Twenty One #3
My mind drifts back to the retreat, when we were in the stands, doing that stupid exercise.
How she told me, begged me really, to keep giving her advice because I was the only one who cared enough to tell her she could be better.
It surprises me that her dad, of all people, isn’t doing the same.
Hell, professional athlete parents are infamous for being overbearing and having high expectations.
If I were Peyton, I’d be stoked to have such a mellow father. But I guess I can see the dilemma.
Still, it doesn’t make this a good idea.
“You don’t have to answer right away,” she says, plugging an earbud into her ear. “Just think about it?”
I nod, chewing on my lower lip. She offers me the other earbud, and I know I shouldn’t take it.
But I do.
The raw thrum of Swedish heavy metal punches through my ears.
I flinch at the sudden blast, but after a moment, I let myself sink into the beat.
I laugh silently to myself, unsurprised at how random Peyton’s taste in music is.
The bus rumbles beneath us on the road, and we just sit there for the rest of the ride, silently listening to music.
I jolt awake to a screech, the bus rolling to a steady stop. My head snaps up, then to the side, Peyton smirking when her eyes catch mine.
“Morning, Sunshine,” she teases, then her gaze flicks to her shoulder. There’s a wet spot on her tee, and—
Oh fuck. Did I drool on her?
I swipe at the corners of my mouth. Yup. Wet. Awesome.
She continues, “What’d you dream about? Me, by chance?”
I shoot her a warning glare, and her tongue traces the inside of her cheek as she stands up, casting me one last glance before heading down the aisle.
I wait until nearly everyone, including her, is off the bus before grabbing my bag and making my way to the front.
My mom’s eyes catch mine, but she doesn’t say anything until we step off.
“Can I give you a ride?” she asks, jiggling her keys in her hand. “I don’t think you should walk that far if you’re having a flare up.”
I don’t process her words immediately. No, my eyes are too busy scanning the parking lot.
I don’t know what for, but when they catch on Peyton’s, a soft smile tugs at her lips, and she gives me a little wave.
Not a smirk, or a grin. A smile. I just return with a sharp nod, then look back to mom, fully processing what she just said.
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” I pull my bag over my shoulder. “Yeah, that would be nice.”
We stroll over to her car, the leather seats cool beneath me as she starts the engine. It’s not until I buckle that I feel her eyes burning into me. My head snaps to look at her, and she quickly looks away.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Am I not allowed to look at the beautiful daughter I created? I birthed you, you know.”
“Mother.” I say it like a warning.
Finally, her eyes part from the road, just a glance. “I was just wondering what the verdict is. If I’m going to be reaching out to find a new assistant coach.”
I hesitate for a moment before answering. “No, we’re … good now,” I say, and I’m mostly convinced it’s true. Sure, she still drives me absolutely insane, but now that she recognizes I’m not completely clueless, things seem to be on an up.
And up.
And up.
And—fuck. I need to stop thinking about last night.
“You know that was some real Coach shit you pulled with the cabins,” I say, crossing my arms.
An amused chuckle slips from her mouth, and she flicks on the windshield wipers as the rain starts to patter lightly against the glass. “I know.” She pauses for a moment. “You know, Peyton told me what you did.”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
“Umh…” My heart leaps into my throat, pounding so hard I swear she can hear it. What the hell? “She did?”
She nods. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Are you mad? Because I already talked to her and—”
“Mad?” My mom’s eyes flick to mine. “Why would I be mad?”
“I—” I start, but nothing comes out. Oh my god. I knew this was going to happen. And now, I’m going to lose my job, which means I’ll lose my credit, which means I’ll have to take out extra loans to finish college, and then I’ll be drowning in student debt, and—
“Darcy, I’ve been trying to get you back on the ice for months.”
Her smile widens, and she flashes me a proud glance. My lungs collapse, pushing out every ounce of air in my body until I’m sure my sternum touches my spine.
“You’re … talking about the rink,” I clarify slowly, and my mom nods.
“What else would I be talking about?”
Relief floods every inch of my body, and I tip my head forward, pinching the inner corners of my eyes.
“Nothing. Nothing.” I pause, the muscles in my body melting. “Just the rink.”
The repetitive click of the turn signal fills the car, touching each atom in between us.
“So?” she asks. “How did it feel?”
I’m so relieved that she wasn’t talking about me fucking the team captain that I barely process her words. I just answer instinctually, whatever pops into my brain first. “Great,” I say, looking out the window. She continues.
“Yeah? That’s good to hear. Because, you know, I’ve been thinking, and I think it would be good for you to get on the ice during practice sometimes. You know, show them instead of just telling.”
I nod, shrugging. “Yeah sure, of course mom.”
But the moment I say it, I know I’m going to regret this.