She’sdrooling.
Full, open-mouthed, loud-snoring, drooling. I can’t help but grin cautiously as I watch Darcy’s chest rise and fall in a rhythm, her silky black sleep mask snug over her eyes.
God, she really is a diva.
I slip my finger into the back of my worn sneakers, lifting the heel to slide my foot in. I’m not sure why I can’t bring myself to untie them. It’s just one of those things. The soft November sunlight filters through the small cabin windows, illuminating Darcy’s fiery hair.
It’s stunning.She’sstunning. Even with the puddle of drool pooling on her pillow, and the nearly perpetual frown creasing her lip.
I shift to my other foot, wriggling my toes to maneuver into the shoe. But my finger slips, sending the sneaker tumbling to the floor with athud.I freeze, holding my breath as Darcy shifts under the covers.
I probablyshouldwake her up, given that we’re all supposed to be meeting at the rink soon, but I have a feeling Darcy shares Harlowe’s hatred for mornings. And if that’s the case, I donotwant to set her off.
She lets out a soft, indiscernible mumble, and I quickly drop down.
My hand blindly pats the floor, searching for the lost shoe, trying my best not to wake her up—but failing miserably at resisting the urge to keep my eyes glued to her. They drift down the thin slope of her nose, tracing the constellation of freckles scattered across her skin, then journey down her pale arms, pausing at those damn gloves. I swear, she has a pair in every color.
But I’m more interested in how the hell she sleeps in them. And more importantly,why?
I’d ask her, but she hasn’t said a single word to me since the night of the fight. Not at practice. Not even last night when we filtered into the cabin and I asked which bed she wanted.
She responded by dragging one of them all the way to the opposite wall from mine. Then spent the rest of the night staring at that clipboard, ignoring me.
Look, at first, I understood. She needed space to cool off; I did too. I shouldn’t have jumped into that fight, and she shouldn’t have stormed in on me, acting like she knew my life story. I gave it a few days, wallowed in Coach’s lectures, letting it all breathe. But when a couple practices passed, and Darcy still hadn’t talked to me,lookedat me, it all began to feel excessive.
I didn’t join in to piss her off. I didn’t even think of her when I stepped in to stop #10 from swinging at Indie. I was just trying to protect my rookie. But she’s acting like it was a personal affront. A vendetta.
And that’s eating me alive.
It doesn’t make sense. Darcy and I haven’t gotten along a single day since we’ve met. Not sober, at least. So why I suddenly care that she disappears right after practice, why it’s causing this incurable sinking sensation in my stomach, is a mystery. A confusing, irritating, pointless mystery.
I make my way toward the rink, my duffel bag dragging me down with every step. The weight pulls me to the side, and I let it, because my brain is too busy dissecting our last conversation to have strength for anything else. The fresh, pine-scented air fills my lungs, and normally, I’d be reveling in it. But all I can think about is that night.
About her, pressed against the locker, brushing her lips against mine
When the rink comes into view, I can’t help but smile. This is perfect. No stands. No florescent lights. No rows of judging eyes. Just the team, the ice, and miles of trees.
“You look like shit.”
I glance up at Harlowe, her ocean eyes still crusted with sleep, short blonde bob sticking out in every direction. I fling my bag onto the bench beside her, the wood groaning under the impact.
“I just love hearing your sweet voice in the mornings,” I retort, flopping down and pulling out my skates. I catch her eye, really noticing how exhausted she looks. Prying off my shoes, I add, “What happened to you?”
She lets out a telling sigh, eyes rolling to the sky, and I swear, for a second, they get stuck. “Caydence is a totalpriss,” she starts, bending down to tie her skates. “She has to sleep with one of those stupid sound machines. Guess what she puts on?”
I glance across the rink at Caydence, that painfully high ponytail swaying behind her. “Uhh… white noise?”
“Nature sounds.Which, y’know, would be fine, if we weren’t alreadysurrounded by it. The noises kept overlapping with the actual sounds outside the cabin, and—”
Blood rushes to her cheeks, and she blows out a frustrated breath. Caydence isn’t the only thing bothering her. After last week’s fight, Coach Cole and Coach Pike—the Glacier Giants’ coach—came up with a joint punishment for Harlowe and Clay. Starting next week, they’ll be volunteering together at the local youth league. Three hours a week,until summer.
When she found out, Harlowe spent four hours in the gym, pounding the heavy bag until her knuckles were shredded.
She shakes her head, calming herself down. “So what about you? How was bedtime withYours Truly?”
“Oh it was great,” I answer sarcastically. “First, she dragged her bed the furthest possible distance from mine. Which turned out to be an act of mercy, because she snores like a—”
A sharp whistle rings through the air, and every head turns to look at Coach. She’s…strangely peppyfor someone who threatened to revoke my title yesterday when I tried to reason with her about the rooming arrangements.
