Page 19 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

I weave through the crowd, my stomach growling in a hungry demand. Between the heat, the noise, and the scent of cheap beer, I realize two things: one, I’m starving. And two, I need space.

My eyes squeeze shut, fingers gripping the doorknob to my room as I silently hope—no, pray —there isn’t a couple tangled up on my bed doing the horizontal tango. I push the door open cautiously.

It’s clear.

A sigh of relief escapes me as I slip inside, locking the door behind me. I collapse onto the bed, taking a steady breath. Don’t get me wrong, I love the chaos. But sometimes, I just need to be alone.

Which is unfortunate, because suddenly, a voice breaks through the silence, loud and slurred and grating. “You’re missing your wings, Icarus.”

My gaze snaps to the corner, landing on a head of red hair and freckles.

Darcy’s clearly intoxicated, her lids heavy over those emerald eyes, lips pulled into a slanted smirk.

She sinks deeper into my black beanbag in the corner, scanning my room.

My space. Posters of old punk bands, torn concert tickets, and childhood hockey trophies are scattered in chaotic clusters.

It’s how I like it, messy, lived in. And I can’t help but feel like Darcy is judging it.

The last time we spoke, we nearly tore each other apart. The smart thing to do would be to ignore her, to let her find someone else to entertain her drunken antics. Or just let her pass out in here, and drag her home later. And yet, I stay planted.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because this is the first time in hours I haven’t been crushed by bodies. Maybe it’s because everywhere I turn, I see my teammates doing things I know I should’ve stopped. Or maybe it’s because I feel bad for getting in her face at practice.

She was trying to apologize, and I… I just snapped. I felt like a child again, throwing a fit over one of my brother’s meltdowns. I should know better by now. But lately, it feels like no matter what I do, I can’t get anything right.

And Darcy pointing it out tipped me over the edge.

“Dude. You’re like… really green ,” she drawls.

I exhale sharply through my nose, reluctant but unable to resist meeting her gaze. Her eyes are narrowed, head cocked, and there’s this ridiculously cute crease between her red, sculpted brows. I shouldn’t find it cute. I shouldn’t notice it at all.

A sigh slips out, half annoyance, half amusement, and I turn fully to face her.

“Yeah, I’m a Ninja Turtle, Darcy,” I say, pointing to the blue mask tied around my head. “Leonardo?”

Darcy lets out a drunken giggle, strolling over to me as she swats her hand in the air.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh without a degrading undertone.

Something intended to poke at me, irritate me.

But this is different. It’s brief, hiccupped, and despite the way she’s slurring, it causes that stupid tightening sensation to return to my chest. I should probably get that checked out.

Family history of heart disease, y’know.

“Yeah, yeah, I knew that,” she dismisses. “But you’re really green, you know?”

She leans in, and I don’t think she means to, but her palm presses against my chest. I hold my breath, desperate for my heartbeat to return to normal, to be slow.

Steady. Unrestrained. But the tightness inside me only deepens, curling around my ribs, spreading like an ache I’ve never been victim to before.

Her scent clings to the air, just as sweet, as tart as I remember.

I wonder if she can feel it too, the way my chest constricts, like I’m one breath away from collapsing under the weight of her hand.

“Like, the Hulk green. Wait—no, no, no, no. Way better than the Hulk green. You’re like…

” She pauses, and her thoughts are clearly weighing her down, because her head tilts to the side, and the rest of her follows.

Without thinking, I reach out to steady her, my hand landing on her waist. The second my fingers brush her abdomen, her eyes snap up to meet mine.

I almost pull away—I swear I felt a jolt of electricity rush through me—but then she smiles.

It’s a different kind of smile. One that makes you feel something. One that leaves you breathless. Not smug and triumphant, but like the first time I saw it at practice. Like watching the sun break over snow-capped mountains.

“You’re like, Kermit the Frog green,” she finally finishes with a grin.

Despite every cell in my brain begging me not to, a low chuckle slips out of me. “That’s better than the Hulk?” I ask. Darcy cocks a brow, like the answer is obvious.

“Duh.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I was kind of hoping for Gamora green. Or like, sexy M&M green?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to reel them back in. But Darcy’s eyes widen, those pretty jade jewels shimmering. “Oh my god,” she gasps. “You are totally sexy M&M green!”

Blood rushes to the tops of my cheeks, and I’m thankful for the fact they’re painted so that she can’t see it.

