But Peyton just laughs softly, the sound warm and light. “That was close,” she chuckles, then pauses. “Are your eyes still closed?”
“Yes,” I answer, then they flutter open. “Again?”
She nods. And when that crooked smile breaks across her face, I feel warm.
When we start again, we both move a bit more deliberately, like we’re learning how to dance without stepping on each other’s toes.
“Good work, girls,” my mom calls from across the rink, and I expect it to startle whatever communication, whatever trust is flowing between Peyton and I, but it doesn’t.
Twenty Four
Peyton
“This is Avery. Don’t leave a message. I won’t listen. Just text me.”
A loud beep blares in my ear. I start talking, because no good little sister ever follows instructions from her brother, and even though Avery hates voicemails, I know he always listens to mine.
“Hey, Ayve, it’s me,” I say, pulling my baggy Nirvana tee over my head. Damp strands of hair cling to my neck as I tug it the rest of the way down, the scent of my lavender shampoo losing its battle against the ripe scent of sweaty skates and freshly used shin guards. The team funnels happily out of the locker room, dragging their sore feet, excessively exhausted from training with Kaiser. Harlowe waves dramatically, off to butt heads with Clay Matthews in front of a bunch of six year olds.
“Just checking in to see how you’re doing. Dad says Pumpkin is still alive, which is… honestly… kind of…alarming. Anyway, haven’t heard from you in a while. Text me. Love—”
A sharpdingcuts me off. I pull the phone back, checking the screen.
Caydence Wright sent you a message.
I press the phone back to my ear. “Love you, dickwad,” I finish, then hang up and glance around the room.
Most of the locker room’s cleared out now; just Darcy, flipping through her post-practice notes, and Indie, swapping her beat-up black laces for new dark green ones for Wednesday’s game in Salem. She changes her laces before every game. Hockey superstition, I guess. I roll the cool gel deodorant across my armpits and collapse onto the bench, tapping the notification.
CAY
Saw this article. Thought you might want to know what people are saying.
There’s a link attached. A link Iknowby now I shouldn’t click on.
I know what Caydence is doing. What she’sbeendoing. She was pissed when I got Captain over her, especially since she’s a senior. It’s why she’s had an extra long stick up her ass this season. I know she’s angry. I know her weird fixation on Darcy’s past is probably just another angle in her long-game revenge plan for me. She’s trying to hurt me.
Freshman year taught me exactly what happens when you read something about yourself that hasn’t been vetted by someone who gives a damn. And Caydence definitely doesn’t.
But because I’m in the business of self-sabotage (as Darcy so kindly pointed out during one of our early practices) I click on it anyway.
A bold black headline fills the screen:
Is Hockey Royalty Losing the Crown? Daughter of NHL Hall-of-Famer Harrison Clarke Misses Again
A thousand pebbles drop into my stomach, one at a time at first, then all at once. They weigh me down, getting heavier and heavier until I’m sure my gut’s resting flat against the cold concrete floor.
That should be enough to stop me from reading any further.
But like I said, I’m in the business of self-sabotage.
And actually, I own the damn company. So I keep reading.
In what’s starting to feel like a familiar pattern, GU Women’s Hockey Captain Peyton Clarke came up empty in Saturday night’s third period, sailing a clean look wide during a tied game against Pacific West College.
I pause, swallowing, but the dry lump forming in the base of my throat sticks.At least they used my name this time, I think.
Though Clarke has worn the “C,” in every game this season, it’s unclear to some whether she’s earned it with merit, or whether her father, Boston Boas Legend Harrison Clarke, has done the heavy lifting. While there’s no denying she’s inherited raw talent, finishing seems to be a consistent struggle for the 21-year-old center.
