“I’m not shivering,” Taranis said.
Exactly.
I turned back to the coach. “I’m pulling him.”
“No,” the coach said flatly. “We’re down one. He’s starting the third.”
The words landed like a slap.
Taranis reached for me. “Hey. I’m okay.”
I stepped back before he could touch me. Before I could feel how cold he was again.
“No,” I whispered. “You think you are.”
The coach waved a hand. “Take a breather, Cinder.”
A breather. Like this was nerves. Like this was about me. I felt my vision tunneling, pulse too loud in my ears. The bench, the lights, the noise.
I grabbed my jacket and walked. Past the bench. Past security. Past the looks.
No one stopped me.
Outside the arena, the air hit my face, and I sucked it in like I’d been drowning. I braced my hands on the concrete wall and bowed my head, chest heaving, the past and present tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, and refused to think about being ignored.
I was already back inside before the third period and watched him like a hawk.
The game ended in noise, but all I could see was Taz.
The second he was still I grabbed his wrist, pressing my fingers to the pulse point. Slow. Too slow. "Your core temperature is dropping."
"Cinder." Coach Kincaid's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and impatient. "He just won us the game. Let the man breathe."
"He's hypothermic," I said, and I hated how my voice cracked on the word. "This isn't normal post-game fatigue. His skin is—"
"Cold," the coach interrupted. "Because he's been on ice for sixty minutes. In an arena. Playing hockey." He said it slowly, like I was a child who needed basic concepts explained. "He's fine."
"He's not fine." I turned to the team doctor—Dr. Reeves, gray-haired, experienced, someone who should know better. "His pulse is bradycardic. His skin temperature is dangerously low. This isn't exposure, this is—"
"Adrenaline crash," Dr. Reeves said dismissively, barely glancing up from his tablet. "Goalies run cold after high-stress games. It's documented."
"Not like this." My hands were shaking now, and I couldn't make them stop. "I've seen this before. At the first game. His temperature dropped to eighty-nine degrees. That should have killed him."
The silence that followed wasn't the concerned kind. It was the uncomfortable kind. The kind that preceded someone being escorted out of a room.
"Eighty-nine," Coach repeated flatly. "And he's standing here talking to us."
"Yes, because something is—" I stopped myself before I could say wrong with him. Before I could admit I didn't understand what was happening, only that it terrified me. "Please. Just let me check his vitals properly. Five minutes."
Taranis reached for my arm, his touch so cold it burned through my sleeve. "Cinder, I appreciate it, but I really am okay. This happens sometimes."
This happens sometimes.
He knew. He knew this wasn't normal, and he was covering for it. Playing it off like it was nothing while his body did things that defied every medical textbook I'd ever read.
"Taz—"
"The team needs to celebrate," Coach said, already turning away. "Reeves, make sure he hydrates. Cinder, take a walk. Cool down."