Page 16 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Eight

Darcy

“ Y ou’re doing it again,” my mom’s voice hums softly. My eyes flick up, and I quickly tuck my clipboard against my body. I don’t want her to see what I’ve been working on. Not yet.

A frown tugs at the corners of my lips, and I lift my chin to meet her gaze. “Doing what?” Mom props a hand on her hip, narrowing her eyes. I roll mine, exhaling loudly. “You’re the one who signed me up for this. Am I supposed to coach or not?”

“You’re supposed to support the team,” she says, her tone warm but firm.

The Paula Cole Specialty. She slides onto the bench beside me, the soft squeak of the cold plastic harmonizing with the slap of pucks against sticks.

I turn my gaze to the rink, letting the blur of bodies and the crisp, artificial chill in the air occupy me.

“Feedback is support,” I mutter.

Mom nudges her shoulder into mine. “Darcy, you’re a student coach. And as a student coach, criticism needs to be—”

“—softer, I know,” I finish for her, sighing dramatically. Our eyes lock, and the words spill out in an irritated, defeated breath. “I’m sorry. She’s just so… ” My jaw clenches, the scrape of my teeth rattling my skull. “ Arrogant.”

“Oh?” Mom raises her brows, surprised at first, then softens her expression.

I search her face for any sign that she's messing with me, but her eyes meet mine with genuine curiosity. "What? You don’t see it?”

She shrugs nonchalantly and glances back toward the ice. I follow her gaze, landing on that stupid number 11.

I'd never say it out loud. Even thinking it feels like a betrayal. But Peyton’s magnetic.

It’s still not the way she skated alone that morning, but somehow the rink bends around her just the same, and even the puck seems to follow her lead.

Her green jersey lays flush against her body as she glides, hair in a loose bun that sways with every shift.

If she wasn’t so thoughtless, if she bothered to consider what she stood to lose with those endless solo practices and dumb frat parties, she could easily land a spot on any team she wanted, given she learn how to work as a unit . But she doesn’t—so she won’t.

Mom clicks her tongue thoughtfully. “I see a lot of you , actually.”

An offended scoff tumbles out of me. “ Really? You mean the blatant cockiness, or the obvious disregard for the rules?”

“You had that same drive, Darcy,” she answers. “Same passion.”

“I was more careful,” I mumble, eyes fixed on the rink. “I didn’t throw away my spot for a stupid party or—”

I catch myself almost exposing Peyton’s morning practices. Maybe I should. I mean, if she keeps it up, she’s going to hurt herself. Not to mention she’s breaking school policy. Still, for some inexplicable reason, I can’t bring myself to tattle. So I just snap my jaw shut.

“Maybe," she says. "But you had a coach as a mom. She’s got a pro player for a dad. It’s different.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes people aren’t what they seem.”

I frown, trying to make sense of it, but I can’t. “Yeah, I don’t get it.”

Mom chuckles softly, a sound warm and familiar that lightens my chest. Her fingers move toward me, brushing the curve of my cheek as she tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Remember the first time we flew together? When we boarded that plane to Nashville?”

I groan, already regretting where this is headed. “Mom, please. Not now.”

She’s undeterred. “You looked like you didn’t have a care in the world. You were excited, relaxed. It was like you’d done it a thousand times.”

I shift uncomfortably in the hard plastic seat. “I don’t remember.”

She smiles a little, crossing her arms. “When we landed, I asked you how you felt. Do you remember what you said?”

“No.” Liar .

“Terrified,” she answers. “You told me you were terrified.”

“Yeah, well, flying in a hunk of metal 30,000 feet in the air will do that to you,” I chide, scanning the rink to avoid her eyes.

I know where this is going, but I’m not biting.

My mom’s a coach, not some philosophical artist, and this isn’t the picture she thinks it is.

Peyton’s not some terrified player weighed down by fear. She’s someone with nothing to lose.

Or so she thinks.

“If she was so terrified,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes, “she wouldn’t be showing up hungover or arguing with the coach.”

Mom raises a brow, lips twitching with a knowing smirk. “Oh, so you never argued with your coaches? Interesting. Because I distinctly remember —”

I raise my hand, cutting her off. “ Don’t. Even. ”

She chuckles. I keep my focus on the rink.

“You two should talk, you know,” she suggests casually.

I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that doesn’t exactly seem to work out too well.”

She just smiles, unfazed. “I think once you’re on the same page, you might learn a lot from each other.”

