“Okay,”she says slowly, nodding like she’s humoring me. Like she’s still not convinced I know what I’m talking about.
“It’s not risky if the flanks are moving like they’re supposed to,” I explain. “Just because it’s a power play doesn’t mean we can coast. Right now they’re stagnant, but—”
I flip to a blank page on my clipboard, click my pen, and start sketching. The lines come without thinking, a trail of ink gliding across the paper like muscle memory. Like I’m back on the ice, breaking down the play for my team. The tremble in my hand, the waver in my voice, is replaced by arrows and loops, streaking across the page.
“If Brady moves here—” I draw an arrow curling away from the right flank. “—she pulls the PK with her. That creates spacehere.” I circle the slot. “And if these two—” I tap the dots to the side. “—are ready for a rebound if you miss, we’re covered.”
When I glance up, Peyton’s amber eyes are locked on me. Not quite skeptical, but not fully convinced either. Her lip quirks. These little crescent-shaped divots settle into each of her rose-washed porcelain cheeks, and it makes my skin hot.
“I don’t miss.”
I tuck my clipboard against my chest. “Then it should be easy.”
Another short, airy laugh slips out of her, and she casts a glance at the team, gauging their reaction. She looks back at me.
“I’m not opposed,” she starts, though her tone makes me think otherwise. “It just feels like you’re not giving room for anyone to trust their instincts. Instincts are half the game,” she adds, explaining it to me like I’m five.
I can feel every set of eyes on me now. The team. My mom. Peyton. I could back off, let her win this round, and see how far that gets her. But that stupid fucking smirk still lingers, like this—me—is a game.
So instead, I clear my throat, and step forward. “Sure, but that doesn’t work when everyone’s got different instincts. You need to be on the same page. You need a plan.”
“Wehavea plan,” she fires back, and now, that grin drops. “But we’re not going to overthink it. Heavy structure like that never works in a game.”
Before I can stop it, my inner sledgehammer slips out. “If preparation never works, then maybe you’re not actually prepared.”
A chorus of “oooohs” ripples through the team like an elementary class when someone gets sent to the principal’s office. Guilt floods my stomach as Bailey catches my eye, winking at me.
Then my mom’s voice cuts through the sound.
“Okay, alright,” she says, all no-nonsense. “Different perspectives. That’s good. Clarke—” She turns to face Peyton.”We’ll try it Darcy’s way a couple times. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t.”
Something flutters in my stomach, but it sinks just as quickly. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the season if every timeI speak, I’m having to prove I belong. If I have to justify every word. Then again, I’m not sure I do belong. It feels like I belong to the rink, but it doesn’t belong to me anymore.
And I don’t know how to cope with that.
Peyton shoots me an annoyed glance, and it’s childish, but I feel triumphant. She knows better than to challenge my mom, though. Instead, she takes a steadying breath and flashes a tight smile, channeling that cheaply chirpy voice. “Yes, Coach.”
Immediately after, she takes charge. Gliding over to the team, pointing and giving orders, directing everyone into position. It’s effortless for her. Like most things when it comes to her career. But there’s a moment, a split-second pause.
It’s almost unnoticeable. Everyone else is flying around her, getting into position, but for a fleeting second, she hesitates. Her eyes drop, her body stills, and she runs a hand through her dark, layered hair. But before another passes, her gaze snaps to mine. She pulls on her helmet, and pushes off, rubbing her hand across the “C” on her jersey.
I lean back against the bench, gripping the clipboard like it validates my existence.
“Get out of the crease, Bails!” the goalie—I’m pretty sure her name’s Harlowe—grunts, shoving her broad frame into Hammie’s.
Hammie huffs, scooting forward maybe an inch. “I thought you liked spending time with me, Yersie,” she shoots back.
Harlowe—orYersie, apparently—blows her a kiss.
The rest of the team files into position. The whistle blows. They run through the play, and it pans out exactly how I envisioned. A clean sweep. A perfect execution.
The puck glides from stick to stick, the satisfyingclackas it bounces off Hammie’s, right to Peyton’s, then slams into the net.
I watch with a grin as the team erupts into high-fives. Yersie hangs her head. And the smallest spark of satisfaction settles in.
I didn’t suggest anything monumental. I was just doing my job. But there is something so sweet about being right when it’s at Peyton’s arrogant expense.
Before I get caught staring too long, I direct my attention back to my clipboard, scrawling in the margins of my notes. The whoosh of skates fills my ears, and my eye catches on Peyton in my periphery. She stops in front of me, her breath slipping out in small, controlled puffs.
