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I could follow her like this for blocks. Maybe forever, if she asked.
Tulips are my favorite.
mine too :)
Pretty girls deserve pretty flowers.”
It’s in that moment I know for a fact I’m not falling anymore. I am fully, helplessly, unconditionally in love.
Darcy looks down at my hand, threading her fingers between mine. “Where I go, you go.” Despite the tremble in my chest, a soft smile tugs at the corners of my mouth at the reference. “Where I go, you go.”
“Peyton,” Darcy says. Hearing her say my name, my real name, does something indescribable to the inside of my body. Every organ, every nerve, perks up.
I want to reach for Darcy. I want to grab her by the collar and kiss her stupid. I want to tell her that since the day she barged into my life, everything’s changed, undeniably and irreversibly, for the better. I want to tell her I don’t care about Ferraris or the Sabertooths or all the kids she doesn’t want. I just want her.
She sniffs, bottom lip trembling. I don’t know if this is my cue to stop, or to keep going. If she’s crying because being with me sounds like the worst possible ending of M.A.S.H., or if it’s because, this whole time, she’s felt it too.
“I love you, Darcy,” I announce. “Like, complete, total, Caspian-Susan in love and I know that wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did, and frankly I’m not sorry. Because even if I didn’t fall in love with you, I would love you anyway. For everything that you are.”
“And you’ve been hurt, and I get that. But I’m not asking you to do anything you aren’t ready for. You just deserve to know that you’re loved. And, god—” I laugh. “I kept telling myself I didn’t have time to love you, but the truth is, I’ve loved you in every minute we’ve ever had. And even if I didn’t have time,” I breathe, “I’d invent time for you. I’d go minor, or even beer league. I’d build a quantum machine—whatever it takes. I’d rather have nothing with you, than have everything without you.”
I don’t know if there’s ever going to be an end to this. I don’t know if I even care about “options.” Right now, I’m just tired. Too tired to pretend I have hope.
The second she looked at me, I realized I was done for. Telling myself I couldn’t trust her was like telling a fish not to swim. Telling myself not to love her was like telling myself not to breathe.
But loving her? I had no say in that.
Peyton makes me feel like I can do anything. The anger, the grief, they don’t disappear. Some days they’re stronger than others. But even more, I have hope. I have drive, and passion. And that’s something I never thought I’d get back. But I don’t just...
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I grab a pillow and launch it at her. “Asshole.” She catches it, giggling brightly. “Yeah, but you like it.”
“You said you’d invent time for me.” I pause, struggling to keep my breath even. “Well, I’d destroy it. I’d break every clock. I’d smash every watch. I’d burn every calendar. I’d make sure time couldn’t touch us. I’d—”
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, motioning awkwardly between us. “How to be with someone without constantly wondering if I’m too much. Or not enough. Without bracing for the moment it all unravels because I’m too broken, or boring, or sad. But I want to try. I want to try with you.”
When the sun hits her lashes just right, they catch fire, soft red-gold flames flickering around those emerald eyes. I never noticed before how each freckle on her skin is its own shade of orange. I think it might be my new favorite color.
Don’t make yourself smaller to make me feel better. It doesn’t make me feel better. I want you to move mountains. Break records. You can’t do that by giving up these opportunities.”
“You know this means you’re a WAG, right?” She blinks. “Wait, what?” I shrug. “Rules are rules. You’re totally a WAG.” She rolls her eyes. “Does the PWHL even have WAGs?” I raise a brow, grinning. “I’m pretty sure the PWHL only has WAGs.” She stares at me for a beat, then we both burst out laughing.
I hate being told what to do. Always have. But when Peyton does it? Yeah, it wrecks me.
God, if she was behind glass, I know I'd stare at her all day, just longing for a touch.
"Disabled people support other disabled people," she said.
When I asked what changed, she gave a small smile and replied, "I met someone." She was referring to her now-wife, Peyton Clarke, the starting center for the Portland Porcupines.
