“Come on, Darcy, that’s all you got?” she taunts. “I thought you were supposed to be a pro.”
“Peyton,” I shoot through clenched teeth. “I am going tokick your ass.”
Peyton’s grin stretches wider, which should be impossible. “There we go,” she cheers, pointing at me. “C’mon, give me more.”
I push off the ice again, this time letting my fingers simply hover against the edge. I want to tell her to shut up, to stop making this harder. To stop wasting my energy on her cocky remarks. But when my eyes lock on hers, she’s looking at me like nothing in the world matters more than this.
“What’s yourleastfavorite thing about me?” she continues, gliding slowly beside me. My legs keep moving, picking up pace.
“I hate how you act like you know everything,” I say without thinking. Immediately, my stomach twists guiltily, but when I look at her, she’s still grinning. She nods her head.
“What else?”
My legs move faster, as my mind races, trying to remember every single time this woman has pissed me off. “I hate that you got into a fight on the ice.”
“Good. Keep going.”
My hands hover a foot from the edge, fingers aching to keep my balance, knees slowly beginning to settle as I make a hesitant turn around the rink. A cold breath fills my lungs, the chill cutting through me as my mind skates laps, swirling with every frustrated thought.
“I hate that you’re good at your position because Ireallydidn’t want you to be.” The words spill out. “I hate that stupid poster in your bedroom with the cats on it.” My pace picks up.
“I hate that Cleo adores you because it makes itreallyhard to hate you.” Faster still.
“And I hate that in the cabin, when you made me dance with you—” My gaze locks with hers, and suddenly I’m in the center of the rink, the ice gleaming beneath me like a vast, white sea. “I hate that you didn’t kiss me.”
The moment the words slip from my mouth, Peyton flicks her stick, sending the puck hurtling in my direction. It comes at me like a bullet, too fast for my mind to catch up, but my body kicks into autopilot.
Instinctively, I turn, my wrists driving forward, and the puck slams into the blade of my stick with a satisfyingclack. It ricochets, flying toward Peyton, but I don’t hear anything except the pounding pulse in my ears. It vibrates through every inch of me, shaking my chest, rattling my ribcage, thumping in my fingertips, racing down my legs.
Peyton catches the puck with ease, halting it with the practiced tap of her stick, her grin widening as those damn smile lines crease her cheeks.
“Darcy.”
I raise an eyebrow, frustration still bubbling in my chest. “What?”
Peyton leans her weight onto her stick, looking at me with stars in her eyes. “You’re playing hockey.”
My tongue presses against the inside of my cheek as a smile tugs at my lips, despite myself. It shouldn’t be there. There’s no reason for it. And yet—
“You know I hate you, right?”
Peyton’s eyes shimmer, as she lets out a casual, “I know.”
We stare at each other for a minute, saying nothing, but eyes saying everything.
Peyton’s are saying:
I win.
While mine are responding with:
You’re a massive dick. Also, thanks.
She punctuates the conversation with a smile, then pushes backwards, tapping her stick against the ice.
“Come on,” she calls out.“Kick my ass.”
I shake my head with a laugh, propping a hand on my hip. “I think that’s enough for one night,” I say. Peyton’s eyes catch mine, and just when it looks like she’s about to give in, I lunge forward and swipe the puck from her possession.
