Page 15 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

I don’t mean to take my eyes off the ice. I almost never do. But in my periphery, I see a wave of red in the stands, and just for a second, I glance up.

Darcy’s eyes are on me, an intense, emerald stare watching with expectant anticipation, as if she already knows my next move but wants to see it for herself. Good. She’s watching. I look back to the drill, her gaze burning through the top of my skull as I skate.

Her snide voice echoes in my mind: This sport isn’t a joke, Captain.

A joke? I’ll show her that to me, it’s anything but.

The second whistle blows.

“Simmons, Browne!” Coach calls.

We spin around, skating toward the other end of the ice, while Indie and Faith push off, taking the puck from their end and continuing the drill. Indie dodges Faith as she bolts toward the goalpost.

I race to shield her, but Hammie slips in front of me, blocking me so that Faith can wrestle the puck away from Indie. I glance over to my teammate. She’s hesitating, handling the puck but hardly making an effort to get around.

Did they recruit the wrong Indigo Browne?

“Rose!” I call out, trying to get her moving. “Get in there!”

With that, she finally perks up, pushing off the ice to whip around Faith.

She tries to pass, but it’s too soft, too slow.

Hammie's all over it. I can see her coming, ready to intercept, and I sprint to get in position.

The puck squirts out, and I scoop it up, the wind slapping my face as I glide toward the goal.

My stick is heavy in my hands, the worn tape grounding me as I push past.

Each stride I take is measured, each breath sharper, time slowing as my focus narrows to the tiny sliver of space between Harlowe’s legs. My eyes lock onto it, heart thudding against my chest. It’s the sweet spot. The moment where everything aligns, ready to shoot.

And then, that fucking voice.

“Hey, Cap!” Darcy calls from the bench, that irritatingly assured tone rolling off my skin.

I don’t stop skating, but the moment is gone, Faith moving in and blocking my shot. I don’t look up. I just push my way around her, blazing past only to be closed in on by Hammie.

“Pass it!” Darcy continues, like my lack of response is her encouragement.

My gaze flicks to Indie, who’s gripping her stick like she’s scared to drop it. “She just passed it,” I call back, forcing my voice to stay level. “We’ve hardly attacked.”

Coach blows the whistle, a long, sharp tone to punctuate my point.

“Alright, alright, enough! Come here, Clarke. Then we’ll run it again.”

I glide toward Coach, irritation singeing my chest from the inside out.

Darcy’s climbed down from the stands, posting beside her with that stupid clipboard.

She’s in that same black turtleneck, the one that hugs her chest and dips at her waist. Bailey calls it the "slutty-villain effect.

" Like when an anime guy has that perfect little waist, and you just know he's pure evil.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure this is what she was talking about.

“You’re forcing plays instead of reading them. You had an opening for a pass, but you didn’t take it. You’re not the only player who can score," Darcy shoots.

My jaw tenses, and I fire back before I can think better of it. “So Friday you wanted me to follow the plan, but today you want me to abandon it? I was going to shoot.”

Darcy raises a challenging brow. “So, your plan was what? Barrel in and hope for the best? That was a clear pass.”

“It was a clear goal ,” I say, trying my hardest to keep my tone steady. “It’s called taking a risk. I thought you liked those.”

“It’s called being reckless. You can’t just do what you want with no plan, and call that a risk. You have no calculations, no backup. ”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head, and whatever self-control I had moments ago has completely disintegrated. “Right. Is that what they taught you in—what was it?—second grade?”

Before Darcy can fire back, Coach cuts in, her tone edged with finality. “She’s right, Clarke.”

You’ve got to be—

“We didn’t even get to—”

Coach Cole sticks her hand in the air, cutting me off, though she’s more polite about it than Darcy. “You’re more focused on scoring than communicating. This is a team effort.”

I swallow, blood rushing to my cheeks, my nose, and the tips of my goddamn ears.

“It’s hard to communicate when she—”

“Sorry, I’m talking to the Captain , right?”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck as an intense pressure settles in my chest. I’ve always known the significance of this title, the responsibility it carries.

But right now, standing here, it feels even more suffocating.

I’ve already screwed it up. The hungover teammates, the slip of my words.

I don’t need anyone to remind me that I’ve let the team down.

I’m already living with the bitter taste of failure, choking on it with every breath.

I wonder if my dad ever made a fool of himself as Captain like this. Probably not. That title suited him. The C on his jersey always looked like it belonged there, like it had been carved into him.

Unlike me.

I nod, jaw clenching. “Yes, Coach.”

“Then act like it. If Browne is struggling to find her place, it’s up to you to guide her. Got it?”

I nod again, the taste of metal flooding my tongue as I gnaw the inside of my cheek raw. She’s right, of course. I’m failing. I know it.

Coach sighs, her stance softening just slightly. But it feels like a concession I don’t deserve. “Look. I know this is your team as much as it is mine. We have the same goal, alright?”

It’s not you I’m worried about.

It’s unintentional, against my will, but my gaze flashes to Darcy. I correct it the moment I focus on her stupidly thick red lashes, but Coach clearly catches me, clearing her throat and straightening her posture.

“Darcy knows what she’s talking about, Clarke. She’s here to help, not step on your toes.”

“ Paula .” A loud sigh tumbles from Darcy’s freckled lips, her tongue scraping across them as she dips her head into her hands. “Just—”

Coach looks back to me, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture, bringing her silver whistle to her lips.

“Alright," she says. "Get back to it, Captain.”

So I do.