Page 1 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

One

Darcy

P eople with anxiety disorders make the best coffee, and the Grizzly Grind at Greenrock University is proof.

It’s never too sweet, never too milky, and I’m convinced all the panicking baristas are psychology majors, because their bizarre concoctions of syrups and rich espresso have a way of grounding me rather than revving me up.

Usually.

I used to think coffee turned me into a sledgehammer—blunt, swinging down with reckless force, intent on destruction. Turns out, that’s just who I am, and coffee simply gives me the energy to act on it.

And right now, I have more than enough reason to swing.

You know that saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”? I’d like to propose an upgrade:

Hell hath no fury like a daughter scorned.

And the yellow slip clenched in my gloved hands might as well be stamped with "SCORNED" in bold red letters.

I slam it onto the table in front of my mother, sliding it across to her like a bomb ready to detonate.

“What the hell is this?” I ask, folding my arms, a poor attempt at guarding myself from what I already know is coming.

My mother frowns, adjusting her glasses, flipping the paper over to read it.

Only, by the time I’ve made it from the dean’s office to this coffee shop, I’ve read it at least twenty-two times.

So, instead of letting her answer, I do what any scorned daughter would do: I cut her off.

“You asked the board to make me a student assistant coach? ”

Paula Cole has a few titles under her belt: NCAA Coaching Champion, Patty Kazmaier Award Winner, and #1 Mom (courtesy of the mug I gave her in second grade). But her most impressive, most defining achievement of all?

Gold in Meddling.

She leans back in her chair, arms folded over her chest like the sheer presence of her sitting there will somehow convince me this is all for my own good.

It’s what makes her the best coach on the west side.

She’s got a talent for making everything she says feel like an undeniable truth.

It makes it nearly impossible not to believe her, not to play along.

But I'm not playing her damn game. Though, let's be real: when I do, has she ever let me win?

She picks up the slip of paper and holds it between us like a peace offering, but even if I wanted to take that olive branch, I’m sure it would give me splinters.

Thin, sharp irritants, digging into my skin, festering until I ripped them out with blood-stained tweezers.

Worse, I think, would be if they stayed there too long.

If my skin grew over them and every time I pressed down, I’d wince, knowing in this exact moment I could’ve said no but didn’t.

She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to say more, and I stop myself from rolling my eyes.

Because no matter how infuriating my mom can be, I will never love anyone more.

Which is the only reason I’m still sitting here, having this conversation, because honestly I’d rather drag my nails down a chalkboard until my teeth shatter than ever, ever , step foot near an ice rink again.

“Darcy, you’re getting course credit for it,” she presses gently.

It’s how she coaches, too. She’s firm but sweet, wearing you down without you even realizing it, until you’re completely drained but somehow still smiling.

“This could be good for you. Just getting close to the ice again, seeing how it feels. You don’t have to get in the rink, sweetheart. Just... observe. Give a few pointers.”

I scoff, and despite the intoxicating cocktail of honey and lavender syrup wafting in the air, nothing is quite sweet enough to counter the bitterness seizing my throat. It rises quickly, fast enough to spill out over my tongue.

“Observing is worse .”

My eyes fall to the paper again. As much as I hate looking at it, I can’t meet my mother’s eyes without seeing my own reflected back at me, and somehow, disappointing myself feels worse than letting her down.

My stomach churns, either from the conversation or the fact that I forgot to ask for almond milk instead of whole milk, and can already feel the clock ticking down to my inevitable sprint to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, my eyes are not the only thing I inherited from my mom. Neither is my lactose intolerance. Because if I’m a sledgehammer, then she’s a bulldozer in a fleece-lined windbreaker, and if I don’t put up a fight, she’ll flatten me.

“You know,” she says, her tone deceptively light. “You can’t stay away from the ice forever. It’s part of you. You’re strong, you’ll figure it out.”

Strong.

I fucking hate that word. I hate that people think a diagnosis comes with armor. That strength is some automatic response to pain.

I’m not strong. I’m just tired.

Bone-deep exhausted from pretending that the emptiness inside of me doesn’t expand with each reminder. The sound of skates on ice, the photos my old teammates post like nothing's changed, my jersey hanging in the closet, sleeves peeking out as if it’s still waiting for me to slip it on.

