I nod, stepping closer to hear her better. She continues.
“Well, I got to thinking, right when I took this job, about how I could get back on the ice.” She pauses. It’s a long pause, and for a moment, I don’t know if she’s going to finish. But then, she does. “What it would take for someone who deals with the same symptoms as me to keep playing. And I came up with an idea. Autoimmune Hockey.”
Her eyes lock with mine, and I think this is the part where I’m supposed to say something, but no words come out. She lets out a diminishing laugh.
“Yeah, it’s dumb, I know,” she starts, but I reach out and grab her hand.
“It’s not,” I say quickly, and she looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with her. I’m not, of course. I don’t fully understand what Autoimmune Hockey means, but just the idea of her being passionate about the game enough to plan an entire league is impressive.
It makes my heart flip.
“Tell me more.”
She hesitates at first, but after a moment, her gaze catches on her clipboard. She smiles, briefly, then continues. “We’d make the periods shorter,” she explains. “Fifteen minutes instead oftwenty. Less contact—” Her eyes catch mine, and I flash a sheepish grin. “To avoid serious injuries. Specialized equipment, vital monitors…” She trails off.
And I just grin like an idiot.
“You’ve really thought a lot about this,” I say, surprised for some reason. I shouldn’t be. Darcy thinks a lot about everything. It’s what drives me crazy about her. But it’s also something I admire.
She nods. “Yeah. It’ll probably never happen but—”
“Don’t manifest failure.” I frown. Her eyes roll, then fall back onto the clipboard. She begins dissecting it, and I decide to let her.
“Alright,” I say, pushing off the tree. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“Finally,” she mutters, but there’s an almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Something about it makes my heart skip. I take a step back, and then another, watching as she falls back into it.
I like the way she tilts them to get the right lighting. I like the way her free hand gently pushes off the tree to keep the hammock rocking. I like the way she grins as she reads whatever words lie upon the page.
I take another step, then, just before I turn away, I throw one last comment over my shoulder.
“Would it be a bad time to mention your momdidn’ttell me you had to come on this hike?”
Darcy’s face shifts, her lips parting in betrayal. Her green eyes narrow as I keep walking, turning my back to her.
“Peyton Clarke, I can’t fucking stand you!”
I grin. “Darcy Cole,” I quip. “I think I can live with that.”
Nineteen
Darcy
My legs are about to fall off, and when they do, Peyton Clarke will be listed as the cause of death.
I haven’t worked out this much since March, and it’s definitely showing.
My thighs feel like they’ve been run over by a truck, a thousand tiny knives prod at the tendons in my ankles, and every time I shift in bed, my hip gives a loud, sharppop.
It would’ve been nice to know I didn’tneedto go on the hike earlier. But then again, if I knew, I probably wouldn’t have gone. And even though hiking isn’t my usual scene—especially since being diagnosed—I’m still a little proud of myself. Because damn it, I did the thing. Even if my legs are now plotting their revenge.
I can only imagine how much worse they’d feel if Peyton hadn’t let me borrow her foam roller when we got back.
I roll uncomfortably, fingers tightening around the worn edges of my book. A soft laugh escapes me as I rememberPeyton’s comment from earlier—how I didn’t seem like the “romance type.”
Honestly, it couldn’t be farther from the truth. I was always the girl wholivedfor Valentine’s Day parties at school. The one who went to homecoming with my friends, secretly hoping my crush would ask me to dance (she didn’t). I blame my parents for turning me into a hopeless romantic.
What they have iscompletelyunrealistic.
