A scoff slips out of me, and I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, unable to pry my tired eyes from the screen. I scored twice in that game—one being a Michigan (do you know how hard that is?)—but of course, they only focused on theone shotI didn’t make.
There’s no winning. Even when I give it everything—no reckless moves, no game-losing mistakes—they still find something to tear apart.
A hot, damp feeling swells in my lungs, like I’m breathing in mist, and I start to cough and choke as I keep reading.
Her father built a career on finishing. She’s built hers, so far, on not. Meanwhile, Kai Robinson—son of Carolina Cougars legend Wes Robinson—has had no trouble finding the back of the net for the men’s GU team. Robinson is set to join the NHL after this season, ending his NCAA career with a bang!
Which raises the controversial question: does legendary talent transfer the same way when it’s passed down to daughters?
That feeling in my throat tightens, a series of wet coughs slip out, and I can’t tell if my eyes are watering from choking or from the article.
I’m blaming the choking.
“Cheese and crackers!Cap!” Indie barrels across the room. “You alright?”
I nod, trying not to laugh at Indie’s substitutes for cuss words, which only makes me choke more. I start to actually get scared I’m going to suffocate, so I motion weakly for my water bottle. She spins in place, scanning for it. She doesn’t find it, I realize, when I start drinking and the water tastes suspiciously clean.
Definitely not mine.
“Shit! Are you okay?” Darcy’s soft voice breaks through the haze, a blur of red entering my vision. Still half-choking, I nod, tipping my head back and letting the pristine water scrape down the tightness in my throat.
It takes half the bottle, and a couple embarrassing hacking sounds to clear the constriction, but finally, I start to breathe.
“I’m fine,” I rasp, my throat raw, chest sore. I hand the green squeezy bottle back to Indie, wiping my wet eyes on my shoulders.
“Thanks, Rose,” I manage. She shoots me a concerned smile. “Also, your water tastes like it’s been blessed by a thousand non-pedophilic priests.”
Her grin deepens. “I scrub it out every day.”
Suddenly, I wonder when the last timeIscrubbed my water bottle was. Too long.
Much too long.
“Are you okay?” she asks again, tilting her head to the side.
I nod. “Get out of here,” I say. “Hammie’s waiting for you in the car to go grab some food.”
Her feathered brows furrow. “You’re not coming?”
I shake my head. “I’ve got some homework to catch up on.”
After Indie says goodbye, dragging her duffel bag behind her, Darcy collapses onto the bench beside me, looking at me like I’ve just sucked out her soul.
“What was that about?” she asks, and though she’s trying to hide it, I can hear the worry in her voice. Despite the sinking feeling in my chest, and my stomach, and just about everywhere else in my body, I force a smile.
“You were worried,” I say with a shit-eating grin.
Darcy rolls her pretty ivy eyes. “Was not,” she replies defensively. “It would just look bad if you died next to me.”
“Indie was a witness,” I point out. “She’d never lie on the stand.”
Darcy smiles, but it’s only halfway there. “Something’s bothering you,” she says.
Not asks.Says.Like it’s a fact. Which it is, but she shouldn’t know that. I clear my throat, shifting on the hard bench, suddenly wishing Indie were still here to baptize my esophagus with her priest-approved water.
“No,” I lie, because without holy water in my mouth, I’m fully capable of lying through my teeth. It’d be useless anyway. Darcy is the self-appointed—andme-appointed—Antichrist. Holy water or not, she sees right through it.
“What’s that?” She gestures to my phone, which is still clenched in my hand, screen lit up, that article front and center. I could turn it off. Slide it into my lap. Pretend it’s nothing.
