The girl hitches a shoulder, nodding in agreement. “Totally! Which, to be honest, I like. It’s easier for me to be invested in what he’s saying when I know it’s not just bullshit.”
I smile. “Right? Like, how do you expect me to listen when everything that comes out of your mouth sounds scripted.” I run a hand through my hair, the soft strands feathering betweenmy fingers, then falling back flat against my head. “My anatomy professor is like that.”
Her gaze shoots to mine. “You’re Darcy, right?”
Shit.I don’t know this girl’s name. Am I supposed to know this girl’s name?
I give a half-nod. “Yeah. Sorry, do I know you?”
Her grin widens, charmingly so, as she leans against the wall. “I’m Bailey. Cunningham. We talked this morning in the group chat. I’m a defense-woman on the hockey team? Everyone just calls me Hammie, though.”
“Right,” I respond with a nod, the vague memory of her clutching her stomach yesterday flashing in my mind. Ah, another victim of Peyton’s poor leadership. “Sorry. I should’ve known that.”
She shakes her head, swishing a dismissive hand around. “Oh it’s fine. There’s a lot of us.” She pauses. “Anyway,I just wanted to introduce myself. And—” She reaches into her back pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to me. “—I wanted to see if you’d be interested in joining my D&D campaign. Cleo and I host it together on Tuesdays.”
A valley etches between my brows as I open the flyer, suspicion scrubbing goosebumps down my skin. I study her—her posture, her tone, the way that bubbly grin settles in the groove of her mouth—and something doesn’t sit right. I lean back slightly, my fingers drumming against my bag.
“Why?” I ask hesitantly.
She shrugs, way too casual. “You seem cool.”
Cool?My gaze narrows, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in alarm. Her lips tighten, the smile fading, the nervous tension in her face clear now.
“I’m cool?” I repeat flatly, and she nods.Bullshit.“Did Cleo send you to befriend me? Because—”
“No!No.” She shakes her head, eyes widening as panic creeps into her voice. “Well, she might have mentioned that she wasworriedabout you, but—”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, pushing off the wall and whipping around to face her. Poor girl looks terrified, but I already have a meddling mother. I don’t need a meddling roommate too.
Bailey tosses her hands up in defense. “Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be weird or anything. Cleo’s just been talking about how worried she is about you, and since you’re new and all, I just figured I’d invite you. Just in case.”
My teeth scrape against the inside of my cheek as I study her like I’ve got a polygraph machine built into my DNA. She looks a little less nervous now, the tension in her expression loosening. Maybe she is being honest, but you never really know, do you?
A soft sigh escapes me, and I take a step back, offering her an apologetically distant look. “Thanks for the invite,” I say, the words surprisingly genuine as I force a smile that definitely isn’t. “But no thanks.”
Bailey’s expression falters, briefly, but enough for me to catch it, before she’s back to that soft, bubbly grin. “No worries. I wanna ask why, but I won’t.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, and I do.
She slips off the wall. “But hey, if you ever want to hang out or exchange notes or whatever, just let me know, Darcy.”
A sheepish grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. “I will,” I say. “Thanks.”
Bailey nods, then starts strolling down the hallway. Before she gets too far, she turns around with a grin.
“Hey Coach?” she calls out. My stomach does something fluttery when she calls me by that title. I catch her eye, and her grin widens. “Welcome to the team!”
“Let’s try that again!” my mom’s voice cuts through the rink, and instantly, the players on the ice scatter, heading back to the starting positions of the drill. Drill…Right. Drills.
I jot that down on my clipboard, before shifting my gaze back to the ice. When the whistle blows, the players spring into motion, a blur of green and white. It’s chaotic, non-methodical, but they’re much more animated than they were on Wednesday. Watching the team glide across the rink—
I can almost feel it.
Blades carving through the ice, wind slapping my face, that prickling jolt that absorbs into the stiff gloves when puck and stick collide.
I’ve tried to forget that feeling. Tried to bury it beneath distractions, TV, books, homework, anything that keeps me from thinking about it. But even when it’s not dangled right in front of me, I’d never forget it.
I think about it every time I swallow my meds. Every time I reach for a sweater and my fingers brush against the jersey I can’t bring myself to throw away. I think about it every time my mom looks at me, or when Cleo tries to pull me out of the house, to get me to feel something normal. But right now, I think about it the most. Watching them play, not even aware of how fleeting this is.
