My gaze flicks to the coffee cup gripped in her hands, streams of steam lifting off the rim. “You’re awake,” I say pointedly, prying my anchored skates free as I glide toward the boards.
I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I just want to look this woman in the eye while I tell her to mind her own damn business.
But that was a mistake. Because when I finally look her in the eyes, words evaporate. The dictionary? A distant memory. Those dark green gems stare back at me, layers of fern and ivy tangled within, a deceptively serene secret garden that could have convinced me this woman is a breath of fresh air, if she hadn’t already proved herself to be pollution personified.
Her lips lift again, soft freckled skin stretching, nose glowing red under the fluorescent lights. “I’m an early riser.”
“What, so you set a three a.m. alarm to come throw hockey pucks at people?”
“I didn’t throw itatyou,” she challenges, thin brows furrowing. A crease forms between them, and the freckle in the center of her forehead vanishes in it. “I threw itnearyou.”
Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I pause just long enough to stop myself from snapping at her, but not quite long enough to lose the attitude entirely. “Right. You know, you could have banged on the fiberglass or something.”
She doesn’t seem to mind my petulance. In fact, she glides right over it. “How often do you practice like this?”
I pause again, suddenly struck by the thought that maybe I don’t recognize her because,maybe, she’s not a student at all. My heart rams against my ribcage as my gaze draws down her body, searching for any sign that she’s got some kind of authority. Maybe a badge, or a notebook with the wordsPeyton Clarke violating rink rules againscrawled across the page. But all I find are baggy sweatpants, black gloves, and eyes like emeralds, glowing in the light as if she’s studying me right back.
“Couple times a week,” I admit, gaze narrowing skeptically. She nods, the golden ring dangling from her septum glistening. A beat of silence follows, tempting me to put my earbuds back in and get to work, but then she continues, her tone assured.
“You’re going to burn yourself out.”
My jaw tenses, fingers drumming against my stick.
Who the fuck does this girl think she is?
“Sorry, do you even play?”
The question comes out condescending, but honestly, I couldn’t care less. Okay, maybe I feel alittlebad. But I’ve been skating since I could walk. Who is this girl to give me unsolicited advice? She’s probably never even touched a puck, until she gathered the audacity to throw one at me.
Her posture snaps rigid and she pushes away from the boards, arms crossing defensively. “When I was younger.”
Despite my (admittedly) feeble efforts, a dry laugh tumbles from my mouth. “Yeah, okay. No offense,” I add, fully aware it’s about to be offensive. “But I don’t need advice from someone who couldn’t even stick with it.”
The woman’s expression shifts, that freckle on her forehead disappearing again, lips tightening into a line as if they were stitched shut. Her eyes sharpen, pinning mine with a challenge. “Look, I’m just saying, I’ve seen it before. Overworking yourself like this is only going to do more harm than good.”
“AndI’mjust saying, that if you were willing to give it up, you clearly haven’t been in my shoes.” I take in a steadying breath, a futile attempt at soothing the irritation swelling in my chest. I’m supposed to help Zayda, our alternate goalie, study for a test at five, and I’m running out of time. But this woman isn’t on my time, so instead of backing off, she doubles down.
“I get it, you love it.” She hitches a shoulder, letting a sigh slip out. “And there’s power in that. But you’re going to lose that power if you overdo it.”
A scoff slips from me, disbelieving and bitter. I’m supposed to, what? Take thisrandomwoman’s advice after she hurled something at me and then followed it with an insult like it was prophetic hockey wisdom?
I should brush it off, turn the other cheek, be the bigger person. My brother can be like this—blunt, nosy, a little too comfortable in his own opinions—I’m used to it. But this? The way she talks to me, like she’s my goddamn coach?
Yeah… I don’t think so.
“Lose my power?” My brow twitches for a second, and then I burst into antagonizing laughter. My side aches as I clutch it, allowing the cackle to bubble in my chest. I’m being an asshole. I hate being an asshole. But sometimes, I’m not as mature as the“C” on my jersey suggests. I shake my head, managing to force out a weak “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Darcy,” she replies plainly. “You?”
“Peyton.” I wet my lips, the cold air rushing over my tongue. “You know,Darcy,I’ve been playing since I was four, so, if I was going to ‘lose my power,’ as you put it, I think it would’ve happened by now.”
She frowns, briefly, before adjusting her pronounced expression to something daring.
“Let’s see it then,” she declares, leaning against the gate. My head tilts, searching her face for something that tells me she’s joking. But I don’t find it. Instead, those taunting green eyes stare me down, and I know I don’tneedto prove myself to this woman, but I want to anyway. Not because she’s clearly out of her element, or because I want to put her in her place, but because it’s all I’ve ever done.
Try to prove myself.
“Fine.”
