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“That bother you more than the suspension?”

“She has patients.”

The answer comes fast.

“She gave me her lunch too.”

There’s a paper bag by her chair with a plastic fork sticking out of it.

The kid is keeping a different score than I am.

What it cost somebody else.

I know that kind of math.

“Was she mad?”

“She said I can’t hit people.”

“Reasonable.”

“She had to leave anyway.”

I lean one hip against the counter. “Sounds like she came because you needed her.”

“She had work.”

“She can have work and still come.”

The girl looks at me like I’ve missed something important.

Probably have.

I stop talking.

Her eyes drop to my hand.

“Your hand’s funny.”

One knuckle sits lower than the others. Old damage. Hockey leaves receipts. I turn it so she can see.

“The rest of me is gorgeous.”

She studies my face with all the urgency of somebody checking a label.

“Who did you hit?”

“A defenseman with a harder head than I planned for.”

“Did he cry?”

“No. He finished his shift.”

“And you?”

“Missed the next game.”

“So it was worse for you than for him.”