Every ounce of air in my lungs deserts me, my heart sinking to the vacant spot where my stomach used to lay. My teeth scrape together, rattling my skull when my jaw tenses. She had no right to look at my records. No fucking right.
“I don’t want to talk about this, Peyton,” I mutter instead, trying to stay calm. This is what she wants. To piss me off. To push me.
I can’t see her, but from the sound of her voice, from the soft crunch of fallen leaves beneath her feet, I can tell she’s taken a step closer. “You’re not just good. You’re better than every single person on this team, including me.”
Tears roll down my cheeks again—fucking traitors—and despite every instinct in my body telling me to walk away, to knock on my mom’s cabin, to fall apart in her arms like I’ve done so many times this year, I turn around. My arms cross tightly, as if that will do anything to shield me from the prying arrogance of Peyton Clarke.
“Was,”I say, looking her straight in the eye as tears pour from mine. “Iwas.”
Peyton steps closer, and the hairs on my arms rise, a shiver skittering down my spine. My breath hitches, ragged and weak, but I force myself to meet her gaze.
“See, I knew you were going to say that,” she says, and I can hear the smug certainty in her voice. She thinks she knows me. Thinks she’s figured me out. “And I think that’s part of your problem. You—”
“Oh my god!” My hands tremble as I pinch the bridge of my nose, a humorless laugh slipping out. “Areyouseriously going totry and tell me whatmyproblem is?” I shake my head, blinking back the wetness in my eyes. “Just because I told you doesn’t mean you get it. It doesn’t mean you know me. You can’tfixme, Peyton.”
She stops. Like for once, for one goddamn second in her privileged life, she’s considering that she might not know everything. But of course, it doesn’t last. Her voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its tenacity.
“I know.” She hesitates, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “I can’t make this better. I can’t fix what you’re dealing with, and it kills me. I know it’s the last thing you want to hear, but you deserve to know. And it doesn’t kill me because I think you’re fragile.” Her gaze steadies, pressing but not daring. “It’s because you’renot.You’re stubborn, and resilient, and because of that, the fact that you’ve given up… I know this is unimaginably shitty. It’s fucking unfair. And I can’t change it. I can’t make it go away.”
She steps closer, her subtle lavender scent encircling me. That throbbing ache tugs at my throat again, but this time, I fight it back. Peyton’s hand reaches out, and I should pull away, but my body doesn’t even flinch when her fingers intertwine with mine.
“I can’t give you your career back. I can’t take away your pain. But I would never forgive myself if I didn’t try. If I didn’t do everything I could to make this easier for you. Even just a little.”
Her hand squeezes mine, and every nerve in that arm sparks hot. Her golden eyes look up, soft and round, and I almost believe her. That Peyton just cares. That she’s only doing what she thinks is right.
But when has trust ever played out in my favor?
“Look,” I force the words out, my voice finally steady. “I appreciate the sentiment, okay? But I don’t need this. And frankly, I don’t want it. I’m twenty-fucking-two, and I’ve got adouble knee replacement scheduled for next year. Alright? So justplease, let me be done.” I exhale shakily. “I have to be done.”
A chill surges over my gloved fingertips as Peyton releases my hand. She steps back, lowering herself onto the bench as she pulls on her skates quietly.
”Okay,” she says gently. “I’ll leave you alone.”
I give a sharp, half-appreciative nod, then begin to turn away, torn between crawling into my bed or seeking refuge in my mother’s. But then, under the breath that I have gotten a little too familiar with, Peyton mutters:
“Wuss.”
My body locks, frozen in place. A rush of blood courses through me, pooling in the tops of my cheeks. Before I can even think, before I can remind myself that a reaction is exactly what she wants, I’m spinning around, jaw clenched, teeth grinding as the words leave my mouth in a tight rasp. “What did you just say?”
Peyton shrugs, tightening the laces on her skates before straightening her posture.
“Nothing.”
Heat expands over my body, crawling down my neck, and I take a step toward her, narrowing my gaze. “No, you called me a wuss.”
“I didn’t call you a wuss.”
“You did.”
A creak pierces the air as she opens the gate to the rink, glancing at me with a grin. “Must’ve been the wind.”
My lips drop open to speak, to cuss her out, to yell, or scream, but for once tonight, my body actually decides to listen to my brain, and instead, I simply roll my eyes and turn around.
Not fucking worth it, Darcy.
I take a step, then another. But then—shemeows.
Yeah. She fucking meows.
