Her eyes widen, and she cuts me off harshly. “Are you insane?” Her gaze flicks to the rink, looking to see if anyone is watching, then back to me. “Whatever happened, whateveralmosthappened, didn’t. Itdidn’thappen.”
“So it is about that,” I say coolly, though a sharp feeling prods at my chest. Darcy shakes her head.
“It’s about everything! It’s about you, it’s about B—”
“What the hellis going on over here?” Coach asks, leaning against the edge of the rink. Her thin brows are knitted together, lips twisted into a disapproving frown.
Darcy and I both take an instinctive jump back, like guilty children caught in the act. Darcy tucks a loose strand of fiery hair behind her ear, clutching her clipboard so tightly, it might snap in half.
“Nothing,” she mumbles, but Coach isn’t buying it. Her finger shoots out toward the cabins, the sharp line of her brows drawn tight.
“Darcy,” she says. “Go to the cabin. I’ll deal with you later.”
Darcy’s brows furrow, defiance pooling in her eyes. “But we weren’t—”
“I saidgo.”
Without another word, Darcy storms off, her red hair a streak of fire in the breeze. I watch her go, then turn my gaze toward Coach. I silently pray for a quick and painless demise—but knowing her, it’ll be drawn out—stabbing, strangling, death by bag skates.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, Coach exhales a heavy sigh, pinching the inner corners of her eyes like she’s fighting off a headache.
“Why is it,” she says slowly, each word deliberate, “that every time I see you two together, you’re at each other’s throats?”
I glance at the ground, then the sky. Then I spot a distant tree. Then back to the ground, rocking nervously on my heels.
Where did my leaf go?
“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter. She shakes her head again, then lets out another breath.
“Grab your skates, Clarke.” I swallow, reaching for my skates. But then, a soft smile tugs at her lips. “Looks like you could use some ice time.”
Darcy refused to leave the cabin to eat dinner with me, so I sat beside Coach in the resort cafeteria and we bonded over her daughter’s snoring. Afterwards, pretty much everyone headed back to their cabins. It’s only a few of us left around the fire—Bailey, Indie, Harlowe, Caydence, and me. Well, and Mr. Bubbles, who is thoroughly enjoying baking by the flame, drooling in the dirt. My eyes burn as the smoke curls into them, but I keep feeding the fire anyway, Harlowe poking at it with a wet stick.
“We totally should’ve brought s’mores stuff,” Bailey pouts, shifting uncomfortably on a log. Her brows furrow deeper. “And a seat cushion.”
Harlowe lets out a soft chuckle, and Indie just stares at the flames, not saying a word. Darcy hasn’t been the only one damn near silent since the game. Ever since that fight on the ice, every bit of progress I’ve made with Indie has backslid.
I know she blames herself, for losing the puck, for hesitating when she fell. She started to vent to me about it later that night on the drive home, but hasn’t mentioned it since. I need to talk to her more, but between practice, classes, and trying to get Darcy to stop avoiding me, I haven’t had the time. So I make a mental note to bring it up tomorrow.
“Guys.” Caydence’s shocked voice cuts in. Startled, we all turn, watching her eyes widen as she stares at her phone. “No fucking way.”
“What?” Bailey asks, leaning forward on her log. Caydence hands her the phone, and Bailey hesitates for a moment before reading. As her brown eyes scan the screen, Harlowe and I exchange an intrigued glance. Bailey’s lips part in shock, and she hands the phone back without a word.
Harlowe frowns. “Care to share with the class?”
Caydence glances at Bailey, who shakes her head vigorously, as if telling her to stay quiet. But Caydence just smirks, her eyes sparking mischievously as she clears her throat. And before anyone can ask another question, she begins reading aloud, mocking the tone of a reporter.
“‘The women’s hockey team at Minnesota State havebigplans. All except for one college junior, Darcy Cole, 21, who has—’“
“What are you doing?” I cut in. A sudden heat prickles across my skin, and the goosebumps tell me it’s not from the fire. Caydence’s lips twitch, but she keeps reading.
“‘—abruptly dropped the team after three years of service, including landing the winning goal for the WCHA tournament just two weeks ago. A source close to Cole confirms in an exclusive interview: ‘This is a high-pressure sport. Some people can handle it, some can’t. I guess Darcy just couldn’t anymore,’ says Brenna Porter, starting left-winger and long-time teammate of Cole.’”
My chest tightens, heart hammering against my ribcage. This is bullshit. Ithasto be. Darcy would’ve told me if she played for Minnesota. She would’ve rubbed it in my face. Used it against me.
“‘According to Porter,’” Caydence continues, “‘Cole was recruited to the Portland Porcupines, set to begin training in a few months—’“
“Caydence, stop. This is private—”
