“Well? Rotten Tomatoes rating?” I ask, taking a regretful sip of my latte.
Cleo taps her finger against her lips like she’s considering something monumental. “Eighty-eight. Honestly, I almost called in a fake tragedy when you started pacing. It looked like you were about to have a full-on meltdown.” She raises a pierced eyebrow, putting on her best serious face. “But then it seemed like you had it under control. Kinda anticlimactic, if you ask me.”
I roll my eyes again but can’t stop another laugh from escaping. “Oh, well, I’ll try to throw in a plot twist next time.”
Cleo smirks. “Maybe a surprise musical number? ABBA really sells it for me.” She snorts, eyes falling onto the slip on the table, and without another thought, she scoops it up. “I’mjoking, Darce. You think I’m just here for the drama? I’m here foryou.”
I flash her an earnest look, one thatlyinglysays I don’t believe her. The annoying part is, I do believe Cleo. And that messes with me. She cares so much about me, when she doesn’t even know me. Not to say I don’t care about her. I do. Honestly, besides my mom, she’s the closest thing I have to a friend. But that’s what’s terrifying.
I don’t do friends anymore.
I watch her carefully, jaw tight, breath lodged in my chest as she unfolds the paper. Her gray eyes scan the words, dark bushy brows knitting together.
“So, basically, you have to coach for ten hours a week and go to all the games?” She looks up at me, searching for confirmation.
I nod.
“And in return, you get paidanda course credit?”
I nod again. The ball of tension in my jaw tightens into something heavier, which sinks into my chest.
While Cleo’s head tilts, the rest of her posture seems to straighten. “Sounds like a good deal to me,” she answers, shrugging.
“But—” I start, but she cuts me off with a telling look.
“Darcy,” she says softly, her gaze flicking to my cup. Her eyes narrow as she spots the “whole milk” label and shakes her head. Without skipping a beat, she swaps her drink with mine. I don’t have it in me to explain that energy drinks trigger my flare-ups, so I just stay quiet.
“I get it. Well, no, I don’t. But your mom does. And she’s right.” She meets my eyes, her tone more serious now. “You’re never gonna be happy if you try to completely cut hockey out of your life. It’s like spiders. You can spray the house till the cows come home, but they’ll always find a way back in.”
A frown creeps across my face as I process her analogy. “Do we have spiders? Should I call pest control?”
She ignores me, taking a sip from whatwasmy latte, and wrinkling her nose. “Ugh.Peanut butter? Seriously?” She swaps the drinks back with a grimace. Thankfully. “Honestly, babe, staring at the dusty box of trophies in the living room is making me kind of depressed. Put them on the mantle. Donate them. I don’t care. Justdo something, you know?”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words die on my tongue because Cleo’s right. Hockey isn’t just a sport to me. It’s who I was. Who I still am, even.
No matter how much it hurts to admit.
My stomach twists as I look back at the paper. I want to grab it, tear it into a million pieces, and toss it into Sock’s litter box. But where would that leave me?
Still here, studying for a degree I never thought I’d need, working some job I’ll never love, and, eventually dying alone, buried under a pile of cats who suffocated me.
Cleo leans across the table, a dimple popping into the side of her lip. “Look, you don’t have to throw yourself out there, alright? Just show up once. See how it feels.” She gives me a small, encouraging smile.
I know what Ishoulddo. I know what’s right, even though every bone in my body feels like it’s about to crumble at the thought of it. Even though my muscles flare in protest, already waging a war against the idea, aching at the sight of that damn slip. Maybe I could do what she’s asking: show up for practice, see how it feels.
Get a glimpse at who I used to be.
“I’m not a coach,” I mumble, and Cleo deadpans.
“Darcy, you moved in two months ago and negotiated like, twenty house rules. You’d command the sky if it listened.”
Something between a sigh and a chuckle slips out of me, and I shake my head. If I’m being completely honest, it’s notonlythe coaching that’s stressing me out. It’s what comes after. I’m bracing for that moment when I have to walk back onto the ice. Because one way or another, I know that moment is coming.
“I’ll think about it,” I repeat.
Two
Peyton
