If only she’d let me.
Twenty Seven
Darcy
Something most people don’t realize about living with a chronic illness is how much of it feels like failure.
Not the pain. That part, I can handle. The full body aches, the stiff throbbing joints, the fatigue. That all becomes background noise after a while. A constant presence you learn to ignore best you can.
But the failure? That’s harder to silence.
Failure for needing to cancel plans. For taking breaks. For saying no. For needing help. It doesn’t matter how valid the reasons are, some part of me always believes I’m letting everyone down.
That part is worse than the pain.
Which is why I’m here, in the Hornets visitor locker room, sitting on cold yellow metal with heat packs stuffed under my clothes and double knee braces, instead of curled up in bed where I probably belong.
I slept through the weekend. Skipped Monday’s practice, though not by choice. My mom physically hid my skates. Peyton didn’t show for our early skate session the next morning, no matter how many times I said I’d be fine. And Professor Palit pulled me aside after class yesterday, offering me virtual lessons again.
But tonight is the biggest game of the season so far. I owe it to Peyton—and the team, of course—to be here. And besides, everyone would get suspicious that my “food poisoning” was lasting so long.
“Why are the most important games always scheduled when my ovaries are rioting?” Harlowe grumbles, adjusting her massive leg pads. She winces as Bailey yanks her short blonde hair into a painfully tight, completely ridiculous little bun on top of her head. Half her hair still spills out the bottom, but at least the bangs are secured, which, I suppose, is the whole point.
“Because the other team couldn’t handle you at full power,” Bailey replies, snapping the hair tie into place with a satisfyingpop.She pats Harlowe’s head like a well-groomed dog.
I glance around the room, mostly staying quiet. Faith looks locked in, focused and ready to play. I heard from Peyton that she patched things up with her ex, which probably explains the spring in her step these past few weeks. Caydence is… well, Caydence. She’s currently leaned against the sink, slicking her hair into a ponytail so tight it gives me a headache just watching her. Indie doesn’t look half as terrified as she did the first game of the season. She’s still taking in slow, steady breaths, but now, she’s got a smile on her face as she talks to Lena about something I can’t quite hear.
It’s kind of wild how much you can learn about people just by listening. Watching. Like, how I know Caydence is Catholic, and Lena was born in Ireland. Harlowe has two moms and Zaydahas a twenty-pound cat. That Indie grew up on a ranch down in Sundown Sands, Oregon, and has seven siblings.Seven.
I didn’t know any of that before. But I do now.
I don’t know if word got around about Minnesota, or if maybe I was just too much of a bossy bitch in the beginning, but the more I listen, the more they seem to listen too.
Lena’s been working on that low-angle wraparound shot I suggested at practice last week. Faith adjusted her stride pattern after I pointed out she was wasting speed on wide-angle turns. Even Caydence, of all people, accepted the electrolyte packets I gave her when she started to get dizzy during practice. She didn’t say “thank you” or anything, but she’s been using them all week.
Lately, practice hasn’t felt like a job. It’s felt like an escape. Like a reminder that, as much as I respect Professor Palit, I don’t have to spend my life in a job I’ll never truly love. Like finding version of myself that’s old, yet new. The same as before, but also different. No one looks at me like I’m fragile, because no one knows that I am.
Well … Peyton knows.
But she doesn’t treat me like I’m broken.
She just treats me like me.
I glance around the locker room and find her tucked into the corner by the bathroom, alone. She’s staring down at her phone, thumbs tapping away. I’ve seen her do it before every game. I just never knew what she was doing until recently. Turns out it’s her dad she’s texting. He sends her a motivational message before every game, probably because she doesn’t let him actually come and watch. She says it stresses her out too much and makes it harder to focus.
If my dad were Harrison Clarke, I think I’d feel the same way.
I saunter over and give her ponytail a playful tug.
“Flying low, or high tonight Icarus?” I tease.
But when Peyton whips around, the smirk that normally seems to be cemented to her face is gone. Her amber eyes are wide and glassy, her chest shuddering in rapid breaths.
My face drops.
My stomach drops.
My heart drops.
