Page 10 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Five

Darcy

FINAL CHAT FR THIS TIME

***Bailey Cunningham has added you to the chat***

HAMMIE

Everyone say hi to Darcy! I thought she should be in the chat so she knows the ins & outs :)

CAY

I thought the whole point of this chat was that our coaches weren't in it

Z

don't be an ass, c

DARCY COLE

Sorry, what?

CAPTAIN CLARKE

Oh Jesus. Really Hammie?

HAMMIE

What? It's not like she's our coach coach, she's our assistant coach. Besides, she's practically one of us.

YERSIE

As long as she takes turns buying energy drinks idc.

DARCY COLE

I'm confused. What is this?

brADY

Unofficial group chat!

DARCY COLE

Like for game announcements and stuff?

I thought I was already in that chat.

HAMMIE

That's the official chat. This one is more for fun.

YERSIE

Like parties.

brADY

Or venting.

brOWNE

Or helping with homework.

DARCY COLE

Oh.

Thank you, but I'm good.

***Darcy Cole has left the chat***

" O range or green?" Cleo's voice pries me from my thoughts as she holds up two dresses, one in each hand, giving them a little shake. Her eyes flick between them, calculating, as if the trajectory of her entire life hinges on this one decision.

My brows furrow as I study them. “I thought you and Will were just talking about majors,” I say, suspicion creeping into my tone.

“We are.”

“Then why are you dressing up?”

Cleo’s nose wrinkles, her expression shifting in a mix of bewilderment and mock offense. “You don’t ever dress up for yourself?”

I pause, considering it. I used to dress up all the time, mostly for the satisfaction of knowing I looked damn good, but in the past few months, my skin’s felt like it’s been set ablaze.

That part’s called Raynaud’s. It makes your blood vessels shrink like wool in a hot washer. Sometimes it’s because of the climate. Sometimes it’s for no reason at all. My skin flushes purple, and it starts burning, itching, like I’ve been dipped in a swarm of fire ants.

Not all people with RA have Raynaud’s. I’m just one of the lucky ones, I guess.

So I’ve been defaulting to anything that keeps me warm, and doesn’t aggravate my tingling skin.

Loose sweats, soft turtleneck sweaters. Gloves.

Half the time, it’s as if I’ve picked out my outfits with my eyes closed.

But when your body feels like a burning pit of itchy, brittle lava, the last thing you care about is what you look like.

“Not for a while,” I admit. “Good point.”

Cleo studies me earnestly. “Well, you really should. Even just once a week. Confidence is scientifically proven to make you feel better.”

I chuckle softly, unable to suppress the small smile that tugs at my lips. She’s trying so hard to be a friend, and though I might not be completely ready for that, I’m not going to pretend I don’t appreciate it. She waves the dresses again.

I give them both another careful look before responding, “Green.” Cleo nods, sliding the rust-colored dress back onto the rod with a satisfied sigh.

“Thanks. Okay, sorry, what were you saying?”

I press the rewind button in my brain, trying to recall whatever thought was about to leave my mouth before we got sidetracked into the depths of fashion and mental health.

What was it again? Oh, right.

“She’s just so cocky!” I exclaim, flinging my hands in the air like I’m measuring the sheer volume of Peyton’s arrogance, as if it’s a physical thing that can be quantified.

If it were, it’d be Mount Everest. A towering monument of cockiness so high, it’d give you altitude sickness.

The Great Wall of China, stretching for miles, so long even binoculars couldn’t make you see the end of it.

No, scratch that. If Peyton’s arrogance could be measured, it’d be a wormhole.

A paradox of an ego that sucks everything into it, leaving no room for anything but her self-absorption.

“She’s a hockey player” Cleo shrugs, as if the fact explains itself. But it doesn’t. I’ve been around hockey players my entire life. I am— was a hockey player. Arrogance isn’t a hockey player thing. It’s a having-a-pro-dad-and-thinking-that-automatically-makes-you-untouchable thing.

I roll my eyes, letting them drop to the clipboard in front of me. The sound of my pen scribbling over my notes fills the quiet space. “Are you nervous for your date?”

Cleo’s brows knit disapprovingly. “It’s not a date. It’s just two people grabbing coffee and talking about school.”

“Mhm,” I hum in response, flashing her an unconvinced look. Cleo pretends not to hear me, turning back into her closet.

"So what are you going to do?" she asks.

I tilt my head. “About…”

A chuckle escapes her as she leans down, rummaging through her shoes desperately like a possum digging through a dumpster. She tosses them aside one by one, clearly frustrated with every single pair.

