Twenty Two #3
My brows furrow, and I tilt my head. “What is?”
She smiles. “I want you to keep talking.”
Against my will, the corners of my lips slowly draw up, and when our eyes lock, a smile breaks across her face too. I clear my throat, taking a steadying, preparing breath.
“I was four when my dad quit the NHL,” I begin, and Darcy shifts forward in her seat, looking at me attentively.
I take another breath. “My brother had been struggling for a few years by then, but when he finally got diagnosed with autism, my dad decided it was time to focus on us. You know, be there for us, and help my mom.”
I pause, watching Darcy’s expression drop, and I shake my head before she gets the wrong idea.
“Don’t feel bad or anything, trust me. Avery is—” I laugh, running a hand through my hair.
“He’s fucking fine. He’s doing better than I am, that’s for sure.
But one of his sensory things is that he really hates the cold.
My dad tried for years to get him on the ice, and it just never worked out.
He liked lacrosse for some reason? My mom played it in college, so I guess it makes sense, but …
it broke my dad’s heart. I knew he wanted a kid to follow in his footsteps, so … I did.
“And I wanted to, not just for him, but for me. I loved watching the reruns of his games on the television. I loved admiring all his trophies in the living room. I loved hockey the moment I stepped on the ice. But sometimes I feel like, if I don’t make it as big as my dad did, if my career doesn’t skyrocket to that same degree… ” I trail off.
“You’ll be letting him down,” Darcy finishes. I nod.
“Yeah.”
When I look up, those ivy eyes are locked on me. The corners of Darcy’s lips curl subtly, and she gives me a gentle nod.
“That makes sense,” she says, then leans forward, eyes intent. “But it’s not your responsibility to let your dad live through you.”
“I know,” I lie. I take a moment to breathe. Then another. “Do you think if I got recruited to the Sabertooths, it would be because I’m a Clarke?”
Darcy’s the only person I would ever ask, because she’s the only one that I know will tell me the truth. She sits up, studying me carefully. Finally, after a moment, she answers.
“I think the name gives you a head start,” she admits, and my stomach begins to curdle.
My lungs begin to drown. There’s nothing more I want than to play for the Sabertooths, because that’s where every prodigy goes.
But I only want to play for them if I deserve it.
She continues. “But without the stats to back it up, it would just be another name.”
“Do you think I have them?” I ask. “The stats?”
Darcy’s eyes meet mine, and a teasing smile tugs at her lips. “Is Peyton Clarke asking me if I think she’s good enough to play for the Sabertooths?”
“Yes.”
She shifts a little. I don’t know if I’m truly ready to hear her answer. But I know I want to be. Her throat bobs as she swallows, and she levels me with an honest gaze.
“Objectively,” she starts. “Your stats are great.”
I nod, sensing the omission. “And subjectively?”
A brief smile flickers across her face, then falters.
“Subjectively, your stats are great. But I think you focus too much on them. You spend so much energy trying to prove that you deserve to be here, instead of just being here.” My throat tightens, but I nod, a silent beg for her to continue.
To give me what I’ve needed all my life:
The truth.
“You don’t have to score the most points or do the most tricks or play the roughest to deserve a spot on the team. You just need to play as part of it.”
I swallow once. Twice. The ache in my throat doesn’t go away, but for some strange reason, I don’t want it to. It’s like what Darcy said hurt, but it was a kind of pain that I needed. Like popping a joint back into place.
“Thanks,” I say, pushing off the bench. I slip my bag over my shoulder, and when I look up, she’s right in front of me. I can smell her perfume. Feel her heat. Her hand stretches out, and I glance down at the little orange card. I look back up at her.
“I’ll do it,” she says. “I’ll help you, if you help me.”
A smile breaks across my face, and I take the card. “Thank you,” I say again. Darcy just nods, turning toward the door. Before she steps through, she spins back to face me.
“But if you cross me, Icarus,” she says, her brows lifting as she points a finger. “I will end you.”
I don’t tell Darcy that being killed by her would be my life’s greatest honor. Instead, I raise my hand to my brow, saluting. “Copy that, Kimmy.”
She rolls her eyes. It’s not until she walks out the door that I look down at the card in my hand. My fingertips graze the sharp edge of the cardstock as my eyes scan the message scrawled across it.
Icarus
Your dedication, though obnoxious at times, is unmatched. I envy you, not just because you get to play the game, but for the way you play it. I’m sorry for how things started. Thank you for reminding me of what I love, and how I can be better.
Kim Possible