“So what are you going to do?” she asks.
I tilt my head. “About…”
A chuckle escapes her as she leans down, rummaging through her shoes desperately like a possum digging through a dumpster. She tosses them aside one by one, clearly frustrated with every single pair.
“About Peyton,” she clarifies, her voice carrying the “duh”. She holds up two shoes, dark brown flats and beige wedges, and I gesture toward the flats.
“What do you mean, what am I going to do about Peyton?”
Cleo stands up, narrowing her eyes, and for a second, I feel like I’m back on the ice, surrendering to my old coach. “Well, it kinda seems like you two are stuck together. At least until the season’s over. Are you planning to keep up thisfeudthe entire time?”
I can’t stop the eye roll from slipping out, the noise of my scoff escaping me. “It’s not a feud. She’s just—”
“Wait, wait. Let me guess.” Cleo traces the ceiling with her eyes, tapping her chin like she’s deep in thought. Then she sticks out her hand, counting off fingers. “Cocky. Careless. Arrogant. Reckless. Bitc—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” I cut in, rolling my eyes again, though this time a small smile curls at the corners of my lips. “Look, I know you’re right. But what am I supposed to do? It’s not like she’s going anywhere. And if I want to graduate on time, I can’t either.”
Cleo pulls her shirt over her head like we’ve been doing this our whole lives. I’m used to it, after years in the locker room, but I’m surprised she’s so comfortable with me already. Hell, she hadn’t even seen me without my gloves until two weeks ago.
“Well, have you tried talking to her? Clearing things up?” she asks, her voice softer as she pulls her pants down next. I glance away. Not because she’s not nice to look at—damn, if Will Carter doesn’t want Cleo, I could name a hundred people who would—but because I’m not ready to solidify that level of our…acquaintanceshipyet.
A laugh bursts from me, louder than I expect, and my back tosses against the bed. I stare at the ceiling. “Clear up what? That people would kill for her spot on the team, and she’s trivializing it by showing up hungover?”
“I mean…yeah,”Cleo says, her voice muffled, as if suppressed by fabric. I can hear the difference when her head pops back through. “Maybe she just needs a reality check.”
“Oh, she’ll get one,” I respond, propping myself up on my elbows. She’s dressed now, her black pixie cut softly tousled. The moss-green dress compliments her strong, stocky frame, and the rows of gems lining her ears catch the light in warm, earthy tones. “Either when they cut her for insubordination, or when she pushes herself too hard and ends up injured. Hey—how can someone be so careless, and yet try so hard?”
Cleo tugs the lip of her flats over her heels, then steps out of the closet, pulling the door closed behind her. “I don’t know. Her dad’s a pro, so maybe it’s just how she balances things, you know?” She plops down beside me on the bed, her knees knocking against mine, and continues. “I’m not trying to make excuses, though. I know how important hockey is to you, and—”
“Thanks, Cleo,” I cut in softly, though I feel bad interrupting. I’m just not ready to have that conversation. Not with her. Not with anyone.
The only reason she knows about my RA in the first place is because one night she brought home a bottle of Peach Smirnoff and a list of questions concerning my gloves, my box of dusty hockey trophies, and a screenshot of an article about me back in Minnesota. It’s the only time she’s really asked, and the only time I was drunk enough to give her an answer.
I smile. “You look nice.”
Cleo grins, her pretty, high-bridged, statuesque nose scrunching. “I know,” she replies simply. “But thank you.”
We pause, just staring for a beat, until suddenly, we break into laughter. My rib pops painfully as I clutch my side, and Cleo swipes at the tears pooling in her eyes. Her warm hand clutches my shoulder, and I remember, briefly, the good side of having friends. The late-night talks. The weekend trips.This.
My gaze darts back to her, and she’s still a giggling mess, her bright smile gleaming in the morning sun. My chest feels like it’s vibrating. I want to be for her what she always tries to be for me, just this once.
But I can’t.
“If you think this class is complicated now, just wait until we dive into neurons next week.” Professor Palit pauses, a proud grin sweeping over his deep ochre cheeks. “They’ve got more connections than your ex’s DMs.”
Half the class groans, while the other half erupts into laughter. Both sounds bounce off the cement walls, amplifying the reaction, which makes Professor Palit’s smile grow even wider. He chuckles, punctuating it with a loud “that’s all for today, brainiacs!” which is what he likes to call us even though I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who actually likes this class.
I watch everyone file out, backpacks tossed over shoulders, some rolling their eyes at the joke, while others are already begging to swap notes. Switching off my recorder to save my wrists the strain, I scrape my scattered papers off the desk. Professor Palit catches my eye, and flashes me a warm smile.
“How you feeling today, Darcy?” he calls out casually, plopping down into his swivel chair. I shove the loose papers into my notebook, then slide it into my bag.
“Oh, I’m good today,” I say, as if I am ever “good”. Sure, there are days where my joints don’t creak like a door from a horror movie, but usually, it just gets swapped for unexplainable muscle pain. Though, other than my Raynaud’s flare, it’s manageable today, so I guess I have to be somewhat grateful. Professor Palit nods, eyes fixed on the computer in front of him.
“I’m happy to hear it.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his hooked nose. “Now get out of here. I have to record myself practicing lectures and it’s embarrassing.”
I chuckle, sweeping my green messenger bag off my chair, and sling it over my shoulder.
“Bye, Professor!” I wave, and he doesn’t look up at me as he waves back.
