Dammit. It’s delicious.
The cheese is rich, the sausage tender, and maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but this gravy is so creamy I could chug it. My stomach growls in approval, and for a moment, all my self-control slips away. I let out a strange sound, tilting my head back as I take another bite.
Then another.
Then another.
Peyton just watches, completely entertained, and honestly, I don’t even care. She can stare all she wants.
While I demolish my food, Peyton finally begins digging into hers. Turns out, when she’s not talking, she’s almost tolerable. But the longer I sit here the more confused I become. Each passing minute clarifies the last remnants of the alcohol’s haze, and with that, the doubts begin to claw at me.
Why am I sitting here, alone with Peyton Clarke?
Why isshesitting here with me?
I swallow a hefty bite, glancing up to find her still staring.
“Why did you come with me?” I ask.
Peyton pauses mid-bite, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She studies me, her fork resting halfway to her mouth. Then, with a half-smile, she shrugs. “I’ll answer your question,” she says, her voice teetering on the edge of teasing. “If you’ll answer one of mine.”
There are a thousand questions Peyton could ask, and none of them are ones I’d want to answer. My stomach gurgles. “Depends on what you want to know.”
Her eyes fall to my gloves, and I immediately regret entertaining the idea. There is no way in hell I am telling Peyton, of all people, about my diagnosis. The woman already thinks I’m some uneducated coach’s daughter. The last thing I need is for her to think I’m weak on top of it.
I take a breath, preparing myself to shut the conversation down, but just as I’m ready to revoke the offer entirely, Peyton finally speaks.
“Why do you still have that broken puck?”
Everything in my body freezes, and it feels like there’s a rock in my throat. I should be relieved, right? I mean, at least she didn’t ask about my “younger” hockey career, or my gloves, or why on Earth I’m a student coach. But somehow, this feels worse. Mainly because I’m not really sure I have a proper answer.
It’s just a puck. A broken piece of rubber that’s not even usable anymore. But then again, maybe that’s exactly why I slipped it into my pocket. Why I’ve been carrying it around. It’s something that once had purpose. The game couldn’t play without it. And now it’s just discarded. Replaced with a new one.
But it’s not just a puck. It’s proof of Peyton’s endless hours. It’s time, and effort, and passion, and pain. It deserves to be recognized for what it was, not just for what it’s lost.
Obviously, I can’t say that out loud. Peyton would think I’m insane, and not that I care about her opinion, but it would be a lot easier to get her to respect mine if she believes I’m sound of mind. So I lie.
“I collect junk.” I shrug. “Make collages with them in my free time.”
Peyton arches a sculpted brow, an intrigued smile tugging at her lips. “Oh! You’re one of those people,” she says, and I get offended even though I’m not.
“What do you mean‘one of those people’?”
She waves her hands, rectifying. “No, no. Not like that, just,y’know. One of those people who upcycle trash. It’s awesome, actually. Bailey went through a phase like that, but we had to cut her off when she started bringing in soggy cardboard from the dumpster.”
I force a shallow laugh, a pit sinking in my stomach. I don’t know why I feel guilty for lying. It’s not like Peyton cares any more about my life than I do hers. Still, from a coachingperspective, it was a mistake. Trust is crucial in my job, and clearly, we don’t have it.
“Got it,” I say, nodding. Peyton brushes her hands together, shaking off crumbs, then keeps talking through a mouthful of food.
“I walked with you,” she starts, eyes fixed on me. Sometimes, when she looks at me, it makes me uneasy. Not for any particular reason, other than the fact that I don’t like being stared at. Most people make eye contact for a few seconds, then look away. Peyton stares until I forget how long it’s been since I blinked.
The view’s nice, I’ll give her that. There’s something about the dark, almost bronze flecks swirling around her irises like autumn leaves drifting in the wind. Still that doesn’t make it any less intimidating.
No. She doesn’tintimidateme. She just… distracts me. Bothers me, even.
“I walked with you because even though we don’t get along—”
“You don’t like me,” I interrupt, quoting her from earlier. The corners of her lips curl, and she shoots me a defensive look.
