But then I think about practice the other day. How she stepped into my shoes like they fit. How she laced them up without hesitating, even though they were muddy from my perpetual fear of being watched and judged which is all my life has ever been. And I remember hers too. The ones I borrowed when the article about her was shared. We didn’t talk about it much, but I walked in them anyway. Blisters and all.
At this point, we’re basically sharing athlete’s foot.
So I let out a resigned sigh and hand her the phone.
I’ve never seen that freckle on her forehead disappear so fast. It’s like it got sucked into the vacuum of space the second her eyes hit the screen. And for not the first time since I met Darcy Cole, I’m reminded of the existence of green flames.
Her gaze flicks back to me, face growing red. “This ismisogynistic bullshit!” she explodes, flinging her arm out angrily which makes me briefly concerned for the safety of my cell phone. “Youknowthis is bullshit, right?”
I nod slowly, taking the phone from her gorilla-gripped gloves. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
And I do.
I know it’s bullshit.
But for some reason, knowing doesn’t help as much as you’d think.
And judging by the fact that Darcy’s now pacing, cheeks flushed, freckled nostrils flaring, I’d say she feels the same.
“I don’t even know how stupid shit like that gets published! Like, hockey isplentyinteresting without stupidfucking—”
“Darcy, it’s fi—”
“No!” she barks. “No, it’snot ‘fine’!Because they takeperfectlygood players, players who say nothing wrong,donothing wrong, and always have to—they always have to—”
She snorts.
Like a pig.
An angry pig.
And it’s adorable.
“… Criticize them?” I offer.
“Criticize them!”she finishes.
I roll my lips inward to bite back a smile as Darcy collapses back onto the bench. A slight hiss escapes her, which I now know means her knees are bothering her, but I don’t dare point it out. A piece of hair falls from her long red dutch braid, and she blows the strand out of her eyes with an irritated huff.
“Peyton,” she says, her eyes locking with mine. Feathers stir in my stomach when she says my name, tickling me from the inside. “You playedamazingthat night. You were fast, and vigilant, and—” She sighs, her voice softening. “Sometimes, I can tell you’re trying to play like your dad.”
My heart sinks.
“But that night—that night was the first time I’ve seen you play even a little bit as yourself. You were tough, and fast, but you flowed. You were incredible out there.”
My teeth find the inside of my cheek, and chew. “Not according to Lexi Norwester,” I reply, trying to sound unbothered. She shakes her head.
“Lexi Norwester writes whatever gets her clicks. Whatever makes her money. You know that.”
I try to laugh, but it’s just a sad exhale. “I guess as long as she’s writing about me, she’ll always be making money. Everyone loves reading about me failing.”
Her green gloves find my hands and squeeze. “Not everyone.”
A dry ache forms in the base of my throat.
“It’s just like—” I shake my head. “I giveeverythingto this sport. Every ounce of time. Like, anembarrassingamount of time.” A nervous feeling tugs at my stomach. “I get maybe five hours of sleep a night. I don’t watch TV. I don’t date.” A sad laugh slips out. “I’ve spent so much time chasing the pros, I’venevereven been in a relationship.”
At that, Darcy pulls back, her brows shooting up.“Huh?”
