Her eyes lock onto mine. “I want you to help me prepare. Just in case we win the finals. Come to my early practices, give me tips.Help me. And in exchange, I’ll bring your league idea to my dad. He’s got connections—lots of them. Even if it starts small, I think it could grow into something huge.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. It’s loud, really loud, and I quickly clamp my mouth shut, shaking my head.
“Funny,” I say, tossing my eyes to the worn metal roof.
She frowns. “What is?”
“You.” I gesture to her. “That was a good one.”
Peyton’s frown deepens, and she scoots in closer. “I’m being serious, Darcy,” she says, brows drawn tight. “Look, I know you know what you’re doing. I didn’t want to see it before, but I see it now, and I’m sorry.” She sighs. “I was an insecure asshole. And I should have just listened to you in the first place, but… I didn’t. But I will now.I promise,I will.”
My stomach tightens, brows dropping in confusion. Is she actually asking for my help? After all of this back and forth, arguing and fighting, and ignoring my advice?
“Are you… saying that you were wrong?”
I know I shouldn’t let it, but my lips pull a little as Peyton responds. She clears her throat, straightening her posture.
“Yes,” she admits, almost professionally. “I was wrong. And it’s humiliating enough, so stop smiling—”
The corners of my lips drop, which makes me realize that the smile I thought was suppressing had broken through. She finishes. “But I need to get out of my head. To do whatever it takes to get to the Sabertooths. And you’re the only one who can help me.”
When her eyes fixate on her lap, I know she’s telling the truth. I don’t think Peyton could look me in the eye when asking for my help. She’s too arrogant. Too cocky.
I flash her a skeptical glance. “Why don’t you ask your dad?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, and an awkward laugh tumbles out. “Contrary to popular belief,” she starts, running a hand across the back of her head. “My dad’s more of a cheerleader than a teacher. And your mom is fantastic, but I’m not the only one on the team that needs her help. Besides, if she finds out I’m still breaking into the rink most mornings, she’ll kick my ass.”
I chuckle. “That, she will.”
I don’t say anything else. I’m not sure what to say. This whole thing feels like a disaster waiting to happen, and frankly, I’m not in the mood to clean up the mess.
My mind drifts back to the retreat, when we were in the stands, doing that stupid exercise. How she told me, begged me really, to keep giving her advice because I was the only one who cared enough to tell her she could be better. It surprises me that her dad, of all people, isn’t doing the same. Hell, professional athlete parents are infamous for being overbearing and having high expectations. If I were Peyton, I’d be stoked to have such a mellow father. But I guess I can see the dilemma.
Still, it doesn’t make this a good idea.
“You don’t have to answer right away,” she says, plugging an earbud into her ear. “Just think about it?”
I nod, chewing on my lower lip. She offers me the other earbud, and I know I shouldn’t take it.
But I do.
The raw thrum of Swedish heavy metal punches through my ears. I flinch at the sudden blast, but after a moment, I let myself sink into the beat. I laugh silently to myself, unsurprised at how random Peyton’s taste in music is. The bus rumbles beneath us on the road, and we just sit there for the rest of the ride, silently listening to music.
I jolt awake to a screech, the bus rolling to a steady stop. My head snaps up, then to the side, Peyton smirking when her eyes catch mine.
“Morning, Sunshine,” she teases, then her gaze flicks to her shoulder. There’s a wet spot on her tee, and—
Oh fuck. Did I drool on her?
I swipe at the corners of my mouth.Yup. Wet. Awesome.
She continues, “What’d you dream about? Me, by chance?”
I shoot her a warning glare, and her tongue traces the inside of her cheek as she stands up, casting me one last glance before heading down the aisle. I wait until nearly everyone, including her, is off the bus before grabbing my bag and making my way to the front. My mom’s eyes catch mine, but she doesn’t say anything until we step off.
“Can I give you a ride?” she asks, jiggling her keys in her hand. “I don’t think you should walk that far if you’re having a flare up.”
I don’t process her words immediately. No, my eyes are too busy scanning the parking lot. I don’t know what for, but when they catch on Peyton’s, a soft smile tugs at her lips, and she givesme a little wave. Not a smirk, or a grin. A smile. I just return with a sharp nod, then look back to mom, fully processing what she just said.
