” I say, my hands flying to grip her calves for some unknown reason. “Don’t try to stand up yet,” I caution. “Just see if you can move.”
She nods, her split lip trembling as she straightens her legs, then tucks her knees back to her chest. I don’t miss the way she winces when she bends her knees, or the way her face pales ever so slightly.
“All good, Coach,” she says, injecting enough forced cheerfulness into her voice to let me know there’s a problem. I lift a brow, fixing her with a skeptical look.
“All good,” I echo dryly. “Except for the state of your face.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and I feel my lips tug up into the faintest of smiles in response.
“I don’t need my face to get down the mountain,” she retorts haughtily, but worry flickers briefly in her eyes.
I move forward without thinking, shuffling on my knees in the snow until I’m right in front of her, practically between her spread thighs.
Of course she’s worried about her face, though I doubt she’d admit it. With the amount of blood, she probably thinks it’s a complete mess. Which… it kind of is, but only in a temporary sort of way. I’ve seen enough of these injuries to know that.
“Hey…” I reach up, gripping her shoulder. “Your face isn’t that bad. I don’t think your nose is broken, and it doesn’t look like you’ve lost any teeth.”
Her throat bobs, her bare hand reaching up to tentatively trace her swollen, split lip. I reach up, tugging her hand away before she can do any more damage to it.
“Your face is fine,” I assure her. “You’ll have some bruising, but it’ll fade in a few days.” Well, more likely weeks, but she doesn’t need to know that now. “I’m not worried about your face,” I tell her truthfully, then reach up to tap my helmet. “I’m worried about your head. If you have a concussion.”
“Yah. Okay,” she gives me a grim nod, lifting her chin and fixing me with an expectant stare. “Test away, Coach.”
The tentative whisper of a smile already ghosting my lips grows. This isn’t her first rodeo—or whatever it is the Americans say.
“You’ve taken a few hits to the head before, haven’t you?” I ask her teasingly, as I take off my gloves and tuck them into my pocket.
She gives a little huff, but doesn’t balk as I gently grip her jaw with my bare hand to hold her face in place, then move my finger from side to side in front of her, watching her eyes for any flickering as she tracks the movement.
“I might have taken a few balls to the face playing soccer,” she admits grudgingly, the words slightly muffled against my grip on her jaw.
“Close your eyes,” I murmur, resisting the urge to make a poorly-timed joke. She obeys, dark lashes fluttering.
