Twenty One #2
When I first moved in, I made a point to keep my distance.
Just roommates, nothing more. I even went as far as writing my name on all my groceries for the first two weeks to make it clear.
I didn’t touch her food; she didn’t touch mine.
My door stayed shut, keeping both her and Socks out.
I turned down every movie night she suggested, not budging an inch.
Then one day, I went to make a smoothie.
I grabbed my labeled container of yogurt out of the fridge.
Plain vanilla, dairy-free, locally made.
The only problem? I was supposed to be out of yogurt.
So I asked Cleo about it, and she casually mentioned that she’d gone grocery shopping and noticed the empty container in the trash. So, she just grabbed me a new one.
I was surprised, but it was sweet. So I thanked her, then asked for her Venmo to pay her back.
“Nope,” she said, waving me off. “I don’t take money from friends.”
That’s when I looked at her and asked, “Are we friends?”
She shrugged. “Yes, I decided so yesterday.”
And that, as it turned out, was the only decision I’ve ever seen her actually stick with.
ME
Well, I’m sure you’ll be great at it. You kááánow, I’m pretty sure acupuncture is sometimes used to treat RA.
ROOMIE
ME
Oh absolutely not.
If you come near me with a needle I am moving out.
ROOMIE
such a buzzkill
A burst of roaring cheers cuts through the air, and my eyes snap up, locking onto Peyton. She strolls up the steps of the bus, still in that baggy tee, but now boasting a pair of black sweats and worn slippers. She tosses her hair over her shoulder in mock flattery.
“Great timing, Clarke,” my mom says flatly, glancing at her watch. “Only one minute till takeoff.”
A sheepish smile breaks across Peyton’s face, and she runs a hand through her unkempt hair. “Sorry Coach,” she says, then her eyes flick to mine. “I had a long night. Didn’t sleep much.”
I don’t glance away. Instead, I adjust my bag on the seat next to me in hopes she’ll understand the hint.
She understands it, alright. But she sure as hell doesn’t take it.
Looking me square in the eye, she strolls past the rows, skipping Harlowe, and Indie, bypassing all the open seats, and walks right up to me.
“Is this seat taken?” she asks with a smirk.
I stare at her in disbelief, looking at the bag beside me, then back to her.
“What does it look like?”
Her hand reaches for the handle of my backpack, and that damn smirk deepens. “Like it’s about to be.”
Immediately, I reach out to grab it. But Peyton’s hold is firm, and she tugs it from my grasp. “What are you doing?” I snap, keeping my tone hushed. Peyton sets my bag down on the seat across the aisle, then starts plopping down beside me. I shove my body over to block her, but she pushes back.
“Sitting by you,” she says, using her hip to nudge me out of the way.
I push back. “Absolutely the fuck not.”
She pushes again. “Yes, I am.”
“No, you aren’t.”
We’re in a back-and-forth now, Peyton half-collapsing on my shoulder, and me trying to scoot her out of the way. I lower my voice. “If you sit here, it’s gonna look—”
“Nobody’s even paying attention,” she cuts in, using her weight to shove me over. I try to fight back, but my muscles are slowly giving in. I glance up.
Every eye on the bus is locked on us.
I freeze just long enough for Peyton to wriggle into the seat. She huffs, and a stray lock of her soft brown hair puffs up before settling back against her cheek.
“Sorry!” she calls out, grinning. “My foot got stuck.”
Everyone glances around, before turning back to their seats.
“I am going to kill you,” I mutter, catching my mom’s eye. She quirks an eyebrow but just turns back to the front and flops into her seat.
Peyton leans in, a minty scent brushing against my cheek.
“Only if you can be my last meal,” she says with a smirk.
I elbow her. “Knock it off.”
“Oh, relax. Nobody heard that.”
I shoot her a look, and she raises her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” Her hand slips into her pocket, pulls out her phone, and she starts unwinding her earbuds. I watch her for a moment, waiting. Finally, she looks back up at me.
“What?” she asks innocently.
I frown, eyeing the empty rows of seats. “Why are you sitting here?”
“Oh, there’s a reason for that,” she says, holding up a finger. I wait. She doesn’t continue. I sigh and raise a pressing eyebrow.
