At the sound of that number, my eyes can’t help but flick back to Peyton. She slams into the box, collapsing onto the silver bench. My jaw is so tight that my back teeth scrape together, sending a nauseating chill down my spine.
“—green—five-minute major for fighting.”
Shit.
“Numbers 10, and 23, black—two minutes for roughing.”
Clearly they didn’t see that punch.
“Number 87, black—five-minute major for fighting, game misconduct.”
“Holy shit,” Caydence whispers. “Clay just got ejected.”
But I don’t care about Clay Matthews, or their ejection from the game. I care about Peyton.
I can’t believe I fell for it. Her hollow rhetoric about the team and what it means to her. She locked eyes with me as she shoved 10 to the ground—an impertinent reminder that no matter how much I wish she was different, Peyton is nothing more than a reckless, privileged player.
A five-minute penalty. That’s the rest of the game.
She should be spending it on the ice, driving this home, racking up her stats. Instead, she’s stuck behind glass, watching uselessly as the rest of the game unfolds.
We hold the lead, likely due to Matthews being out.
We kill the penalty. The buzzer sounds. The crowd roars.
But I don’t feel like celebrating.
In the hallway outside the locker room, the fluorescent lights flicker, an eerily spasmodic beam that raises the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. Everyone’s already packed up and headed for the bus, leaving me alone in the vacant stadium. Since Glacier’s only twenty minutes from the apartment, and we already did post-game cleanup, I asked Cleo to come get me.
Riding a bus packed with sweaty hockey players and my angry mother is the last thing I want right now. Besides, Cleo and I have plans to try this new Mediterranean restaurant.
An itching, burning sensation sparks suddenly in my hands. It starts off slight, but within seconds, the scorching, prickling fire spreads. I glance up and down the hall. Empty.
I peel off a glove. My skin is red, splotchy, fingers swelling from the damp heat. Quickly, I push into the locker room, heading for the sink. The hinges creak as the heavy metal door closes behind me, the potent scent of sweat and metal flooding my nostrils.
But I stop in my tracks.
Standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her forest green sports bra, is Peyton. Her face is flushed, skin still damp, and there’s a swollen cut near her bottom lip, oozing. She doesn’t even look at me. She just keeps staring at her reflection, pulling her hair into a high messy bun, a bead of blood trickling down her chin. Dark, sweaty tendrils fall around her face, framing her amber eyes and clenched jaw.
She either doesn’t notice me, or she simply wants to act like I don’t exist. I wish I had that type of control right now. Things would be easier if I could pretend Peyton doesn’t exist. If I could act like her selfishness, her recklessness, has no effect on me.
It shouldn’t.
Like I said the other night, I shouldn’t care if Peyton wants to work herself into an early-ending career. I shouldn’t care if she takes her privilege for granted. If she drags the team down with her. If she drags the sport down too. Caring won’t give me my career back. It won’t give me my body back.
I should walk out of here, let Cleo feed me hummus while she explains cumulonimbus clouds and her new fixation on meteorology. Being in any close proximity with Peyton right now is possibly the worst idea anyone could have. But the longer I look at her, the more I see the 11 flashing on the ice, just before she shoved #10. All of it, the anger, the envy, boils inside me, and before I can stop myself, the words are already spilling out in a bitter laugh.
“You know, you really had me fooled,” I spit, stepping behind her. Those amber eyes catch mine in the reflection, and shedoesn’t turn around, but she doesn’t look away either. “For a second there, I really thought you meant all that bullshit about the team and how much this means to you.”
Her gaze narrows, brows weaving together as her hands fall into clenched fists at her sides.
“I already heard it from Coach. I’m going to hear it from the media. I don’t need to hear it from you.”
I try to take a soothing breath, but it’s no use. It’s as shaky and shallow as the one before it. As shaky and shallow as the one that follows.
“See, I think you do,” I shoot back. “Because clearly, none of it’s getting through. You don’t act like a captain. You don’t lead. You don’t sacrifice. You don’t even want to pass during a game. Since I got here, all I’ve seen is you breaking rules, turning a blind eye while the team gets drunk with practice the next day, and doing what’s best foryou.People would kill to be in your spot, Peyton. And you act like it’s your birthright.”
She jerks around, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. Her posture stiffens, and even though she’s a good five inches shorter than me, I suddenly feel like I’m shrinking. She steps toward me. I take a step back.
