Page 13 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Six

Peyton

I know most people hate it, but I love living on the third floor.

The view is better, a snow-dusted Mount Rainier creeping above the skyline like a Seattle postcard.

It’s quieter too, mostly because we’re the noisy neighbors up top, and most thieves aren’t motivated enough for heavy cardio, so the likelihood of getting robbed is slim.

It has its downsides, though. When Bailey, Harlowe, and I first moved in, we had to drag this ancient sectional up three flights of stairs, to find out that it didn’t fit through the doorway.

Thankfully, Bailey had found it on the side of the road, so the loss was mostly time.

It gets hot too, in the summer at least, and the window AC unit breeds mold at a rate that would impress rabbits.

But the worst part about living on the third floor?

Mr. Bubbles.

Mr. Bubbles is the tawny English Mastiff that we found last winter, tied up outside a bar we tried—and failed—to sneak into.

He was young, skinny, trembling in the snow while his human sat inside, sipping cheap beer by the warmth of the bar’s heater.

We sat with him for at least thirty minutes, trying to comfort him the best we could, and Harlowe even wrapped her coat around him to shield him from the cold.

But after another three minutes, we realized we couldn’t leave him there.

So we slipped the collar over his head and booked it.

I’d say he has a pretty good life now. Ever since he started therapy dog training, the school lets him come to practices—and sometimes games—as our unofficial team companion, which makes our social media manager’s life pretty easy.

He eats better than we do, wears drool bibs on the daily, and even has an entire wardrobe for different occasions, including pajamas that Bailey swears he likes.

There are only two things Mr. Bubbles can’t stand:

1) Green beans

and

2) The sound of footsteps up the stairs

So a couple mornings a week, I have to sneak back in without setting him off.

It’s a game to him. He knows my routine by heart, even walks me to the door when I leave.

But when I come back? The slightest creak of the floor, the softest whisper of a footstep, and he’s belting out a symphony of low, husky barks.

The front door cracks open, the old hinges threatening to squeak, but I slip through before they have the chance.

A slow exhale tumbles from my lips as the heat of the apartment envelops me, the start of the pink sunrise peering through the window.

My weight shifts onto the tips of my toes as I latch the door behind me and step onto the plush carpet, my feet sinking into it like sand.

Listening for the low grumbles of Mr. Bubbles, I pause, but the only sound is the fan from Harlowe’s room, buzzing quietly. I take another step. Nothing. Then another. And just as I reach out for the doorknob to my room, a thundering roar cuts through the apartment.

Shit.

“Bubbles!” I hiss, whipping around to look at him.

The one-hundred-and-thirty-pound puppy curls his smooshy, drooly lips, and barks once more to spite me.

I snap my fingers, pointing at him with a serious look, which was a mistake, because like I said, this is a game, and I’ve lost it.

He billows again, this time sitting at my feet and howling like a tattling toddler.

“Mister! ” Harlowe calls, her voice dragging a bit on the “s”.

Oh fuck.

Her stomping footsteps approach quickly, and I have no time to throw myself into my room before she swings open her door, greeting me with furrowed brows, pouty downturned lips, and flared nostrils.

Like Mr. Bubbles, there are two things that piss Harlowe off:

1) Missing a save on the ice

and

2) Being woken up

And her goalie gear is tucked safely into the trunk of my Outback right now, so when Mr. Bubbles continues his baritone concert right in front of her tired face, I know I’m fucked.

“What the hell, Pey?” she snaps, voice like rough gravel, round cheeks reddening. I force a sheepish grin.

“Sorry. Mr. Bubbles just—”

“Peyton,” she cuts in before I can finish, sticking a hand into the air. “You knew he was going to do this. It’s four in the morning.” Her ocean blue eyes dart up, narrowing onto mine. “Four. In. The. Morning. Can’t you sneak in practices before we all go to bed?”

Mr. Bubbles, without a care in the world, trots over to her, ears perked and tail wagging. She scratches the top of his wrinkled head, allowing a gentle smile to tug at her lips, until she catches sight of me and scowls again.

“The rink is in use until seven.” I shrug, still giving her an apologetic look. “And then there’s homework, dinner, Mr. Bubbles’ walk—”

“What’s going on?” My gaze flicks to Bailey, looming in her doorway. The cream-colored nightgown she's wearing makes her look like a Victorian ghost, one hand rubbing at her eyes as she stares at the chaos unfolding.

“Peyton’s doing early practices again,” Harlowe answers, crossing her arms. Her fine, blonde hair sticks up in every direction, striped sleep shorts hugging her plush hips, and I want to tell my best friend how cute she is, but she’d probably bite my head off right now.

Bailey frowns, casting me a disapproving look. “You were out again ?”

Here we go.

Bailey and Harlowe have been my best friends, and teammates, since we were four.

We all grew up in the same small town, Greenrock Valley, Washington, went to the same schools, and somehow, all made it onto the D1 team for Greenrock University.

Fate, talent, or maybe just a severe shortage of women’s hockey players, I’m not sure.

All I know is that, since we were kids, we’ve all followed the same path: going pro.

What I think they don’t get is that “going pro” is different for me than it is for them.

For them, it’s a dream. A goal they’ve worked toward their whole lives, something challenging but no doubt within reach, as long as they keep putting in the work.