I don’t know why it happens. It’s stupid, and Darcy’s just drunk.

But hearing that word slip from her mouth, much less concerning me, creates a chemistry experiment in my stomach.

Something hot and bubbling fills up the inside of me, and it needs to be extinguished.

“Did you just… compliment me?”

Darcy shrugs, glancing around the room like she’s looking for something. “Depends how much you like M&Ms.” Her gaze flicks back to me. “Do you know Cleo? Cleo Mardas? I can’t find her anywhere.”

I should be relieved. She’ll be gone soon, and I can pretend this conversation never happened. I’ll see her at the game on Saturday, where she’ll tell me how shit I played, and everything will fall back into place. No more odd compliments, no more worrying about my cardiovascular health.

“Umh…” My tongue clicks against the roof of my mouth, torn. I could just let her walk away, leave her to find Cleo and forget this whole conversation. But when she tilts her head, and those pretty eyes catch the light, I can’t bring myself to do it.

“Not for a while. I think she and Indie went off somewhere.”

Darcy’s brow twitches, but she doesn’t ask any more questions. She just nods, spinning in the opposite direction and strolling toward the door. Which is when I realize that my hands are still on her goddamn waist.

I don’t even know why I’m still touching her. But her skin is warm beneath my palms, her thin waist a delicate line I trace without thinking.

For a moment, I decide she can take care of herself. Darcy isn’t my problem.

But then she glances over her shoulder and I realize that, bratty coach’s daughter or not, I’d be a shitty human if I let her walk away.

I sigh, my fingers sinking deeper into her waist to slow her down, then turn her to face me.

Another sunny giggle slips out of her, and her gloved hand lands on my shoulder, the weight of it making my throat dry.

What is it with this woman and gloves?

“Did you come here with Cleo?” I ask. She nods, her eyes glimmering.

“She’s my roommate.”

I flash her an earnest look. “Did you come with anyone else?”

She tilts her head, lips pursing like she’s considering something. “I don’t even know anyone else.”

I want to make some snide comment about how maybe she’d have more friends if she wasn’t such an uptight, nosy know-it-all, but as I part my lips to speak, nothing comes out. Instead, I just sigh.

She doesn’t move back. She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me, like she’s waiting for me to look away, and for some reason, I don’t. Making eye contact with someone you can’t stand is supposed to make you uncomfortable. Make you irritated, make your skin crawl.

So why is this the calmest I’ve felt all night?

“Your blade is worn out, by the way,” she says suddenly.

I rear back. “What?”

“Your blade.” She points to the corner of my room, and I follow her finger to my stick. I almost dismiss it, about to roll my eyes, but then I catch the tape. The familiar blue, yellow, and pink, my pansexual pride tape. It’s... new. Clean . I look back at Darcy.

“Did you tape my stick?” I ask, brow wrinkling in confusion.

She’s busy studying a Green Day poster on my wall. “It was frayed. You know, if you do toe tape instead of a full sock, the puck will glide off faster.”

I pause, still absorbing the fact that she re-taped my stick.

Why would she do that for me? I let go of her waist, more reluctantly than I care to admit, and stroll over, picking it up to inspect it.

The tape job is meticulous. Perfect. I’ve been taping my stick for years, and I get the job done, but this?

Every line is perfectly parallel, no creases, no gaps.

“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, still examining it. She hesitates.

“Right. Sorry.”

“You got this really straight,” I say, a little too impressed.

She shrugs. “Took my time.”

“Thanks.”

I set it back down, and I can’t help but wonder how long she’s been in here. What else she’d touched.

"Anyway," I shift. "What are you doing in my room?"

She shrugs again, still studying my walls. I hate that. Her judgmental eyes drifting along. "Just hanging out."

And then, out of nowhere, she turns toward the door again. "I’m going on a walk," she announces. My brows draw together, and I glance around. Honestly, I could use some air too, but doing that with Darcy? I’d be manifesting disaster.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“Because it’s dark and cold, and you’re drunk. And besides, you don’t have a jac—”

It’s just now that I realize, drawing my eyes from the tip of her scuffed black boots to the rim of her turtleneck, exactly what— who —Darcy is dressed as. It’s pointless. I could super glue every nerve in my face, and still, the smile gripping the corners of my lips would triumph.