There’s a lot I want to say, but instead, I just nod, keeping my eyes on the ice, watching 11 dance across it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be on the same page as Peyton when we’re not even reading the same damn book.

As practice winds down, my mom’s words repeat in my mind.

The last few drills fizzle out, and I’m left staring at the ice, tracing the blur of Peyton’s jersey.

She moves across the rink like it’s her world.

Like nothing exists beyond the boards, and the chipped ice beneath her feet.

It doesn’t help that I can’t look away, can’t stop watching how she holds the game in her palm, molding it to her will.

I try to ignore it, but it’s impossible when she makes it all look so easy.

It’s not easy. I of all people know that. But she’s got this flow about her, something that creeps beneath the violent strides and heavy hand, that makes me wonder if she’s always glided through life as if she’s floating, or if it’s the gift of her father’s influence.

I shift in my seat, my grip on the clipboard tight enough to leave scallops on my fingertips. When the whistle blows, signaling the end of practice, I push myself off the bench. No matter how hard I tried to talk myself out of it, I don’t want to be stuck in this stupid dispute all season.

Peyton steps off the ice, sweat-soaked hair clinging to her flushed cheeks, strands escaping the messy bun at the nape of her neck.

Her bright amber eyes dart toward the ground as she drops onto the bench, muscles rippling under the sleeves of her jersey.

There’s a sheen to her skin, a bead of sweat slipping down the curve of her temple, catching against the dark lashes framing her eyes.

My pace quickens, fumbling a bit as I approach, my pulse ticking up for no reason at all.

“Peyton, can we talk for a sec?” I call out, trying my hardest to sound innocuous.

Tugging at her skate's chartreuse laces, Peyton's head tips back to meet my gaze, hooded eyes squinting.

“Do I have a choice?” Her tone is playful, but that full-lipped grin sewn into her cheeks gives it away. Mocking.

“…Yes?” I reply.

She shrugs, glancing away and grabbing her water bottle, squirting a stream of water into her mouth. I shouldn’t notice the way her neck tenses as she swallows. In fact, I don’t.

“Pass, then.”

My expression curdles, stepping in front of her and crossing my arms. This ends now . “Okay, I lied. No .”

She shrugs the worn strap of her duffel bag over her shoulder, pushing herself to her feet.

“Well, that’s deceptive,” she says, that cocksure grin deepening. “If this is about the ‘no fun’ rule, I think I got the message.” She lifts a hand to her brow in a mock salute. “Copy that, Kim Possible.”

A curt, annoyed chuckle slips out of me as I step closer, shoving my hands in my pockets. My gloves make it a tight squeeze, and I’m pretty sure I’m cutting off circulation to my fingers, but at this point, what’s a little more discomfort?

“I—” I start, but she cuts me off. Her brows weave, button nose scrunching to form rosy rays on the bridge. A short, pointed finger jabs against my sternum.

“What is that?” she asks.

I glance down, just a millisecond too late to realize what an idiot I am. Before I can spare myself the embarrassment, her finger draws up, hitting me square on the nose. An arrogant grin breaks over her face, and without another word, she spins and heads toward the locker room.

I want to lose it. Demand an ounce of professionalism. Remind her who’s the coach and who’s the player. But if I’m going to get on her good side, or at the very least, get off her hit list, I need to keep my focus on resolving this. On making peace.

I take a steadying breath, watching her solid body sway as she marches forward.

“Look, I’m sorry if you felt like I was stepping on your toes back there,” I call out. Peyton stops.

Good. This is good.

Her head turns slightly as she casts a glance over her shoulder.

“Oh, it’s fine,” she chimes sarcastically. “You didn’t step on them. You practically cut them off. So…” She shrugs, turning back toward the locker room. “All good.”

Before she can take another step, I jog forward.

A hot throb pounds in my knees each time the soles of my arthritic loafers hit the concrete, but I don't stop. “Okay, hold on.” Peyton begins to walk away, and before I know it, the damp sleeve of her jersey is gripped in my hand. The moment I touch the sweaty fabric, her muscles stiffen. I quickly let go. “I really didn’t mean to—”

She spins around, those amber eyes burning.

“And yet, you did,” she fires back. Her volume stays the same, but the cutting edge in her tone makes it feel as if she’s yelling. “You called me out in front of the team, like I didn’t know what I was doing. Not the greatest look for a first-year captain, is it? I had a plan.”