She quirks a brow. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Stop trying to be like or unlike anyone,” I say. “Justbe.”
Twenty Six
Peyton
The smell of victory is sweet. Unless you play hockey.
Then, it’s musty. Really, really musty. Which is why, after our win today at the home game against the UMLR Warhogs, I spent a solid forty-five minutes in the locker room shower, scrubbing the scent of victory off me. Partly because Harlowe threatened to lock me out of the apartment until I did, and partly because the team’s heading to the Puget Diner to catch a PWHL game to celebrate, and I’d rather not be the stinkiest thing in there.
The December wind catches my hair as I swing open the glass door, stepping into the diner. Everyone else is already here, huddled around the tiny box television. Sure, we could go to a fancy sports bar with seventeen 80-inch flatscreens scattered about the place, but they’re always crowded, and trying to replace meat with cauliflower.
The diner is where we feel at home.
Cheers erupt through the restaurant as all my teammate’s eyes snap over to me. They whoop and clap as I strut to the table,giving my best attempt at a catwalk and tossing my hair over my shoulder theatrically.
“Thank you, thank you,” I say, bowing at the attention, like I at all deserve it. When my spine snaps straight, Harlowe pats me on the back, a little too roughly, and Indie’s eyes sparkle.
“Great slapshot Cap!” she beams. I flash her a grin that I hope is opaque.
“Thanks Rose. You killed it out there. That breakaway wasinsane.”
“Good work today Clarke,” Coach calls. My gaze snaps over to her, then falls to a large pint glass gripped in her hand, filled to the brim with what looks like flat beer. My nose wrinkles.
“You’re a beer drinker?”
She flashes me a warning look. “With what you ladies put me through, you’re lucky I’m not doing heroin.”
A chuckle escapes me as I glance around at the team. Everyone’s snacking on appetizers—glazed wings, mozzarella sticks—and Harlowe’s got a milkshake the size of her head in front of her, sprinkled with Everything Bagel seasoning, obviously. But there’s one person I’m not seeing. I scan the room again, eyes moving carefully over every head, bracing for that fiery mane of hair to pop into view.
But still, no sign of Darcy.
I’d have thought she’d tell me if she wasn’t planning on coming. Especially given that since the retreat, she’s been more and more invested in the team. And, I like to think, more and more invested in me.
Though, that’s sort of how our agreement works.
For a fleeting moment, I consider asking about her. But better judgment floods my body.
“You gonna get in here, Pey?” Zayda calls, motioning to the baskets of food on the table. I nod.
“Yeah, just need to wash my hands real quick.”
I head toward the bathroom, pushing open the heavy swinging door. The moment I step in, I freeze. Darcy’s at the sink, sliding her gloves back on, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. Quickly, I clear my throat, squaring my hunched shoulders as my gaze flicks down to the purple jersey perfectly hugging her body.
Damn. She’s a vision.
Despite the fact that all I want to do is stare at her figure, remember how it felt in my hands, I force myself to speak.
“Oh, so you’re like—” I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. “AnactualPortland fan?”
In the mirror, Darcy pauses, those emerald greens flitting down my chest, locking onto my baggy pale blue jersey. She spins around, drawing a hand to her hip, pretty freckled face tipping to the side. “I should’ve known.”
The Portland Porcupines and the San Diego Sabertooths are fierce rivals. Sure, there are less than twenty teams in the PWHL right now, so it’s not like they have a ton of competition, but still—these two have been battling for the top spot ever since the league was founded.
The Porcupines are the worst.
Because they’realmostthe best.
