Page 69 of Like a Power Play
“Dammit, Darcy,” she mutters, but after the initial contact, the tension in her body fades, and she slowly relaxes into the bed. I carefully drag the wipe over her cut, holding my breath as it oozes beneath the pressure.
“I think what you meant to say,” I start, grabbing another wipe, “is ‘thank you, Darcy.’”
Her eyes catch mine, and she tilts her head.“Thank you,”she says with exaggerated sweetness. Then, after a beat, “That sounded sarcastic, but I meant it.”
I chuckle, tossing the used wipes aside, and press the gauze gently to her cheek, taping it in place. “I know.”
A beat of silence stretches through the cabin, and then another. Finally, just when I’m about to break it, to avoid what I know is coming, Peyton beats me to it.
“Are you feeling any better?” she asks. The base of my throat begins to ache.
“I don’t really know the answer to that,” I say honestly.
The corner of her lip twitches upward, just enough for me to catch it. “I get that.”
And that’s it. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t try to drag it out anymore. She just sits there against the bed, back pressed to thewall, chewing on her cheek. So why it all suddenly slips out of me?
I don’t have an answer.
“I didn’t want to quit.”
I catch her eye, but am quickly overwhelmed. My heart pounds even heavier than before, and I glance away, waiting. For her to press, to ask the questions I know are coming. But she doesn’t. She just breathes, quiet, steady. And for some reason, that makes it easier for me to breathe too.
“The first time I noticed the pain was freshman year,” I begin. “It wasn’t constant. Just aches, here and there. Sometimes, my hands stung, but that was normal for me. I didn’t really think much of it.” Suddenly, my knees feel weak, so I drop onto the bed next to her, avoiding her gaze. “I thought it was just the intensity of it all, you know? Going from high school sports to D1, I figured some soreness was to be expected.”
Peyton watches me, listening intently. I almost wish she would talk. Maybe if she would open that big mouth of hers, it would remind me of what a bad idea this is. Remind me of what happened last time I trusted someone. Of why Peyton’s the last person I should try again with. But for once in her goddamn life, Peyton Clarke shuts up.
I didn’t know she could do that.
“Sophomore year, it got worse. I noticed my finger was kind of bent? Thought I fucked it up on the ice or something.” I shake my head, mentally cursing myself. “I went to the doctor for muscle pain, but they said it was hormones and to eat better and exercise more. I mean, theyliterallytold a D1 athlete to exercise more. By junior year, I was pretty miserable. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t want to tell anyone. I was so close to landing a spot on a pro roster…” My voice catches, and I try to laugh again, but it just comes out as a dry, humorless sound.
“So I just worked through it. The grinding joints, the weight loss, the fatigue. If I’d pushed when the doctors downplayed it, maybe I could’ve kept playing. But now my knees are toast, and my hands…”
I trail off, and Peyton’s gaze drops to the bedspread, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the quilt. I can see her debating whether or not she should ask. When her eyes meet mine, I try to soften my gaze so she knows she can.
It must’ve worked.
“What is it?” she asks softly.
“Early-onset Rheumatoid Arthritis.”
Her head kinda tips to the side, and I have to fight back a small smile. Her dark brows knit together. “I don’t… I don’t know what that is,” she admits.
I pause, considering how to best explain it. How to show her, without peeling off my gloves. Without letting her see my swollen ankles. After a second, it clicks.
I hop off the bed and rummage through my bag until I find my pill organizer. Opening tonight’s compartment, I pour the five pills into my palm.
Her eyes go wide as she watches, studying them silently.
I point at the pills one by one, ignoring the uneasiness gnawing at my stomach. “These two prevent joint damage. RA basically tells your body to attack the lining of your joints. So, if you don’t treat it—”
“Then it can damage them,” she cuts in.
I nod. “Yeah. And even fuse them together.”
Her eyes widen, and I move to the next pill. “This one’s a DMARD—”
“Awhat?”
