Eighteen #3
Darcy’s red brows drop, and just as her head tips down to look at the imaginary spot on her shirt, I swipe the clipboard from her grasp. Her grip around it tightens, but the plastic slips through her gloves like butter, and she lets out a frustrated grunt of effort.
“I cannot believe you fell for that again.” I laugh, taking a hefty step back. Darcy’s brows furrow, and she lunges forward, but the hammock begins to tilt, sucking her back down. I look at the clipboard.
Jeesh. It’s a mess.
“You know, I thought you were all organized and shit, but…” I flip through the pages, studying the nearly indecipherable scribbles. “This is kind of a wreck.”
“Yeah, I know,” she shoots, finally prying herself from the hammock. I keep stepping back, sticks cracking beneath my feet as I analyze the pages. She storms toward me, and whew she looks angry.
“Give it back, Peyton,” she says, sticking her hand out. I nod, hitching a shoulder as I read.
“I will, I will, just give me a minute.” My eyes finally catch a legible paragraph.
Shorter periods with more breaks. Drills shouldn’t change too much. Specialized skates and medical alert bracelets monitored by coaches/medical staff. Less contact a—
“Hey, I was reading that!” I frown as Darcy rips the clipboard out of my hand. She holds it over her head, which is totally cheating if you ask me.
“It’s not done yet,” she snaps, spinning back toward the hammock.
Shit.
I speed after her. “No, it’s great,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound very convincing. Mostly because I’m not entirely sure what I read. But I’m sure it was good, whatever it is.
She rolls her eyes, dropping backwards into the hammock. “You don’t even know what it is.”
I pause, letting out a sheepish laugh. “Okay, no, not exactly, but I would like to.”
She stares up at me, and as much as I like the fact that she towers over me, I’m enjoying this view of her. Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why?”
Always the “why” with this woman.
“Because it sounded interesting and it’s clearly important to you,” I answer honestly. She looks pissed. In my defense, I really did think it was going to be practice notes and drill strategies. I thought she was just being stubborn.
She looks up at me, jaw tight, emerald eyes simmering. But then they drop, and she lets out a sigh. Her eyes flit around the trees. Everyone else is busy talking or complaining. She looks back at me.
“It’s … I had this idea,” she says, her voice low. “You know how they have disabled hockey programs? For wheelchair users and amputees and stuff?”
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 of twenty. 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 mom didn’t tell 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.”