My throat goes dry.Harrison Clarke?No way. Nofuckingway.
“You’re not saying—”
“Thatretiredpro right-winger from the Boston Boas is Peyton’s dad?” She feigns a wince, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Yeah.”
I swallow hard, my head dropping into my hands in frustration. Ofcourse. Because the universe clearly has it out for me, I had to go full teacher-mode on the daughter of apro. Makes sense why she acted like she knew everything.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale slowly, my body sinking further into the couch.
“Nepo-baby or not,” I mutter, “she’s still a nightmare.”
Cleo rolls her eyes, flopping down beside me. “And you’re the only one in history who believes that.”
I cross my arms defensively. “She called me Kim Possible.”
A puzzled smile tugs at Cleo’s lips. “That sounds like a compliment to me.”
“In this context, it’s really not.”
“Well, whatisthe context?”
I pause, recounting the scene. Okay… maybe I wasn’t thenicest.“Well, I threw a puck on the ice while she was practicing. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t exactly polite, but—”
“Darcy!”
My hands toss up in defense. “Okay, okay, but I was trying to get her attention!”
Cleo scratches her temple thoughtfully, then pats her lap so Socks will jump up and curl into a ball like the two-faced monster he is. Her tone comes out with extreme condescension, but the sweetness of her smile makes it impossible to be offended. “Did you try, I don’t know,talkingto her?”
“Yes,” I declare, pointing a finger for emphasis. “But I could hear her earbuds blasting from the boards. Seriously, she’s going to lose her hearing.”
Cleo ponders this, eyes tracing the ceiling before landing back on me. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair actually.”
“Thank you.”
“But why’d you want to interrupt her practice in the first place?”
Ah, the million-dollar question. I wasn’t supposed to be at the rink. I only meant to take a quick peek. Sometimes, if I lie down too long, my joints start to flare, so I decided to stretch my legs, loop around campus, check out the facilities.
But then I saw her. And it was too hard to look away.
Watching her glide across the rink, the puck slicing through the air, it wasn’t like watching a clunky hockey practice.
It was like watching a ballet.
Every move was choreographed. Practiced. Even the way her hair swept behind her in fluid waves, how her fierce amber eyes fixed on the goal, seemed rehearsed, perfectly in sync with the rest of her.
But the longer I watched, the more something about it nagged at me.
She wasn’t taking breaks.
After every shot, every sharp turn around the cones, she’d just restart, ignoring the pain I know too well. It took everything in me not to throw myself onto the ice. To shout at her to stop. That’s why I tossed the puck. I had to say something. Because if she keeps pushing herself like that, she’s going to be sidelined for the rest of her life.
I tried to tell her. But she didn’t seem to care.
“I was trying to help her,” I admit, glancing down at the time on my phone. Class is coming up, but right now, my body feels like it’s been run over by a Zamboni. Walking helps, I know, butsometimes, just moving feels like I’m dragging myself through wet concrete. After my lap this morning, I’m not sure how much energy I have left to push through it all today. “She’s going to hurt herself.”
There’s a long pause, like Cleo’s letting the words settle, making sure I’m really finished. Then a soft smile pulls at her lips, and she smooths her hand over Socks’ back, a low purr rumbling from the cat’s chest.
