A dull pain radiates in my arm as she smacks the clipboard against it teasingly. “Oh, shut up.”
She’s trying to fight it, those coral lips threatening to smile. She rolls her eyes, the motion exaggerated like she’sso over me, and then lifts her clipboard back up, positioning herself to the side to block my view.
“I’m gonna get a hold of that thing one way or another,” I say, crossing my arms. “I mean, seriously. What could be on there that is so confidential? What, a hit list? Nuclear launch codes?”
Darcy’s gaze flicks to mine, then back down to the page.
I continue. “If it’s a hit list, am I at least at the top?”
“If it was,” she says, not breaking her focus. “You would be.”
I grin triumphantly, which seems to catch her eye, because her gaze breaks away and she looks at me, confused.
“You want to be at the top of my hit list?”
I shrug. “It means you thought about me.”
“I don’t even—” She shakes her head, sticking a hand up. “You know not all attention is good attention, right?”
“Depends on who you get it from.” My gaze narrows, fixing onto her chest. I frown, pointing at it. “Ew. What the hell?”
Darcy’s red brows drop, and just as her head tips down to look at the imaginary spot on her shirt, I swipe the clipboard from her grasp. Her grip around it tightens, but the plastic slips through her gloves like butter, and she lets out a frustrated grunt of effort.
“Icannotbelieve you fell for that again.” I laugh, taking a hefty step back. Darcy’s brows furrow, and she lunges forward, but the hammock begins to tilt, sucking her back down. I look at the clipboard.
Jeesh. It’s a mess.
“You know, I thought you were all organized and shit, but…” I flip through the pages, studying the nearly indecipherable scribbles. “This is kind of a wreck.”
“Yeah, I know,” she shoots, finally prying herself from the hammock. I keep stepping back, sticks cracking beneath my feet as I analyze the pages. She storms toward me, andwhewshe looks angry.
“Give it back, Peyton,” she says, sticking her hand out. I nod, hitching a shoulder as I read.
“I will, I will, just give me a minute.” My eyes finally catch a legible paragraph.
Shorter periods with more breaks. Drills shouldn’t change too much. Specialized skates and medical alert bracelets monitored by coaches/medical staff. Less contact a—
“Hey, I was reading that!” I frown as Darcy rips the clipboard out of my hand. She holds it over her head, which is totally cheating if you ask me.
“It’s not done yet,” she snaps, spinning back toward the hammock.
Shit.
I speed after her. “No, it’s great,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound very convincing. Mostly because I’m not entirely sure what I read. But I’m sure it was good, whatever it is.
She rolls her eyes, dropping backwards into the hammock. “You don’t even know what it is.”
I pause, letting out a sheepish laugh. “Okay, no, not exactly, but I would like to.”
She stares up at me, and as much as I like the fact that she towers over me, I’m enjoying this view of her. Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why?”
Always the “why” with this woman.
“Because it sounded interesting and it’s clearly important to you,” I answer honestly. She looks pissed. In my defense, I really did think it was going to be practice notes and drill strategies. I thought she was just being stubborn.
She looks up at me, jaw tight, emerald eyes simmering. But then they drop, and she lets out a sigh. Her eyes flit around the trees. Everyone else is busy talking or complaining. She looks back at me.
“It’s… I had this idea,” she says, her voice low. “You know how they have disabled hockey programs? For wheelchair users and amputees and stuff?”