I reach out, tugging gently on the rim of her turtleneck with a taunting grin. “Kim Possible,” I point out. Her gaze darts to mine, arms tucked tight across her chest. “Was that for me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Peyton. Cleo wanted to go as Shego, and I already had this in the closet.”

I nod, antagonistically. I believe her, but she doesn’t need to know that. Her strawberry brows furrow deeper, that cute freckle disappearing as the crease pops back up.

“It’s true,” she states defensively.

“Sure.”

Darcy steps closer, her tart cherry scent a cocktail with her vodka breath. “I wear this shirt all the time—”

“Haven’t noticed.”

“—and I bought these pants because of the pockets.” She turns to the side, gesturing down her leg to what looks like twenty of them. “I can fit all my stuff in these.”

I’m about to ask what “stuff” she’s referring to when she begins unsnapping every pocket, pulling out the most random items—phone, wallet, house key, a pack of Cheez-Itz, a pill bottle, an actual paperback book, socks, and a—

“Is that the puck I broke?” I ask, peering at the jagged piece of rubber amidst the pile of junk spread out on the bed. Darcy’s eyes widen, the proud grin on her face dropping.

“No,” she says, quickly reaching for it. But I swipe it up before she gets the chance, holding it up in my fairy lights to get a better look. I flash her a wolfish grin.

“Oh my god, it totally is!” I beam. She scowls, trying to snatch it out of my hand, but I hold it behind my back.

“I must have forgotten it was in there,” she says defensively, those strawberry eyebrows furrowing. “You left it on the floor.”

I flash her a skeptical look. “You weren’t wearing those pants that morning,” I point out. Darcy’s face flushes a shade of red that’s cute but almost concerning.

“ You shouldn’t remember that,” she shoots. Then, she frantically snatches it from my hand, shovels the rest of her pile back into her pocket, and spins on her heel, reaching for the doorknob.

She’s not wrong. I shouldn’t remember that. But instead of sitting on it, I react. “Hold on a second, Ms. Possible.” I grab her sleeve—not her waist this time, just her sleeve—and pull her toward me. “Where are you going?”

She doesn’t turn back to look at me. She just keeps trudging forward, dragging me behind her like a horse and carriage.

“On a walk,” she mutters.

I shake my head, letting her go for just a second, then squeezing my way in front of her, sticking my arms out to block the exit. “You can’t just go on a walk by yourself.”

Darcy tilts her chin up, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Well?” she asks. “Are you coming then?”

For a moment, I think she’s teasing me. But she just stands there, perfectly still, eyes fixed on mine. I glance around, half-expecting some hidden camera to appear, but all I see is an otherwise empty room.

Turning back to her, I try to match her stare. “That’s not a good idea.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know, with the way you overexert yourself, you’re probably right. You'll get a stress fracture or something.”

“That’s not why.”

“Then what is?”

An awkward laugh stumbles out of me. “I don’t know, Darcy. You’re kind of drunk. And you don’t like me, I don’t like you—”

“You don’t like me?”

I freeze. The words don’t hit me right away, but when they do, it’s like a skate to the shin. She’s staring at me with those expectant eyes, and heat pools over my cheeks. Fuck. That was a really asshole thing to say.

“I—umh—” I stammer. A nervous laugh slips out. “I mean... you— we —”

Shit.

Darcy’s still staring, and my stomach starts to sink, until my eye catches on the slight grin playing at the corner of her mouth.

That little brat. She’s totally fucking with me.

“Oh, fuck off, Coach ,” I say, dragging out the title like a taunt. Darcy rolls her eyes, grabbing my wrist.

I’m definitely going to regret this.

But we have to mend fences somehow.

I tug my hoodie off the back of my bedroom door on the way out. It’s cold out, and I’m not about to let her go out there in just that little black turtleneck.

“Here,” I say, tossing it in her direction. “It’s cold.”

She catches it, face lighting up like I’ve handed her the sun.

Without hesitation, she pulls it over her head.

The hoodie’s a little tight, the sleeves a bit too short, and sure, I should probably grab one of Harlowe’s instead, but there’s something about seeing her in my hoodie, my number on her arm, that makes my chest do that unwarranted, unexplainable tightening thing again.

“Thanks,” she says casually, tugging the sleeves down.

I nod, clearing my throat. “’Course.”

And without another word, we step out into the hall, the door clicking shut behind us.