Page 23 of Playing Her Game

I hate that, too.

Hildy steps forward before Aleks can answer. “We're all tired. The doctor says Anna needs rest, and standing here arguing isn't helping anyone.”

Lenzin looks at me. “Do you want him here?”

I glance at Reznik.

He's watching me, but there's no demand in his expression. No expectation that I reassure him or make him feel better about what happened. He looks as if he'll accept whatever answer I give him, even if it isn't the one he wants.

That shouldn't matter to me.

Reznik lowers his eyes for a moment. “I’ll leave, but understand, I never wanted this to happen.”

CHAPTER 4

VS. DALLAS

Reznik

Iexit, conscious, clear-headed, and before I say something I'll regret later.

Keeping my head down as I walk through a scene I know all too well. The white walls, fluorescent lighting, the antiseptic smell of hospitals that makes everything feel and smell suffocating. First my parents, then a string of other reasons to despise hospitals. Just eight nights ago, Dominique and Deacon got in an accident. T-boned. Deacon's gonna be okay. Dominique, it's not fucking good. Yet here we are. Life doesn't slow down, not for this game, hell, not for anyone or anything anymore.

I turn toward the exit, aware that I need to get to JFK before the team leaves without me. Coach would fucking love that. But something about that whole scene back there, the way she looked at me, makes me hesitate.

The difference between the woman I've seen in photos online and the woman sitting in that bed is sharper, more vibrant, than I expected. In pictures, she's always polished. Put together. The kind of person who looks like she's never been rattled by anything.

Tonight, she had blood on her jersey and stitches above her eyebrow, and she still looked at me like I needed to prove myself before she'd let me anywhere near her. Like a challenge I'd love to accept…

I pull out my phone to order a ride. The screen lights up with notifications I didn't check earlier. Messages from teammates. Texts from people I don't recognize. Hundreds of notifications.

I scroll past the first few. Standard stuff. Then I see the replies under the post-game photo Hayes tagged me in.

She shouldn't have worn the jersey if she didn't want attention.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Double number bitch got what she deserved.

My jaw tightens.

I keep scrolling.

Kilovac's a dirty player and his people can't handle it when someone pushes back.

Brooklyn cheats and cries when they get caught.

Rez was defending himself. If she can't take the heat, she should stay out of the stands.

The anger I'd managed to control inside Anna's room comes back, sharper this time. These aren't Brooklyn fans talking trash. These are people claiming they support me. People using my name to justify what happened tonight.

I hurry outside through the automatic doors and step off to the side, out of the way of any traffic coming in or out, and open the camera.

My thumb hovers over the live button for half a second. Then I press it.

The screen shifts. The viewer count ticks upward immediately. Ten. Fifty. Two hundred.

"I'm going to say this once," I start, keeping my voice level. "If you were at Costello Arena tonight and you threw anything at anyone, you're not my fan. I don't care what your reason was. I don't care if you think you were defending me."