“About Peyton," she clarifies, her voice carrying the “duh”. She holds up two shoes, dark brown flats and beige wedges, and I gesture toward the flats.

“What do you mean, what am I going to do about Peyton?”

Cleo stands up, narrowing her eyes, and for a second, I feel like I’m back on the ice, surrendering to my old coach. "Well, it kinda seems like you two are stuck together. At least until the season’s over. Are you planning to keep up this feud the entire time?"

I can’t stop the eye roll from slipping out, the noise of my scoff escaping me. "It’s not a feud. She’s just—"

"Wait, wait. Let me guess." Cleo traces the ceiling with her eyes, tapping her chin like she’s deep in thought. Then she sticks out her hand, counting off fingers. "Cocky. Careless. Arrogant. Reckless. Bitc—"

"Okay, okay, I get it," I cut in, rolling my eyes again, though this time a small smile curls at the corners of my lips. "Look, I know you’re right. But what am I supposed to do? It’s not like she’s going anywhere. And if I want to graduate on time, I can’t either."

Cleo pulls her shirt over her head like we’ve been doing this our whole lives. I’m used to it, after years in the locker room, but I’m surprised she’s so comfortable with me already. Hell, she hadn’t even seen me without my gloves until two weeks ago.

"Well, have you tried talking to her? Clearing things up?" she asks, her voice softer as she pulls her pants down next. I glance away. Not because she’s not nice to look at—damn, if Will Carter doesn’t want Cleo, I could name a hundred people who would—but because I’m not ready to solidify that level of our… acquaintanceship yet.

A laugh bursts from me, louder than I expect, and my back tosses against the bed. I stare at the ceiling. "Clear up what? That people would kill for her spot on the team, and she’s trivializing it by showing up hungover?"

“I mean… yeah,” Cleo says, her voice muffled, as if suppressed by fabric. I can hear the difference when her head pops back through. “Maybe she just needs a reality check.”

"Oh, she’ll get one," I respond, propping myself up on my elbows. She’s dressed now, her black pixie cut softly tousled.

The moss-green dress compliments her strong, stocky frame, and the rows of gems lining her ears catch the light in warm, earthy tones.

"Either when they cut her for insubordination, or when she pushes herself too hard and ends up injured.

Hey—how can someone be so careless, and yet try so hard? "

Cleo tugs the lip of her flats over her heels, then steps out of the closet, pulling the door closed behind her.

"I don’t know. Her dad’s a pro, so maybe it’s just how she balances things, you know?

" She plops down beside me on the bed, her knees knocking against mine, and continues. “I’m not trying to make excuses, though. I know how important hockey is to you, and—”

“Thanks, Cleo,” I cut in softly, though I feel bad interrupting. I’m just not ready to have that conversation. Not with her. Not with anyone.

The only reason she knows about my RA in the first place is because one night she brought home a bottle of Peach Smirnoff and a list of questions concerning my gloves, my box of dusty hockey trophies, and a screenshot of an article about me back in Minnesota.

It’s the only time she’s really asked, and the only time I was drunk enough to give her an answer.

I smile. “You look nice.”

Cleo grins, her pretty, high-bridged, statuesque nose scrunching. “I know,” she replies simply. “But thank you.”

We pause, just staring for a beat, until suddenly, we break into laughter.

My rib pops painfully as I clutch my side, and Cleo swipes at the tears pooling in her eyes.

Her warm hand clutches my shoulder, and I remember, briefly, the good side of having friends.

The late-night talks. The weekend trips. This.

My gaze darts back to her, and she’s still a giggling mess, her bright smile gleaming in the morning sun. My chest feels like it’s vibrating. I want to be for her what she always tries to be for me, just this once.

But I can't.

“ I f you think this class is complicated now, just wait until we dive into neurons next week.” Professor Palit pauses, a proud grin sweeping over his deep ochre cheeks. “They’ve got more connections than your ex’s DMs.”

Half the class groans, while the other half erupts into laughter.

Both sounds bounce off the cement walls, amplifying the reaction, which makes Professor Palit’s smile grow even wider.

He chuckles, punctuating it with a loud "that’s all for today, brainiacs!

" which is what he likes to call us even though I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who actually likes this class.

I watch everyone file out, backpacks tossed over shoulders, some rolling their eyes at the joke, while others are already begging to swap notes.

Switching off my recorder to save my wrists the strain, I scrape my scattered papers off the desk.

Professor Palit catches my eye, and flashes me a warm smile.