In some strange, fucked up way, being reminded that my position is at stake was validating.
Coach presses her glasses up the bridge of her nose, a charmingly bright smile sewn into her cheeks. “Alright, ladies, let’s do some warm-ups!” she calls, gesturing us onto the ice. Her eyes scan us with a glimmer that terrifies me. She has something up her sleeve. I just don’t know what yet. I stroll over to the rink, but just before I can step on, Coach sticks her arm out, blocking my path.
“Clarke, where’s Darce?” She raises an inquisitive brow. Mine drop in confusion.
“I don’t know. Still in bed, I guess.” I shrug, turning back to the rink, but Coach’s arm doesn’t budge.
Fuck. Me.
I turn back to her, a sheepish grin stretching across my face. “Yes?” I ask coyly.
Coach just stares at me, unamused. I sigh. “Okay, Iwasgoing to wake her up, but she looks like an angry morning person and—”
She cuts me off with a raised hand. “Where you go, she goes, Clarke.”
I pause, gnawing on the inside of my cheek. I have two choices here:
1) Piss Coach off
or
2) Piss Darcy off
Either way, I’m poking the bear. It’s just Black versus Grizzly.
“Coach, if you saw the way she was looking at me—”
“I know exactly how my daughter can be, Peyton.”
I nod apologetically, and her eyes flick up, peering over my head. I spin around.
Damn.
You know in those rom-coms when the protagonist’s alarm goes off, and they roll out of bed looking effortlessly perfect? Their hair is styled, they wipe their eyes, andboom—they’re ready to take on the day and make a seven-course breakfast with $80 worth of fruit?
Yeah, Darcy is definitelynotthat protagonist.
Her red hair is an absolute mess, sticking out at angles that feel gravitationally impossible. There’s an annoyed crease on the bridge of her nose, dark circles under her eyes, and she’s still wearing her pajamas—fluffy pants patterned with dragons and scrolls, though at least she’s tugged on a hoodie. And, of course, she’s clutching that stupid clipboard.
“I’ll be back,” Coach says, but I don’t pry my gaze away. “Stay here.”
Unlike the one Darcy had borrowed from me, this hoodie hangs loose. Her gloves—pink now—swim in the sleeves, and my brows furrow when my gaze draws up her arm to her shoulder.
#40
What the hell?
I blink, spinning toward Harlowe, who’s already pissing Caydence off based on the glare in her unsettling bright eyes.
“Darcy stole your hoodie,” I tattle, tossing a thumb over my shoulder. Harlowe quirks a brow, glancing at Darcy, then back to me. She waves a dismissive hand.
“Nah, I lent it to her last night. She was shivering at dinner.”
I don’t realize my jaw is clenched until my teeth slip, sending a grating scrape through my skull, vibrating through every bone in my body. The corners of my lips turn down, and I cross my arms.
“What’d you do that for?”
Harlowe’s eyes draw up from my feet to the top of my head. “Because she was cold and I have two mothers who taught me chivalry?”