But for me? For me, it’s expected. Of course, the daughter of retired NHL star Harrison Clarke is going to go pro. It’s almost a rite of passage.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to get into the big leagues because of my dad. I want to make it because I’m good. And judging by the fact that I didn’t get drafted this past summer, I’m not there yet.

Hence the early morning practices, and the hyper-persistence audiobooks. Bailey and Harlowe think it’s excessive, but they have no idea what it’s like to live under this kind of pressure.

“I couldn’t sleep.” I shrug. My friends exchange a glance, one I’m not particularly keen on, then Harlowe levels me with a satirical look.

“Really?” she asks, head tilting condescendingly. “That’s so weird, because I was actually sleeping great until—”

“I’m going to make breakfast,” Bailey interrupts, swooping past us in a flurry of long alabaster legs, and black box-dyed hair. She glances at us over her shoulder, a silent plea to stop bickering and follow her.

I sigh. “Alright, I’m coming.” I look to Harlowe, who’s still boasting a displeased expression. We stand there in silent debate, her threatening to whirl around and go back to sleep, and me pleading with her to humor Bailey, so that we can avoid hurting her feelings.

Bailey’s pretty sensitive. Not in a “can’t take criticism” way, but more of a “automatically assumes the worst” way. She’ll never make a spectacle of it. She’ll just hold it in with a smile, until suddenly, she’s an isolated ball of tears, doubt, and hyperventilation.

Harlowe breaks. “Fine,” she grunts. “But you owe me a coffee before practice.”

We follow Bailey to the kitchen, hopping up onto the bar stools as she pulls out a hefty tray of eggs.

I’d offer to help, but the only mean bone in Bailey’s body seems to be activated when someone comes in the kitchen while she’s cooking.

So instead, I pull out my phone, mindlessly scrolling with one hand, while the other scratches behind Mr. Bubbles’ ears.

“Protein pancakes or protein smoothies?” Bailey asks, seamlessly cracking open one egg in each hand and dropping them into the pan.

It sizzles as she reaches for another pair, doing the same with them in a practiced technique.

On the weekends, Bailey’s a line cook at the Puget Diner, a restaurant around the corner from campus.

Sometimes when we’re bored, Harlowe and I will hang out in the back booth and yell out recipe ideas.

If other people are dining, the owner will chew us out, but when it’s just us, Gerald always gives us hot cocoa on the house.

“Mmm pancakes please,” Harlowe answers, propping her elbow onto the counter and sinking her chin into the crevice of her palm. “With my seasoni—”

“With your seasoning,” Bailey cuts in. “Got it Yersie”

There isn’t a single food on this planet that Harlowe Ayers doesn’t add Everything Bagel seasoning to. Eggs, pancakes, lasagna, cannolis. She even brings a bottle with her on away games.I'm not saying it's a problem, but restaurants across the region have questions.

Those blue eyes fix on me, light lashes flickering as she lets out a reluctant, “Sorry for chewing you out, Pey.”

I can’t fight the teasing smile tugging at my lips. “And the Queen pardons!” I gasp. She flips her middle finger into the air.

“Fuck off.”

Bailey turns to us, holding up a bag of chocolate chips in one hand and dehydrated strawberries in the other. She wriggles them back and forth in a wordless question, brows chasing the movement. I point to the strawberries, and she turns back to the stove.

“Peyton?” Bailey asks, her voice light and curious.

I smile at her. “Bailey?”

“Did you see any ghosts when you were at the rink?”

She blinks at me slowly, her doe-like brown eyes glimmering.

When Bailey’s not flipping burgers at the diner, defending the forwards with her life, or playing a roleplaying game that takes too much creativity for me to understand, she’s researching—in deep detail—how to be medium.

And the presumed ghost haunting Greenrock University is her first subject.

I shake my head, flashing her a sorrowed look. “Sorry, Hams. No ghost.”

She lets out a soft sigh, turning back to the stove. “I’ll have to look for her at practice then.”

Harlowe erupts with a booming laugh. “The only ghost you’re going to see at practice is Peyton when Darcy gets her hands on her.”

I frown, crossing my arms. “Funny.”

She shrugs. “I know.”

“I still don’t understand why you hate each other,” Bailey cuts in, the pan sizzling beside her as she flips over a perfectly browned pancake. Harlowe grins.

“Because Peyton’s a try-hard,” she taunts, and I stick my middle finger up right in front of her nose.

“I don’t hate her," I correct. "But she does act like she’s God’s gift to hockey. I mean, she literally said it herself. She only played when she was young. Then she strolls in, guns blazing, whistle blowing like she’s some sort of expert?"

Harlowe hums, which is something she does on the rare occasion she chooses to bite her tongue. Surprisingly, Bailey doesn’t hesitate to fire back.

"Love you so much, Pey," she begins, and I can already feel the sweet burn coming. "But maybe she is? I mean, her mom’s a professional coach. You of all people should know how much influence a parent has on their kid. Sounded like she knew what she was talking about to me."

My stomach sinks as the words set in, and I slump back in my seat. Darcy did sound like she knew what she was talking about. Maybe she just threw out enough hockey jargon and got lucky. But the play she called… it made sense. Too much sense for someone who gave it up so quickly.

“Yeah, that was some pretty good advice,” Harlowe chimes. I shoot her a betrayed look, and she shrugs. “What? You’ll always be my number one.”

“I know you guys think I’m crazy,” I say. “But there’s something off about her. And I’m going to figure out what it is.”