“You think I don’t know that?” she snaps, her voice rising with each word. “You think every time I step on the ice, I don’t look around and wonder if I’d even be there if it weren’t for the name glued to my back? That every time I make a decision, I’m not questioning if it’s the right one?”
“No, actually,” I answer, jaw ticking. “I don’t. I don’t see any proof that you think aboutanythingbefore you do it. Not unless you know it’s going to put you in the spotlight.”
A humorless laugh slips from her lips, and she shakes her head, those molten amber eyes locking with mine as she takes another step.
“Why do you think I’m on the ice at four a.m.every morning?What, you think somehow that’ll prove that I’m better than everyone? When nobody is around to watch me?” She shakes her head. “I’m not trying to prove I’m better, Darcy. I’m trying to prove I’m enough. That I’veearnedthis.”
My mind flashes back to practice, to the way she traced that C on her jersey like it was foreign. To the word “insecure” that she dropped in the rain the other night. To that morning, when we met, how many times she restarted her drills, that disappointed furrow in her brow each time she messed up.
“You’re the captain. You’re one of the most highly regarded centers in theregion. You’re the child of a professional athlete. You have it all, why do you need todeserveit?”
Tears well in her eyes, chest heaving with shaky breaths, but she doesn’t look away. I should leave. I know I should. But I only manage a single step back, before my spine presses against a cold metal locker.
She steps forward, so close that her breath ghosts over my lips.
“You don’t know a damn thing about what it’s like to live up to everyone’s expectations,” she starts, her voice low but steady. “To have this shadow hanging over you because you’re ‘Harrison Clarke’s daughter’. Not ‘Peyton Clarke’, not ‘rising star’, just ‘Harrison Clarke’s daughter’.”
Her voice cracks, just barely, and she swipes at the water pooling in her eyes.
“You think I don’tknowthat I’m privileged? You think I need you to tell me that? Thatprivilegeconsumes every inch of my mind, every second of every day. I can’t get away from it.”
My heart pounds mercilessly, each beat rapping against my ribs. My breath staggers, rising and falling in sync with Peyton’s. It’s strange how often that happens. How time and time again, our bodies seem to remember each other, responding in tandem.With each shallow, unsteady inhale, my chest brushes hers. And when I glance down, I’m suddenly reminded of the fact that she isn’t wearing a shirt. Her soft, creamy skin grazes against my windbreaker.
A pulse sparks in my core, and I force my eyes from the valley in her chest, meeting her gaze. There’s a fire in her eyes, yes, but despite that, I can’t look past the tears. It tugs at my chest, at my lungs, at my heart. I swallow hard, fighting the sudden and unwanted urge to close the little space between us. To wipe those tears. To steady her breath.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice softer now, betraying me. “I don’t know what it’s like. I don’t know what you’ve had to do or haven’t had to do to get here.” I rake a hand through my hair, sighing in frustration. “But that fight earlier? It could’ve cost us the game, Peyton. We could be looking at fines, suspensions. We could get banned from the NCAA championship! For some of these girls, this is their only shot. You’re the captain. You’re supposed to stop fights, not jump into them.”
I see the shift in her eyes before she says anything. The fire inside them doesn’t die, but it softens. Like embers fading in a cold wind. Her plush lips fall open, but she takes a calming breath before she gets the words out.
“I know,” she whispers. “I was just trying to protect Indie.”
It’s so soft I almost miss it. But it lands in the pit of my stomach, a drop in a puddle, sending a ripple through my body.
Protect Indie? Protect her from what?
For a second, I wonder if there was something I didn’t see. Something I missed. And suddenly every instinct I’ve tried to bury claws its way to the surface. My fingers lift to her chin, curling just beneath it, gently tilting her face up to mine. Forcing her to look at me. To see me. To hear me.
My glove grazes the split on her jaw, and she flinches—not away, but into the touch. Honeyed eyes lock on mine, andsuddenly, everything I’ve been trying to hold together feels like it’s unraveling.
I should just tell her. Explain why I care so much. Let the truth detonate because it’s going to implode anyway.
“Peyton—” I start, but it catches in my throat. I want to say something,anything, but the words won’t budge. The anger is still simmering. The guilt too. But something else is taking hold, latching on, planting roots.
She grips the front of my jacket, fingers clutching the fabric desperately. And I know—I knowI should step back. Create space. Remind myself of the reality of the situation.
She’s my player.
I’m her coach.
She just got in a fight on the ice. She’s impulsive. Reckless. The one who doesn’t seem to care about consequences.
And I’m the one who aches to be in her place. The one who would trade anything to feel what she feels to the point where I hate her.
Or to the point where I try to.
But her lips brush mine, and my heart stutters so violently I’d lose my balance if I weren’t pinned against a locker. Everything inside me goes up in flames, starting in my chest, spilling downward, an insistent flaring ache only cured briefly by the contracting of my thighs. My gaze flicks from her eyes, to her full, round lips, watching her tongue slip across them. I want to touch them.
I want to touch all of her.
