It isn’t slow. It isn’t careful. It’s a dizzying, enlightening jolt, like we both forgot this kind of euphoria was even a possibility. Our mouths part, tongues slipping together, hard and desperate.
Darcy makes me that way.
Kissing her is like a power play. You know the other team has the upper hand, but you still fight like hell, because in the end, the win is that much more deserved.
And I want to deserve her.
Her gloves are still on, the leather rubbing the back of my neck, and my fingers dive into her hair, tugging her impossibly closer. She tastes like strawberry lip balm. Her body presses into mine and the sheer feeling of it entices a moan out of me.
I always thought things were meant to be better in your head. That daydreams grow into impossible standards, leaving you nothing to reap but disappointment. But the moment my mouth parts open, and Darcy sucks my lower lip between the sharp cut of her teeth, I realize that I am not capable of inventing perfection like this.
Just as my hands start to drift down her spine, Darcy pulls back.
It’s so sudden it knocks the breath out of me. She doesn’t say a word. She just stares at me, wide-eyed, breathless. Then turns and walks out of the bathroom like she didn’t just set my whole world on fire.
I blink at the door.
My god.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair’s a mess, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.I’m a wreck.
I wash my hands like I said I would, and when I come back out, Darcy’s seated beside Coach Cole, gripping a ceramic mug. Her posture’s relaxed at first glance, but there’s a faint crease between her brows, and every so often, she shifts. They’re small movements, barely noticeable, like she’s chasing comfort and not quite finding it.
It makes me think of the other day in the locker room, the way she kept wincing. Of Salem, when she was struggling to zip up her jacket. I don’t know if I’m just seeing it now because I know—because she told me she has Rumbustious Arthritis—or if she’s actually getting worse. If all the extra time she’s been putting in, before and during practice, is catching up with her. Just like the doctors warned it would.
But I know better than to bring it up.
And I should know better than to sit next to her.
In fact, judging by the rapid beat of my heart, I should keep at least ten feet between us at all times. But then she runs her gloved fingers through her ginger hair, flicks those pretty green eyes to me, and it’s over.
I’m pathetic for her.
I grab the back of a chair, the legs etching lines into the grimy tile floor as I drag it. When I approach her, I spin the chair around, and toss my legs on either side of the seat, straddling it. Then I pull off my backwards cap, ruffle my hair, and plop it back on. Darcy’s eyes stay trained on me, but the moment I’m beside her, I turn my attention elsewhere.
“Let me guess, you’re a Portland fan too?” I ask, looking to Coach. She lifts her mug, carefully inspecting the glass before taking a heavy swig of her beer.
“Yup.”
“Of course you are.”
Darcy doesn’t hesitate to cut in, sticking her big head in my personal bubble, just as planned. “And of course you’re a Sabertooths fan.”
I grin cheekily, casting her a fleeting glance. “Why? Because they’re the best?”
Her gaze narrows. “Because they’realmostthe best.”
An antagonizing laugh slips out of me, and I nod as my tongue traces the inside of my cheek. “That’s the hill you want to die on?”
Darcy leans forward, her face inches from mine. “Yes, because it’s the one at the top.”
Coach’s head falls into her hands and she rubs the inner corners of her eyes tiredly. “Oh Jesus,” she mutters under her breath. But Darcy’s got a fire in her eyes.
I move just an inch closer, so that my breath brushes against hers. I can hear the hitch in her throat. “How much are you willing to bet?” I ask lowly, tone sultry.
A small hand cuts in between Darcy’s face and my own, forcing us apart, and Coach immediately begins shaking her head. “Uh-uh. There will beno betting,” she says.
Darcy frowns, jaw tightening as she pulls back.
