I take a steadying breath, watching her solid body sway as she marches forward.
“Look, I’m sorry if you felt like I was stepping on your toes back there,” I call out. Peyton stops.
Good. This is good.
Her head turns slightly as she casts a glance over her shoulder.
“Oh, it’s fine,” she chimes sarcastically. “You didn’t step on them. You practically cut them off. So…” She shrugs, turning back toward the locker room. “All good.”
Before she can take another step, I jog forward. A hot throb pounds in my knees each time the soles of my arthritic loafers hit the concrete, but I don’t stop. “Okay, hold on.” Peyton begins to walk away, and before I know it, the damp sleeve of her jersey is gripped in my hand. The moment I touch the sweaty fabric, her muscles stiffen. I quickly let go. “I really didn’t mean to—”
She spins around, those amber eyes burning.
“And yet, you did,” she fires back. Her volume stays the same, but the cutting edge in her tone makes it feel as if she’s yelling. “You called me out in front of the team, like I didn’t know whatI was doing. Not the greatest look for a first-year captain, is it? I had a plan.”
I need to calm down. Breathe. Keep my eye on the prize: surviving this season without pulling out my hair. But then I see Peyton’s jaw tighten, her posture shifting like she’s waiting for me to back down. Like sheexpectsme to. Part of me thinks I should let it go, for the sake of my sanity. But then what? She’ll just keep brushing me off, ignoring my input, making sure no one takes me seriously.
I don’t like failing at things. Frankly, I’m a really sore loser. Board games, hockey games, tests—I refuse to fail at this too.
“You think I wanted to embarrass you?” I say instead, cursing myself for being so stubborn. “I’m just trying to do my job. You’re the captain, sure, but you’re not the only one who knows what’s going on out there.”
Solid apology, Darcy.
I stare at her, lips pressed in a flat line, but she steps forward anyway, closing the space between us. Close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off her skin, smell the jarring contrast of her sweat and lavender perfume. Close enough that when she exhales, the warm brush of her breath ghosts over my lips, sending a shiver down my spine that I refuse to acknowledge. Our chests press together, and the damp heat of her jersey soaks into my sweater, reminding me of that morning. Of the way we hid, bickering behind the stadium seats. My breath catches, just for a second, but I don’t move.
Neither does she
“Yeah?” she murmurs finally, voice lower now. Rougher. “Well, maybe if you paid attention instead of staring at a piece of paper the whole time, you’d know what was actually going on.” I can feel the enunciation of each word against my lips. Her mouth curls, and she tilts her head condescendingly. “You thinkI’m some rookie who needs a lecture from you? From the person whoquit?“
With that, something inside me sparks, small at first, then blooming into a flame that consumes everything in its path. The fire is ravenous, flames licking at my chest, rising faster, hotter, until it engulfs every mature thought, charring it to dust. My mouth opens, words forming, but before they can escape, before the fire can leave my tongue, she turns around and storms away.
Fine.
I was already done.
Done with her condescending little mouth. Done with her belief that she’s untouchable. And done trying to prove myself to someone who can’t even see the silver platter their life was handed to them on.
I was totally, completely done.
I’m all for charity—food banks, animal shelters, hell, I even used to volunteer for a kids’ hockey league. But there’s a line, and the idea that Cleo thinks I’m pitiful enough to need volunteers for friends? Way,waypast that line.
“I told you,” she says, flipping through the mess of class notes sprawled across the floor. “I didn’t recruit Bailey to be your friend.”
“No, you just explained in vivid detail how lonely and friendless I am, until she felt so bad she had to take pity on me.” I drop down beside her, peering at her notes. My nose wrinkles. “Is that—”
“A diagram of a human liver?” She sighs, eyes meeting mine with a deadpan look. “Yup.”
I squint at the sketch, which looks like a cross between a slab of meat and a clogged drain. “And that’s—”
“That’s an obstructed bile duct,” she confirms.
I nod, scratching the back of my head as Cleo slides the paper to the side with a sigh. Socks pads over, stepping on every last corner of her notes before curling up on top of them, the papers crinkling beneath his weight.
“Sorry.” She smile sheepishly, flicking her gaze from the cat to me. “I wasn’t trying to paint you as some lonely charity case.”
I flash her a brief smile.“Thanks.”
“I’ve just been worried about you,” she continues. “Ever since you moved in, you’ve barely gone anywhere but class and practice. People need people.” She pauses, drawing her gray eyes from my feet to the top of my head. Slowly, on purpose. “Even people who don’tlikepeople.”