“Well?”
Suddenly, she snaps her fingers as if remembering something important. “Right!” Her knees nudge mine as she turns fully toward me. “So, I had an idea.”
I lean back, crossing my arms, and biting back a smile. “Oh? This should be good. It’s not often you have one of those.”
Her eyes narrow, studying me for a moment before responding, “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“How?”
She shrugs. “I’ll figure it out later.” She pulls out her phone, taps at it for a moment, and then looks back up at me, amber eyes glowing. “Anyway, I was thinking about your AIHL—”
“The Australian Ice Hockey League?”
“Your Autoimmune Hockey League.”
I groan, my head rolling back against the seat as the bus lurches into motion. “I told you to let this go.”
She doesn’t budge. In fact, she scoots in a little closer. “I know, I know. But hear me out.”
I turn to face her fully, cutting her off. “Peyton, this was a joke. A side project. Something to keep me busy. It’s not going to happen. I don’t have the resources.”
Sunbeams illuminate her eyes, shades of gold and bronze melting into a swirling pool as she stares up at me. Those full lips pull into an electric grin, and she beams.
“What if you did?”
I can feel it, the deep valley forming between my brows. My lips press into a confused line. “Yeah, okay. Not to be a complete cynic, but … how exactly would that happen?”
“You know how scouts from the Sabertooths always recruit from the final round of the LNHL championship?”
I nod slowly, still confused. The Sabertooths are one of the top teams in the PWHL.
They also happen to be the direct rivals of the Portland Porcupines, the team I was signed to before I got diagnosed.
Having their eyes on you is a big deal. Especially for a team who hasn’t won the LNHL finals in years—a team still chasing its first shot at the Women’s Frozen Four.
Peyton continues. “I want them to pick me in the draft this year. But they only take the best.” She pauses and her eyes flick down. “The best of the best.”
I wait, expecting her to elaborate, but she doesn’t, so I ask, “What does that have to do with me? Or my imaginary league?”
Her eyes lock onto mine. “I want you to help me prepare. Just in case we win the finals. Come to my early practices, give me tips. Help me. And in exchange, I’ll bring your league idea to my dad. He’s got connections—lots of them. Even if it starts small, I think it could grow into something huge.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. It’s loud, really loud, and I quickly clamp my mouth shut, shaking my head.
“Funny,” I say, tossing my eyes to the worn metal roof.
She frowns. “What is?”
“You.” I gesture to her. “That was a good one.”
Peyton’s frown deepens, and she scoots in closer.
“I’m being serious, Darcy,” she says, brows drawn tight.
“Look, I know you know what you’re doing.
I didn’t want to see it before, but I see it now, and I’m sorry.
” She sighs. “I was an insecure asshole. And I should have just listened to you in the first place, but … I didn’t. But I will now. I promise, I will.”
My stomach tightens, brows dropping in confusion. Is she actually asking for my help? After all of this back and forth, arguing and fighting, and ignoring my advice?
“Are you … saying that you were wrong?”
I know I shouldn’t let it, but my lips pull a little as Peyton responds. She clears her throat, straightening her posture.
“Yes,” she admits, almost professionally. “I was wrong. And it’s humiliating enough, so stop smiling—”
The corners of my lips drop, which makes me realize that the smile I thought was suppressing had broken through. She finishes. “But I need to get out of my head. To do whatever it takes to get to the Sabertooths. And you’re the only one who can help me.”
When her eyes fixate on her lap, I know she’s telling the truth. I don’t think Peyton could look me in the eye when asking for my help. She’s too arrogant. Too cocky.
I flash her a skeptical glance. “Why don’t you ask your dad?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, and an awkward laugh tumbles out.
“Contrary to popular belief,” she starts, running a hand across the back of her head.
“My dad’s more of a cheerleader than a teacher.
And your mom is fantastic, but I’m not the only one on the team that needs her help.
Besides, if she finds out I’m still breaking into the rink most mornings, she’ll kick my ass. ”
I chuckle. “That, she will.”
I don’t say anything else. I’m not sure what to say. This whole thing feels like a disaster waiting to happen, and frankly, I’m not in the mood to clean up the mess.