Nineteen #3
The puck soars into the goal like it has so many times before, and still, I don’t believe it as I watch the net give way. Peyton flies past me, scooping it up with a grin.
“You totally tricked me!” She pants, broad shoulders heaving. I smirk, folding my arms.
“And you lied to me, so now we’re even.”
Peyton glides in a circle around me. “I told you,” she says, spinning the other direction. “I didn’t lie.”
Then she pushes off the ice with everything she’s got and planes toward the opposite end. My feet move after her, albeit clumsily due to the ill-fitting form of these skates. I wonder, for a second, who these even belong to, and pray it’s not Faith because she’s got a nasty case of athlete’s foot.
“Come on,” Peyton teases, skating backward. “Catch me if you can!”
The cold air stings my cheeks as I chase after her, my heart thudding against my ribcage, thighs practically melting off my body.
God, it burns so bad. But then, it burns so good.
It’s this odd blend of RA aches and second-day soreness.
Something harsh yet satisfying. Punishing yet rewarding.
Bitter yet sweet. The gap between us shrinks, and I know I’ll pay for this tomorrow, but right now, I don’t give a damn.
I just want to play.
I’m almost there, close enough to reach out, just inches from the back of her green jacket. I push forward, tilting my stick in an attempt to gain control of the puck, but then—
BAM!
Peyton plummets to the ice. It happens so fast I almost miss it. She crashes down with a dramatic thud, arms flailing as she tries to catch herself, but it’s too late. My knees rattle as I dig my skates into the ice, the cold powder spraying out from under them as I bring myself to a halt.
“Shit!” I call out, moving back over to her. “Are you okay?”
Peyton’s face down on the ice, her body shaking against the ground.
Fuck.
I lean over her, hand grazing the back of her jacket. “Peyton, are you okay?” I ask again, heart racing.
A sound comes out of her, and I don’t realize that it’s a laugh until she flips onto her back, and I see the smile stretched across her face. That cut near her lip is fresh again, though this time it’s not oozing. She continues chuckling, body shaking mirthfully as she stares up at me.
“That hurt.” She giggles. I roll my eyes, offering her a hand.
“Sounded like it,” I respond, releasing a shaky breath as subtly as I know how. I don’t need Peyton walking around thinking I care.
She eyes my hand, squinting at me, then grabs my arm with a surprising amount of strength. I shift my weight onto my heels, bracing myself to pull her up, but suddenly, I’m flying forward, tumbling on top of her with a soft thud.
She lets out another laugh, and I want to be mad, but before I can decide it’s the route I want to take, I’m laughing with her. Her hand still grips my wrist, and she looks up at me with a triumphant grin.
“Did that hurt?” she asks.
“Yes. And just so you know, when I can’t walk tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”
Peyton’s breath, warm and ragged, ghosts across my lips. Her amber eyes are like sunlight shining up at me, heating my skin everywhere they look. My eyes, first, then my lips; they trail down my neck, pausing on my chest. My breath hitches.
“I’ll give you a massage,” she says, her free hand tracing an X over her heart. “Scout’s honor.”
I try to push myself up, palms slipping on the ice, but a gentle pressure holds me down. Her hand rests on the small of my back. Every instinct screams at me to break free, to regain control. But my muscles refuse to obey.
She brushes a stray strand of hair behind my earmuffs, the touch sending an ironically warm shiver down my spine. I’m sure I look ridiculous right now, hovering over her, headband slipping sideways, but she just smiles at me.
“Do you still want me to kiss you?” Peyton murmurs. My hand cups the side of her face in a silent admission.
It’s been months since I’ve touched someone like this. Since I’ve kissed anyone. Eight to be exact. And if anyone else were asking, I’d say no. I’d make up an excuse—say I have mono, or cold sores, or just inhaled a family-sized bag of Doritos. Anything that would put this possibility to an end.
But none of that comes out.
And for some, demented reason, I can’t think of anything I’d want to do more than kiss Peyton Clarke right here on the ice.
“Just do it, Clarke.”
She doesn’t wait another beat. No hesitation, no delicate tap-in. This isn’t some polite peck. This is a sudden death overtime kind of kiss. A full-on declaration of unequivocal intent.
Her mouth crashes against mine, and whatever air I believed I was holding onto slips right through me. The ice beneath might as well be a tropical beach, because the frost is gone, melted away by the scorching, delirious heat of her body.
This isn’t just a game anymore. This is a high-stakes, breathless showdown. A winner-takes-all kind of exchange. Every argument, every witty barb, this is the culmination. This is sudden death, and like I said before, I don’t like to lose.