Page 18 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Nine

Peyton

FINAL CHAT FR THIS TIME

HAMMIE

Don't forget to wear your costumes tonight!

CAPTAIN CLARKE

You already know ;)

CAY

I forgot to buy something. Anyone have one I can borrow?

Z

I have a witch hat.

But you have to give me a lap dance for it.

CAY

Funny.

YERSIE

I just want everyone to know that the costume rule was not set by me and I don't actually give a fuck if you wear one or not.

brADY

Dude. Hammie made it sound like it was life or death.

SIMS BUT NOT THE GAME

I'm not even going.

brADY

WHAT

SIMS BUT NOT THE GAME

I have homework.

CAPTAIN CLARKE

Yeah, I'm supposed to be going to a fundraiser at the GG in the morning. So… we'll see how that goes.

Z

Lena, let's not pretend you didn't already have all that pink cheetah print in your closet.

brADY

It's the principle.

HAMMIE

I thought we could all use a little Halloween spirit. Besides, it will be fun seeing everyone dressed up.

CAPTAIN CLARKE

Who's "everyone?"

I don’t know exactly how this happened, but I’m pretty sure our apartment is violating multiple fire codes.

We’re lucky this is a student complex, because if our neighbors weren’t already here, they’d probably be calling the cops.

This was supposed to be a small thing, just a little Halloween-themed get-together for Harlowe’s birthday, but that’s what I get for leaving Bailey in charge of the invitations.

I weave through the sea of bodies, my Sprite sloshing precariously over the edge of my plastic cup as I spin, duck, and contort my body in ways I didn’t even know were possible. The living room is a pressure cooker, jammed to capacity with people from every imaginable corner of the university.

Bodies spill out onto the overloaded balcony, art students leaning over the railing, their voices cutting through the bass-heavy music as they hurl drunken banter down to someone in the parking lot.

I pass a group from my econ class taking shots, before squeezing past some guys from the men’s hockey team.

They all clap me on the back, knuckles rapping against my cardboard turtle shell, whooping and hollering.

“Sick party, Leonardo,” one of them says, tipping his cup against mine. I’m pretty sure some of his beer spills into my drink, but I just grin back at him.

“Thanks, Kai.”

I scan the crowd, intent on locating my posse.

Lena and Z are playing DJ, letting the vodka dictate the playlist. By the television, Caydence is clutching a cup of something that could violate all ten commandments, staring at Will Carter.

I spot Bailey—masquerading as Michelangelo—standing on our coffee table, shaking her ass to “The Monster Mash”.

Her orange mask slips as her head tips back, a loud, drunken laugh spilling out as she yanks Rowan, one of the baristas at the Grizzly Grind, up from the crowd.

That table is one misstep from total collapse, but she looks so happy, I don’t want to ruin her fun.

Her round brown eyes lock onto mine, hands waving frantically like two people on a rickety table isn’t already a recipe for disaster. I shake my head, shouting over the music: “You break it, you buy it!”

She shrugs and salutes me. I chuckle, roll my eyes, and spin toward the kitchen—or what used to be my kitchen.

I don’t know where the big plastic foldable table came from, but it’s eaten up the entire space while Harlowe dominates a 1v3 beer pong match against a group of football players.

She looks like she wants to murder them, but judging by the sailor hat she’s traded for her red Raphael mask, she’s actually flirting.

Which just leaves… Indie. Shit. Where is Indie?

I scan the room, searching for her. After practice the other day, Coach and I had a heart-to-heart that led to the painfully obvious conclusion that Indie’s struggling to find her rhythm, both on the team and off it.

She’s still figuring out how to balance everything, the pressure of college life and trying to make her mark on the ice. And it’s my job as captain to help her.

Which is why she’s here in the first place. I figured it would be good for her to get out, spend some time on campus, mingle outside the plexiglass of the rink. And yeah, I know Coach just chewed us out about coming to practice hungover, but we don’t have to meet again for two days.

And besides, she didn’t say we couldn’t party—just that we couldn’t drink.

I was supposed to keep a close eye on Indie, to make sure that didn’t happen, but I’ve been too busy making sure nobody puts holes in the walls or bypasses the “do not enter sign” for Bailey’s bedroom, where Mr. Bubbles is sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of the chaos outside.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, stretching my neck to look over the crowd. What if she’s drunk? What if she’s somewhere getting crushed in this mob? “Indie!” I call, my tone edging toward panic.

And then, finally, I spot her. Pressed against the wall in full Donatello gear, her cardboard shell flattened like roadkill. She watches the party unfolding in front of her, gripping a can of sparkling water.

