Page 7 of Like a Power Play
“Icarus?” I blink, the warmth of her breath brushing against my cheek. I wipe it on my damp shoulder. “What is that, a disease?”
“Wha—no!” Her hands toss up, brows weaving together. “It’s the boy who flew too close to the sun. Andyou—”
I can’t help the grin tugging at my lips as I swipe at the lock of her red hair that’s tickling my nose. “Look up, Kim Possible. Do you see the sun?”
Darcy’s expression turns mocking as she peeks cautiously over the top of the stands, eyes shooting wide when she spots the security guard still lingering near the gate.
“Oh my god. Shut. Up.Shut up!”she hisses, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward the ground, even though I hadn’t even stood up yet.
My lips quiver in amusement, but I manage to bite it back, the pulse of her heart returning against my arm, almost in sync with my own. And only when the clink of the gate finally sounds do we straighten up, slowly.
“Oh my god, you lived!” I mock, pressing my hand to my chest in exaggerated surprise. Darcy’s eyes narrow.
“You really are insufferable,” she says, the corners of her lips defying her, and I can’t help but smile wider.
“Why thank you.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
My posture straightens fully now, and I brush a hand through my sweaty hair, heading for the aisle. “Anything is a compliment if you want it to be.”
Her gaze drops to her shoulder, the spot where hers had brushed against mine. There’s a dark patch on the fabric, almost wet.
“Is that… yoursweat?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.
I glance down at the dampness on her shirt and then back to myself. “Appears so.”
I begin stepping backwards down the steps, internally cringing for the sake of my skates’ blades, grinning as Darcy grimaces in disgust.
“Consider yourself lucky!” I call out, stepping onto the ground level. “That’s the sweat of the team captain.”
Three
Darcy
Some people wake to a birdsong. Soft, floaty melodies, drifting through open windows, lashes fluttering with the breeze. Others wake to honking taxis and yelling neighbors, a grease-stained stench assaulting their noses.
Me?
I get the divine privilege of waking to a harmony. A blaring alarm that pairs perfectly with the scream of my joints—the familiar gnawing ache that greets me every morning. It starts in my fingers, stiff and swollen, and spreads up my arms like a wildfire. By the time I sit up, every articulation in my body is begging for a generous layer of WD-40.
I slap my phone to silence it, reaching for the rattling plastic container on my nightstand. The sorted pills fall into my palm, then I swallow them down, letting the cool water numb my throat, and pray that today will be the day relief slowly begins to seep in.
Since I was diagnosed with Early-Onset Rheumatoid Arthritis back in March, I’ve tried three different medications to help soothe the pain. The first gave me morning sickness so intense, it would give pregnant women nightmares. The second seemed to work adversely, making every nerve in my body burn like the depths of hell, and every muscle so sore I could hardly lift a fork to my mouth. So now, I’m two weeks into a new one, and so far, nothing has happened.
No side effects.
No improvements.
Socks leaps onto the nightstand with a dramatic thud, his claws clacking against the wood as he barrels toward me. I hardly have time to react before he sends my pill organizer and my water bottle tipping to the floor. The little menace quickly follows, tumbling off the table, only to leap back up, this time aiming for my head. I throw my arm up, blocking his landing, forcing him to fall into my lap instead.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, plopping him onto the covers, but he’s relentless, crawling his way back into my lap with innocent eyes. Eventually, I give up, setting him onto the ground and standing up with a grunt of effort, my knees creaking like ancient hinges. I shuffle to the living room, ignoring the ache climbing my back, and find Cleo sitting at the kitchen counter, the morning sun catching the rows of gems on the shells of her olive-toned ears, casting soft colors on the bartop.
“You know,” I say, plopping into the barstool beside her. “I’m going to have to lock that damn cat out of my room if he keeps treating me like a helicopter pad.”
Cleo lifts a brow but doesn’t take her eyes off her phone as she gives me the same response she always does. “You should be honored.”
I grunt, reaching for a banana. As I peel it open, my eyes land back onto her, her gaze still unmoving, but an intriguing smiletugs at her lips. I peek at her screen, only to be greeted with a reflection of the sunrise.
