I rear back. “What?”
“Your blade.” She points to the corner of my room, and I follow her finger to my stick. I almost dismiss it, about to roll my eyes, but then I catch the tape. The familiar blue, yellow, and pink, my pansexual pride tape. It’s… new.Clean. I look back at Darcy.
“Did you tape my stick?” I ask, brow wrinkling in confusion.
She’s busy studying a Green Day poster on my wall. “It was frayed. You know, if you do toe tape instead of a full sock, the puck will glide off faster.”
I pause, still absorbing the fact that shere-tapedmy stick. Why would she do that for me? I let go of her waist, more reluctantly than I care to admit, and stroll over, picking it up to inspect it. The tape job is meticulous. Perfect. I’ve been taping my stick for years, and I get the job done, but this? Every line is perfectly parallel, no creases, no gaps.
“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, still examining it. She hesitates.
“Right. Sorry.”
“You got this really straight,” I say, a little too impressed.
She shrugs. “Took my time.”
“Thanks.”
I set it back down, and I can’t help but wonder how long she’s been in here. What else she’d touched.
“Anyway,” I shift. “What are you doing in my room?”
She shrugs again, still studying my walls. I hate that. Her judgmental eyes drifting along. “Just hanging out.”
And then, out of nowhere, she turns toward the door again. “I’m going on a walk,” she announces. My brows draw together, and I glance around. Honestly, I could use some air too, but doing that with Darcy? I’d be manifesting disaster.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She frowns. “Why?”
“Because it’s dark and cold, and you’re drunk. And besides, you don’t have a jac—”
It’s just now that I realize, drawing my eyes from the tip of her scuffed black boots to the rim of her turtleneck, exactly what—who—Darcy is dressed as. It’s pointless. I could super glue every nerve in my face, and still, the smile gripping the corners of my lips would triumph.
I reach out, tugging gently on the rim of her turtleneck with a taunting grin. “Kim Possible,” I point out. Her gaze darts to mine, arms tucked tight across her chest. “Was that for me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Peyton. Cleo wanted to go as Shego, and I already had this in the closet.”
I nod, antagonistically. I believe her, but she doesn’t need to know that. Her strawberry brows furrow deeper, that cute freckle disappearing as the crease pops back up.
“It’s true,” she states defensively.
“Sure.”
Darcy steps closer, her tart cherry scent a cocktail with her vodka breath. “I wear this shirt all the time—”
“Haven’t noticed.”
“—and I bought these pants because of the pockets.” She turns to the side, gesturing down her leg to what looks like twenty of them. “I can fit all my stuff in these.”
I’m about to ask what “stuff” she’s referring to when she begins unsnapping every pocket, pulling out the most random items—phone, wallet, house key, a pack of Cheez-Itz, a pill bottle, an actual paperback book, socks, and a—
“Is that the puck I broke?” I ask, peering at the jagged piece of rubber amidst the pile of junk spread out on the bed. Darcy’s eyes widen, the proud grin on her face dropping.
“No,” she says, quickly reaching for it. But I swipe it up before she gets the chance, holding it up in my fairy lights to get a better look. I flash her a wolfish grin.
“Oh my god, it totally is!” I beam. She scowls, trying to snatch it out of my hand, but I hold it behind my back.
