“I dunno.” Darcy replies, hitching a shoulder. She turns back toward the ice. “Guess I’ll find out.”
Her bare fingers brush against mine as she reaches into my bucket of popcorn. She’s more comfortable with people seeing her hands now. She only wears the gloves when her circulation acts up. Thankfully, spring’s finally here, and the warmer weather hasn’t been flaring her Raynaud’s as much. She tossesthe popcorn into her mouth, crunching thoughtfully as she watches the next line of skaters take the ice.
A series of “ope”s and “whoop”s and “excuse me”s echoes nearby as Bailey descends the steps, squeezing past a row of knees to reach us. In her hand is a comically large fountain soda, the straw wedged between her lips as she slurps obnoxiously loud.
“What’d I miss?” she asks, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie.
“The debunking of physics,” Clay replies dryly, nodding toward the skaters on the ice. Then they lean forward slightly to glance at her. “Also, sorry about the championship. That sucks.”
She exhales sharply. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
“I mean, first-round elimination is kinda—” Clay winces dramatically, pressing a palm to their heart.
Harlowe shoots them a daggered look, but doesn’t let go of their hand. “Says the one who didn’t even make it to finals.”
Darcy and I exchange a knowing glance.
“Uh-oh,”I mutter.
“Here we go,”she echoes under her breath.
Clay opens their mouth. “Well if yourcaptainhadn’t—”
“Guess what?” Darcy interjects suddenly, halting the oncoming bickering match. Both Clay and Harlowe swivel their attention to her, and I find myself equally curious about whatever diversion she’s just manufactured.
“What?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Her eyes glint mischievously. “You have toguess.”
Everyone groans in unison.
“Nowthat’storture,” Harlowe grumbles, slumping into Clay’s side.
Clay nods. “Yeah, I’m not doing that shit.”
“Oh, comeon,” Darcy pleads, face scrunching with faux offense. “It’ll be fun.”
“I’ll play!” Bailey pipes up, still nursing her soda.
Darcy lights up, spinning toward her with a grin. “Okay, okay. I’ll give you a hint:S.”
“S?!” Harlowe and Clay shout in horrified unison.
“‘S’ is a letter, not a damn hint,” Clay protests.
Harlowe waves her pretzel in objection, adding, “Yeah, what are we supposed to do with that?”
“S… S…” Bailey repeats, tapping her chin in concentration.
I take a solid thirty seconds to ponder the hint, before ultimately coming to an impasse. “Yeah, sorry babe,” I say to Darcy, “I love you, but I haveno ideawhat that’s supposed to mean.”
“S … S … S…”
“It’s the only hint you’re getting,” Darcy replies smugly, crossing her arms as a coy smile etches in the groove of her mouth.Clair de Lunedrifts over the speakers, a comical choice for this argument’s soundtrack if you ask me.
“What kind of hint is‘S’?” Clay continues. “I mean, I’m not Alex Trebek—may he rest in peace—but I’m pretty sure hints are supposed to… I don’t know…help.”
“Don’t get me started,” I mutter. “Last week she refused to hand me my coffee until I guessed the syrup flavors.”