I nudge my way over, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “Jesus, Rose. I was about to send out a search party. You okay?”

Indie shifts uneasily, chewing on the corner of her lip, eyes darting toward the door like she might bolt. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and she shifts her weight from side to side.

“Are you sure I’m not intruding?” she asks, meeting me with a worried, hazel gaze. I chuckle softly, gesturing to the crowd. It’s not like this is an exclusive event.

“Indie, half the people here are intruding,” I joke. “You are not one of them.” She laughs softly, tilting her head with a nervous smile.

“Yeah, I thought you said it was just going to be a few people.”

I study the room. Theater students are in the corner, ranting about a casting disaster.

To the left, the campus stoners—including my study buddy Cleo—are passing around what I’m pretty sure are weed-infused chocolates.

And on the couch beside us, a couple is having a very emotional, drunken argument. I look back to Indie.

“I thought it was going to be.”

She nods, gaze drifting to the scene. Her shoulders are stiff, arms nearly glued to her sides. Then, her brows furrow. “Do Ninja Turtles have butt cheeks?”

I blink. “What?”

She gestures vaguely to her costume. “Like, their shells normally cover their backs, right? So… do they have… cheeks? ”

A laugh spills out of me. I tilt my head, genuinely considering the question, but I come up blank. “I’m not really sure,” I answer. “Why do you ask?”

She extends an arm, sticking her finger out toward Bailey, who has tossed her cardboard shell aside, revealing her green corset, short shorts, and yes—green-painted butt cheeks.

The paint was meant for our faces, but Indie was the only one willing to put it on with me.

Harlowe refused completely, and Bailey, apparently, only used it to paint her ass.

I watch as Bailey and Rowan take turns pouring shots into each other’s mouths. Jesus. I am spectacularly failing at my job.

“You know, I’m more concerned about the fact that she doesn’t have her shell. Don’t turtles die without them?” a voice asks.

I turn to find Cleo slipping into our bubble of space, draped head-to-toe in green and black spandex. A matching neon barrette clips into her hair—pointless, really, since there’s barely enough of it to hold back from her face, but it’s Cleo, so it works.

She sweeps into an exaggerated bow. “Leonardo,” she greets, then straightens and turns to Indie, mirroring the gesture. “Donatello.”

Indie looks at me nervously, and I smile. “Hey, Cleo,” I say.

“ Shego , actually,” she clarifies, snapping the tight green suit against her body.

I chuckle, turning to Indie. “Indie, this is Cleo. We study together sometimes. Cleo, this is Indie. One of our new players.”

“No shit!” Cleo grins, pulling Indie into a hug without another thought. Indie flashes me a wide-eyed stare, and I grin apologetically. Cleo’s the best. Seriously, I would not be making straight Bs without her. Her only requirement for friendship is basic human decency.

We share that sentiment.

“So I’ll be seeing you at the games then?”

She lets go, and Indie nods shyly. “Yeah,” she manages with an awkward smile. Cleo snaps Indie’s purple eye mask against her cheeks.

“Well, I’m super excited to meet you.” She taps me on the shoulder, pointing to the beer pong table. My eyes follow her finger just as Harlowe waves me over.

“Come on!” she calls. “I’m bored kicking their asses, they need help.”

The football players erupt into murmurs before looking at me and nodding.

“Please?” one of them begs, his drunken eyes drooping. I feel bad for them. Harlowe never loses at beer pong.

I look back to the two beside me. Cleo rolls her eyes, while Indie waves me off. "Go," she says. "I'll be fine."

“Don’t worry, Pey. I’ll take care of her.”

I blink.

“Fine,” I relent. “But don’t get her high.” I point a finger at Harlowe and the guys. “And I’m not drinking.”

I don’t know how long we’ve been playing but based on the graveyard of empty cups in front of us, it’s been a while. Harlowe is still undefeated, despite the combined efforts of me and the football players.

“You’re actually a menace,” I grumble, watching her line up her final shot.

She winks at me. “You knew what you were signing up for.”

The plastic ball soars through the air, landing cleanly in our last cup. The guys groan, and I sigh, shaking my head as Harlowe throws her arms up in victory.

“Four and oh, baby!” she crows, pumping her fist.

Ray, one of the football players, nudges me. “Dude, you were supposed to help us.”

“I tried,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “Some forces are just unstoppable.”

Harlowe smirks. “You boys want a redemption round?”

The guys exchange uncertain looks. I, on the other hand, am already backing away. “You guys have fun. I need a break.”