Tears stream down my face as I try, but my sinuses are clogged, a wall inside my body. No way in. No way out. My lips part, only for my breath to stall halfway down my throat, caught in a vise. I run, as fast as I can, back to the cabin, but I don’t even know if I’m running in the right direction.
I’m such an idiot. I knew this would happen.
I should’ve just told everyone—told them everything. At least then, when they stared at me, when their eyes carved through my fragile bones, I could’ve held onto a shred of dignity. A scrap of control. Control over who knows. Overwhatthey know.
I slam my palm against the rough bark of a tree, a desperate attempt to ground myself, but the world still spins—a blur of green and shadows. Closing my eyes, I try to coax my breath into something steadier.
Then a voice calls out behind me.
“Darcy!” Peyton’s voice cuts through the air, the sound of her footsteps heavy against the ground. “Darcy, wait!”
I push off the tree, moving forward, trying to wipe away the tears, but it’s useless. It’s like trying to dam a river with a twig. The tears keep falling, each one replacing the last in an endless, unstoppable stream. I hear Peyton getting closer. I feel her body behind me.
“Darcy,” she calls again, firmer, and this time, I snap.
I whirl around, not bothering to hide the puffiness in my eyes, the salt streaking down my face.
“Justdon’t, Peyton,” I choke, turning away again and walking faster. But she’s right on my heels, her fingers brushing my shoulder.
“Darcy, that was messed up. Caydence shouldn’t have—”
“No, she shouldn’t have,” I cut in, voice breaking as I storm toward the first cabin I see. I wipe my blurry eyes and make out the number.206.
“Are you okay?” Her voice is soft. Almost worried. I don’t look at her.
“Don’t pretend you care.”
I sniff, wiping the snot dripping from my nose. It’s humiliating. All of it. The diagnosis, the article, the tears. I feel like a moth trapped in a jar, wings frantically beating against the glass, desperate to escape. But with every movement, I only draw more attention to myself.
“I’m not pretending.”
Peyton’s tone is steady, firm—not harsh, not loud—just matter-of-fact, like she’s stating something irrefutable. Something you could fact-check.
I wish I could. I wish I could run every word anyone says through some system that would tell me if it’s real. If there aremotives hidden beneath the surface. If she’s going to sell me out to someESPNreporter behind my back.
208.
“Why didn’t you tell me you played for Minnesota?” Peyton presses. My feet quicken, my breath catching in my chest. God, my head feels like it’s going to explode. I climb the steps to the cabin faster, Peyton trailing right behind me.
“Because then you’d ask me why I don’t anymore.”
My hand hovers over the doorknob as she asks, “Do you not want me to?”
I twist the knob. “Wouldn’t you ask anyway?” Then I slip inside and let the door lock shut behind me.
The second my back hits the hard, twin mattress, the tears spill harder. My temples throb like they’re being jackhammered, my skin burns, and my bones are grinding together like rusted metal scraping metal. I clutch the pillow beside me, wrapping it around my chest as if the worn tweed can hold me together. A puff of dust bursts out as I squeeze, causing me to choke.
For a fleeting moment, a brief, stupid moment, I think maybe I could escape this.
They know I quit Minnesota. They know I let go of my place on the Portland team. But they don’t knowwhy. They don’t know about the pill divider crammed into my bag, full of the little things that are supposed to make this all bearable. They don’t know about my fingers, bent and discolored, hidden beneath my gloves. They don’t know about the days when getting out of bed feels like being hit with a bat. Over and over. When it feels like fire’s been set to every inch of my body, and all I want is for it to burn me all the way down to the bone so I don’t have to feel it anymore.
I could lie. I could say I chose a different path. I could say I got tired of hockey. That I was bored.
But even as the thought flits across my mind, I know it’s pointless. The second the lie would slip from my lips, they’d know. Hell, I can’t even sell it to myself.
But that doesn’t mean they get the truth. I refuse to be looked at like I’m broken.
My lungs constrict painfully. I stare at the log-paneled ceiling, watching a spider crawl across it, slow and steady, like the ache creeping up my bones. A soft knock raps on the door, Peyton’s voice filtering through the wood.