The worst part of losing the thing that made you is that the only thing you can do is marinate in its absence.

“Mom, I don’t want to be near the ice,” I snap, harder than I mean to, as I stand up.

I’m pacing now, right in the middle of the coffee shop, knees pulsing and scraping, clutching this steaming cup of laxative that would be burning me if I weren’t wearing gloves.

I should put it down, stop drinking it altogether, but my fingers refuse to let go.

If I don’t have something sweet to tame the sour taste in my mouth, I’m going to say something to my mom I can’t take back.

“You think it’s just about being near the ice?

It’s about losing something I thought I’d have forever.

Losing my entire life. And now you want me to just— go back ? Just like that?”

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat another threat to shatter my ribcage, to amplify that sharp, stinging sensation that spreads over my body, twisting, tightening, ready to snap.

I lock eyes with her, and for a moment, the stern coach face melts away. She doesn’t look like a D1 trainer anymore. She’s just... Mom . And that loosens the aching lump in my throat, just a little bit.

She sets the paper down, eyes softening as she leans forward. “I know you’re hurting, sweetie. I do. And I’m not asking you to play again. I’m asking you to be around it . You’re right. It was a huge part of your life. And that’s why I think it’s important for you to not cut it out.”

Fighting back the sudden pinch behind my eyes, the sting of saltiness willing to spill over, I swallow.

She’s right. She’s a lways right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

I can’t just pretend everything is fine.

I can’t just step into her world and act like nothing’s wrong when the last time I was there, my body betrayed me.

Pulled the rug right out from under me so fast, I didn’t even realize I’d hit the ground until the pain shot through.

Tears prick my eyes, and my lip starts to quiver as I fall back into my seat.

“Mom, I... I can’t,” I choke, taking in a shuddered breath. “I’m not ready.”

She studies me like she always does. The thing about my mom is, she gets me.

And sometimes, that’s the problem. When the pain is this raw, this consuming, the last thing you want is for someone to understand, because if they did, it would mean they’ve felt it too.

It’s easier to suffer alone than it is to know that the misery is shared by someone you care about.

You don’t want to be understood. You just want to survive it.

She reaches past the coffee cup in front of me, her fingers grazing mine, and I can’t stop myself from melting into it.

“You don’t have to go out there, Darcy. I won’t make you.

But I don’t want you to avoid it forever.

You’re more resilient than you give yourself credit for.

” She pauses, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

And I hate that, for a second, the warmth of her hand through my gloves makes me feel like maybe she’s right. Maybe I can do this.

“I mean, you are my daughter. And what didn’t I raise?”

Despite myself, a smile creeps across my face. I roll my eyes and whisper, my voice barely above the hum of the coffee shop, “A wuss.”

Our eyes lock, and laughs spill out the two of us in unison, as if we’ve rehearsed it.

For a second, a fleeting second, I feel normal.

Just a daughter, with her mom, laughing in a coffee shop.

Warmth pools in my chest, and I brush a long lock of red hair from my eyes.

But then she lets go of my hand, squeezing it once before she retreats back to her side of the table.

And just like that, the warmth fades, and I’m back to the mess of it all.

That nauseating, throbbing sensation floods my body, and I have no other choice but to drown in it.

It’s not that easy. Nothing ever is.

“I’ll think about it,” I mutter, but it feels like I’ve already conceded. Like I have no other choice. She leans back in her chair, not fully satisfied but accepting my answer. She’s got her way, as always.

“Okay,” she replies quietly, reaching for the paper and folding it neatly. She slides it back across the table, head tilted endearingly. We might share the same eyes, the same dietary sensitivities, even the same force. But my mother has one thing I don’t: charm. “That’s all I ask.”

I nod, sharpness still piercing my chest, but I finally manage to force out a weak "Okay."

Mom stands up, the soft rustle of her coat harmonizing with the buzz of the café as she moves. She doesn’t say anything else, just gives me a smile I know too well. The one that says she’s not giving up, but she’s giving me space.

“I love you, Darce,” she says, her voice soft and warm, and my heart tightens.