Claws on Ice
Caia Clearwood silver clawsclaws of ragered lips sipping on a white clawwings and claws
I threw Yasmine a glare followed by an eye roll that probably strained my optic nerves, before storming to the bench, grabbed my water bottle, and sat down.
God, my hair is sticking to my neck. Why did I choose hockey? Ice hockey is just skating with weapons and now I suddenly wonder if frogs ever get tired of jumping. Like, do they ever just want to crawl?
I looked down at my legs and God did my knees look weird today. If I die out here—
“So it’s at his place, right? Around nine?”
My ears practically twitched, across the ice, a bunch of the girls were huddled up by the equipment shed, whispering something about a party.