“You don’t like people, huh?”
Her gaze snaps to mine defensively.
“That’s not true,” she snaps. “I just don’t trust them.”
I don’t mind the cutting edge in her voice. In fact, I’ve grown to like it.
Greenrock Valley is full of coyotes. Completely overrun. When I was little, we used to strap a spiked vest onto our dog before letting her outside to keep her safe. It was the first time I realized sharp things aren’t always meant to hurt. Sometimes, they’re meant to protect.
I think Darcy’s like that.
“Is that because of what happened in Minnesota?” I ask wearily.
Her body tenses, but she doesn’t pull away from me. Instead, she exhales, then slips her fingers between the pages of the book and flips it open.
There, wedged between two pages, is a photograph.
It’s slightly dusty, worn around the edges. She pulls it out and hands it to me.
I lift the hem of my shirt, using it to clear away the dust.
It’s her, in a purple and yellow Minnesota State jersey, hair damp with sweat. You can tell she’d just played hard. And something about that causes a low heat to spread through my chest. Seeing her on the ice lately, I’ve been feeling that a lot.
She’s gripping her stick, bag slung beside her, and her jersey number—get this—is11.
I don’t even need to point it out. The flutter in my stomach is enough of a reward.
My eyes journey through the photo, looking at all the little details. I squint, fixing my gaze on her hands, where glittering pink polish shines back at me.
“You wear nail polish?” I ask curiously. I imagine that little flash of pink trailing down my bare skin, cupping my jaw, slipping inside of me. I had never considered painted nails a possibility when that was happening, but now, suddenly, it’s all I can think about.
“Not anymore,” she answers. “No point, really.”
She reaches over, slipping her hand beneath the photo and folding it out, making me realize I’d been staring at only half of it.
Now, someone’s standing beside Darcy, wearing matching gear, and a matching smile.
“Who’s that?” I ask, studying the girl with violet hair.
Darcy sighs.
“Do you remember that article?” she asks, her voice surprisingly steady.
I tap my chin theatrically, pretending to think. “Hmm…”
“The one where my teammate sold me out toESPN—”
“Ohhh yeah,” I nod. “That one.”
She glares. “Hilarious. Anyway…”
She sucks in a breath. A really deep, lung-filling breath, then exhales it.
“Brenna and I… We grew up together. She was a year ahead, but the moment she moved to Seattle, we did everything together. School, hockey, all of it. And I—” Her voice wavers. “I had the biggest crush on her. Likeembarrassinglymassive. But we were best friends, so I kept it quiet. Until we both got into Minnesota. I thought, maybe this was it. Maybe things were lining up.”
I try to ignore the strange feeling in my stomach, the twinge of jealousy for someone I’ve never met, and instead focus on her words. Still, my gut churns.
“And it was good, for a while,” she continues. “We dated through junior year. But then I started getting worse. My body, I mean. I could barely handle practice, let alone parties or nights out. I kept asking her to stay home. Movie nights, board games, anything low-key. Anything to give my body a break. She wanted the opposite. I didn’t know how to explain that I felt like I was falling apart.”
