Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Her gaze skirts across my face, like she’s waiting for me to confess, but before I have the chance, they narrow onto Indie. Sweet, innocent, never lied a day in her life, Indie.
We are sofucked.
“Tell me that you’re all exhausted from a late-night study group, Browne.”
Indie swallows, like, visibly gulps, the small bump in her throat bobbing as her gaze falls to the ice. Silence is certainly a choice. I’m not sure if it’s the right one, but it’s the one Indie makes. She glances at the rest of us, a silent question, and in Harlowe’s eyes, I can see her begging. But just as Indie’s lips part to speak, Coach Cole continues on.
“What you do on your time is your business. But as long as you’re a Grizzly, you’re onmytime. I didn’t transfer from Glacier just to join a circus.” Her gaze flicks back to me, and even though we’re relatively the same height, I feel a hell of a lot smaller. “Bag skates.Until someone throws up, or I tell you to stop. Whichever comes first.”
“Hams, take one for the team,” Harlowe whispers, with just the slightest lisp. Bailey shoots her a look, like she wants to kill her but is also considering the proposition. Me?
I just can’t seem to take my eyes off Darcy.
She’s standing there, long legs leaning against the wall, gaze fixed on the clipboard in front of her. There’s a pen grippedbetween her teeth, her fingers drifting across the page as she reads whatever secrets lie upon it. Coach approaches her, exchanging words I can’t quite hear, then pulls something out of her pocket and plops it onto her clipboard. A smile breaks across Darcy’s face, a genuine one, and it catches me off guard, something in my chest tightening.
It’s weird. I’ve never had my chest tighten at the sight of someone before. Sure, I’ve felt a flutter here and there, people notice me, I notice them, it’s a game. But this feels different, like hearing nothing but lyrics your whole life until suddenly, one day, there’s music behind them. A melody of sound filling the air, the space between us, cellos and trumpets and clari-fucking-nets, reeling me in, wringing me out, until nothing is left to settle in the void in my stomach but flushed intrigue.
Coach pats her on the back, and when Darcy lifts the object off her clipboard, the music comes to a screeching halt. It’s a whistle. And when the shiny piece of metal lifts to her lips, I swear to god, shesmirksat me.What a little—
Wheeeep!
The sound cuts through the air, and in an instant, we’re off, blades cutting the ice as we start our grueling agenda. The moment I move, my lungs begin burning, my heart starts palpitating, and the wind sucks what little moisture my eyes had been granted. We just started and I can barely hold myself up, every part of me begging for mercy, but I can’t stop. Not with Darcy watching. Not with Coach’s eyes following our every move. And not with the letter “C” stitched to my chest, a reminder that, whether I like it or not, I’m supposed to be a leader.
Most days, it’s validating. Right now? I’d consider trading it for a lemon-lime Gatorade and a solid excuse to lay in bed.
The cold air cuts into my skin, sharp as glass, but it’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing. The steady rhythm ofmy breathing is broken only by the sound of my skates carving through the ice and the thud of my own heartbeat throbbing in my ears. I know I’m not the only one struggling. Everyone else’s grunts and gasps mix into the symphony of pain that replaces the one from Darcy’s smile, but it doesn’t matter. Darcy just keeps blowing that whistle, like she’s daring me to fall apart.
But I won’t. I can’t. I refuse to give her more fuel to add to the fire. So, I push harder, even though every fiber of my being is telling me to stop, to take a break, to throw in the towel and let the ice swallow me whole.
A strange, gurgling noise bubbles up from the pit of Bailey’s stomach, and I glance at her, watching as she presses one hand against her abdomen, legs still driving forward in rapid, sprinting motions. She groans but draws her arms back to her side, continuing the exercise.
The whistle blows again, just as my skates reach the center line, and I propel myself into the opposite direction, casting a glance at Darcy. Her eyes are fixed on me, direct and calculating, lips pulled up into a satisfied smirk.
Masochist.
I’m slowing down, I can feel it, and no matter how hard I try, no matter how fast I feel like my legs are moving, exhaustion is setting in. I look back ahead, preparing to make another sharp turn when the merciful sound of that beautiful metal whistle rings longer through the air, and Coach’s voice calls out.
“Time!”
I come to a screeching halt, my skates digging into the ice as powder flies behind me. My legs are on fire, my chest violently heaving, and sweat pools in every crevice of my body but at least it’s over. The team gathers, panting, trying to take steadying breaths, and Coach’s gaze sweeps over us. She shakes her head.
“I hope you’ve all learned your lesson,” she says, assessing us warningly.
I glance at Darcy, expecting something. Maybe a smirk, or a nod, but she’s already lost in the details of her clipboard again, scribbling down notes. I can’t help but tilt my head, wondering what on that clipboard could be more entertaining than the team wiped out at her instruction.
Coach steps forward, sharp jaw tensing as she claps her hands together. “Now, let’s get to the real work.”
I’m shocked, honestly, that not a single one of us threw up during practice. There was a moment or two when I felt I might, from the sheer exhaustion and caffeinated syrup sloshing in my stomach, but I choked it back, knowing that I don’t have the privilege of messing up. At least, not again.
Besides, vomiting rights were best reserved for Bailey. I think it’s safe to say our rage room plans have been moved to Saturday.
The feeling lingers as I toss my jersey into my duffel bag, pulling my green Grizzlies hoodie over my head. My sports bra is drenched with sweat, clinging to my skin, but I embrace the body odor and slap on an extra layer of deodorant.
“I need food,” Harlowe grumbles, slamming her dry stall shut. Beside her, Bailey lets out a soft but telling groan.
“I think I might vomit if I eat something,” she whines. Then her gaze narrows, brows weaving together as she considers it. “I think I also might vomit if I don’t?”
