I whip back around. “What the hell are you trying to say, Peyton?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She puts on an innocent act, tilting her head like a puppy.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, spinning on my heel, ready to walk away. But as I start to move, she feigns a cough behind me, choking out the words:
“Scaredy cat.”
That’s. It.
I storm toward her, shaking with rage, and jab my finger into her chest. “You know what? You’re really fucking immature, Peyton.”
She grins, pushing off the ice and calling back over her shoulder. “I’d rather be immature than be a wuss.”
“I am not a fucking wuss!” I shout, but she’s already halfway across the ice, cupping her ear, that smug grin widening.
“What was that?” she calls out tauntingly, her voice echoing off the boards. “I couldn’t hear you!”
“I said I’m not a fucking wuss!”
Peyton gestures toward me with a mocking smile as she glides to the center line. She drops the puck in front of her. “Says the woman scared of a sheet of ice.”
Then she winds up and sends the puck flying straight into the goal. She spins to look at me, propping a gloved hand on her hip. “You know what I think?”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t.”
She ignores me. “I think you’re just scared that you’re going to be rusty, and I’m going to be better than you.”
A bitter laugh rises in my chest, tumbling out. Peyton casually glides past, the puck dangling from her fingers like a toy she’s trying to get me to chase.
God, she’s such a child.
“You’re the one whojustsaidIwas better thanyou,” I fire back.
“And you clarified that was past tense.” She shrugs. “As of now…”
I shouldn’t let it get to me. I shouldn’t rise to her taunting. But I’m too far gone. The moment she meows again, something inside me snaps.
I grab the laces on the extra pair of skates, my fingers trembling angrily as I pull them loose. Slipping my foot in, I can feel they’re a little big, but I tug the waxed laces tight anyway, the tension of them digging into the swollen skin around my ankle.
When I grab the stick, it feels heavier than I remember. Even through my gloves, it’s cold against my palm as my fingers tighten around it, digging into the worn tape. I stand up, blades teetering as I step toward the rink.
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, the chill nipping at my lungs. It’s a metallic, stale scent, a mingling of sweat and ice that used to belong to me, but now I only experience it from the sidelines. It’s different, being on it. I let the air sink to the bottom of my lungs, as if the cold can freeze all the uncertainty gnawing at me.
My heart pounds against my ribs erratically, and I reach out, fingers brushing the wall to steady myself. Then, with a sharp inhale, I step onto the ice.
The moment my blades cut into the rink, everything feels wrong. My knees are shaking, my—
Myeverythingis shaking.
I grip the edge like my life depends on it, and if you pulled my gloves off right now, the contrast of my knuckles against the purple hue of my skin would be concerning. I shift my weight, but the ice betrays me. My left skate slips, and I scramble to catch myself, the thud of my knee hitting the boards as I pull myself back to my feet.
“Careful there,” Peyton calls out. I glance up, watching her skate with ease, a smirk dancing on her face. My jaw tightens.
“Fuck off,” I mumble, trying to focus on staying steady.
She was right. I’m rusty—worse than I thought I’d be. It’s notherfault, but it still feels like it is. If she hadn’t pushed me to get back on the ice, I wouldn’t even know how much I’ve fallen behind.
Peyton circles me, closing the distance with that same teasing grin. She moves fluidly, like the rink itself is listening to her commands. I used to move like that. Now, every push feels harder than the last. My breath comes out in frustrated bursts.
