Chapter 3 Under The Bleachers

The old gym is a skeleton of wood and dust. The school built a new, shiny athletic center three years ago, so no one comes here anymore. The lights flicker and hum. The air smells like floor wax and ancient history.

I am waiting by the equipment room. I have my medical kit open. I have a bowl of warm water, some special massage oils, and a fresh roll of compression tape. My heart is a drum inside my chest. Every time the wind rattles the windows, I jump.

The back door creaks open. A sliver of late afternoon sun cuts through the dust.

Jaxson Thorne walks in. He isn't wearing his varsity jacket anymore. He is in a simple black hoodie and sweatpants. Without the bright lights of the cafeteria, he looks different. His eyes are bloodshot. His shoulders are slumped. He looks like a boy who hasn't slept in a week.

"You’re early," he says. His voice echoes in the empty gym.

"I like to be prepared," I reply. I gesture to the wooden bench. "Sit. We don't have much time before the janitor does his rounds."

Jaxson sits. He looks around at the peeling paint on the walls. "My dad used to play here," he says quietly. "He told me if I didn't get my name on one of those championship banners, I shouldn't bother coming home."

I look up at the dusty banners hanging from the ceiling. I don't respond. I just reach for his hand.

Jaxson stiffens. He pulls his arm back for a second, then sighs and gives it to me. He stares at the floor while I work.

I gently begin to unwrap the tape I put on him last night. I move slowly so the adhesive doesn't rip the skin. When the last layer comes off, I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The wrist is a disaster. It is thick with fluid, the purple bruising turning a sickly yellow at the edges.

"This is going to hurt," I say.

"Just do it," he grunts, clenching his teeth.

I dip a cloth into the warm water and press it against the swelling. He hisses, his free hand gripping the edge of the wooden bench so hard his knuckles go white. I apply a drop of the massage oil. It smells like eucalyptus—strong and sharp.

I start with my thumbs at the base of his palm. I move in small, deep circles, pushing the fluid away from the joint. I watch his face. His eyes are squeezed shut. Every time I hit a knot in the muscle, a small muscle in his jaw jumps.

I move my hands higher, wrapping my fingers around his forearm to stabilize the bone. He is solid. His muscles are like stone. As I work, I feel his pulse thumping against my thumb—fast and erratic.

"You're good at this," he says suddenly. His voice is tight with pain, but it’s softer than I’ve ever heard it.

"I have to be," I say. I keep my focus on the wrist. "If I’m not the best, I stay in this town forever. I don't have a backup plan."

Jaxson doesn't pull away. He leans forward slightly. I can feel the heat of his breath on the top of my head. For a long time, the only sound is the rhythmic friction of my hands against his skin. I work the oil into the skin until the purple fades to a dull red.

I reach for the compression tape. I start at his palm, weaving the bandage in a figure-eight pattern around the thumb and wrist. I make sure it is tight enough to support the joint, but not so tight that it cuts off his circulation.

"Try to move it," I whisper.

He slowly flexes his fingers. He winces, but he manages to make a fist. He looks at his hand like I’ve just performed a miracle.

"Better?" I ask.

He looks up at me. He doesn't say anything. He just looks at my face, then at the way my hands are still resting on his arm. He doesn't move. I don't move. The air in the gym feels like it’s vibrating.

Creak.

The sound comes from the balcony above us. It’s the sound of a heavy footstep on old wood.

Jaxson pulls his hand away instantly. He stands up, reaching for his hockey stick like a weapon. We both look up into the shadows of the old bleachers.

"Who’s there?" Jaxson shouts. His "Golden Boy" mask is back on—cold and aggressive.

There is no answer. Only the sound of a door clicking shut somewhere high above.

"Wait here," Jaxson says. He runs toward the stairs, his skates clicking loudly on the floor.

I don't wait. I follow him. We reach the balcony, our breath coming in short gasps. The area is empty. The heavy fire door is still vibrating. Jaxson pushes it open and looks into the hallway, but it’s silent.

I walk over to the spot where I heard the noise. I look down at the floor. The dust is thick here, except for one spot.

There, lying near the edge of the railing, is a small, silver charm. It is a tiny hockey skate. It’s the kind of thing the cheerleaders wear on their charm bracelets.

My heart drops. I look at Jaxson. He is still staring down the hallway, looking for a ghost. I quickly lean down and scoop the charm into my pocket.

"See anything?" Jaxson asks, turning back to me.

"Nothing," I lie. My hand stays tight around the cold silver charm in my pocket. "Probably just the building settling. It's old."

Jaxson looks at me, his eyes narrowing. He looks like he wants to believe me, but the trust we had five minutes ago is gone. He grabs his bag and pulls his hoodie up over his head.

"Meet me tomorrow," he says. "Same time. Don't be late."

He walks away without another word. I stand on the balcony, watching him disappear into the shadows. I pull the silver charm out of my pocket.

I stare at it. If someone was standing here, they didn't see a trainer and a player. They saw two people hiding in the dark. They saw the way Jaxson was looking at me. They saw a secret that looks a lot like a romance.