She lets out a sigh and gives a small, tight nod. Just like earlier, it fails to convince us both.
“You’re doing everything you can out there, okay?” I say. “That last play was all on me. Not you.”
She shakes her head faintly. “I should’ve been there for you to pass to.”
I reach over and press a hand to her shoulder. “You tried.”
It’s the simplest statement. And it’s the truth. Sometimes, all you can do is try. I don’t know why I feel like I’m exempt from it. Like because of where I come from—whoI come from—I’m not awarded the same grace. I know I’m privileged. Lucky.But sometimes I wonder if things would be easier if I wasn’t. Everyone else gets to fail and learn. But when I fail, I just prove the media right.
And let my father down.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking until I glance back up and see Indie and Harlowe disappear into the locker room. I take one breath, then another, trying to summon the version of myself I know Coach wants to see. The version who’s proud, who believes her own words. The version I’m unsure exists. As my left foot inches forward, my skates like cinder blocks bound to my feet, a sea of red pools in my periphery.
Darcy must have been behind us this whole time, and now, she’s standing right beside me. She doesn’t speak. She just stands there. And before I can stop myself, the words tumble out.
“If you’re going to berate me and tell me I shouldn’t have taken that shot, I’m already aware,” I mutter.
Those emerald eyes trace me from blade to brow. And for some absurd reason, all I can focus on is how the stance between us has shifted. Most people wouldn’t notice. Especially not when spiraling about their career failures. But from this angle, the extra boost of my skates, our mouths nearly align.
“Actually, I was going to tell you good job,” she replies.
My gaze from her lips to her eyes, and I frown. “What, no pointers? No tips all of a sudden?”
She tosses her sleek, red hair over one shoulder and shrugs. “I think you did what you could in the moment. And when you get back out there, you’re going to put them in their place.”
An ache throbs in the base of my throat, dry and hard, and I squirt a stream of water into my mouth in a futile attempt to cure it. “You know, you don’t have to be nice to me just because we’re at a game. It’s not like your mom is watching or anything.”
The corners of her lips turn up. “Who said I was being nice?”
Is it weird that this is making me feel better? Her biting remarks? Her annoying advice? I trace the chewed dent on the inside of my cheek with my tongue, smoothing out the beginnings of a simper.
She continues, “But I do have one pointer. If you want to hear it, that is.”
If you asked me a few days ago if I wanted to hear anything Darcy had to say, I wouldn’t even have wasted my time with a response. But now, as she asks, my gaze flicks to my stick, studying the now-worn tape hugging the blade. I wanted to be mad that she touched my stuff. That she touched my lucky stick, of all things. But it was so surprisingly perfect that I couldn’t. And the thought that Darcy might know more than I originally believed—that she’s the only one in my entire career who’s cared enough to challenge me, to go head-to-head instead of assuming I’d get by on my own—makes the satisfaction of ignoring her advice start to fade.
My brow twitches, a bead of sweat tickling my skin. “What is it?” I ask.
She leans in, that deep cherry scent sanctifying me, voice dropping low.
“You’re telegraphing your moves. Like Clay does.”
I blink. “Telegraphing?”
She nods, tucking her clipboard against her chest and straightening up. “Yeah. You tend to look at where you’re passing before you make the move. Your head dips a little while you try to decide. It’s a small thing, but it’s enough to give away what you’re about to do. Clay does the same thing.”
I stare at her, lips dropping open in surprise. “And you noticed that?”
She shrugs. “I’vebeennoticing it.” A bright, kinetic gleam pools in her eyes. “You’re better than that. Pay attention, to youandto Clay.”
A wave of something I can’t quite name—relief, admiration maybe—washes over me, and I look at her intently, nodding.
“Alright.”
Darcy’s brows lift in surprise. “Alright?” she questions.
I nod once more. “Alright.”
I hate to admit it, but Darcy’s right.
