Page 2 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

“I love you too,” I reply, and before I know it, she’s pulling me into a quick hug. It’s tight, familiar. My second favorite feeling in the world.

Well, now my first.

She pulls away with a soft kiss on my temple, then heads for the door, leaving me alone with that damn antagonistic yellow piece of paper.

I slump back into my seat with an exaggerated sigh, glancing around the café to assess just how much of a scene I’ve caused.

Most of the students are oblivious, headphones in, heads bobbing to whatever soundtrack they’ve got going while they study for majors that were probably their first choice.

There’s a guy in the corner staring at me with a raised eyebrow—I think he’s in my biomechanics class? Great. Whatever. I don’t give a fuck.

I settle deeper into the chair, reaching into my pocket for my phone. But before I can even grab it, I hear a voice I know all too well.

“Well, that was… dramatic,” Cleo says, sliding into my mom’s chair like she’s been waiting for it to open up. She’s gripping her phone in one hand, and a Redbull in the other. I glance up, startled, and she shrugs. “What? You didn’t think I’d come spy?”

I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “Oh my god, Cleo. You’re like a stage mom.”

She grins, unphased. “You can’t send a text that says, ‘My mom signed me up to be a coach. I’m meeting her at GG. SOS. Or just kill me’ and think I’m not gonna show up to witness the chaos.”

I roll my eyes, letting out a quiet laugh. I’ve only known Cleo for two months, but in that time, she’s pretty much deemed herself my best friend. I’m not sure why. She’s got a dozen friends already, and it’s not like I really bring much to the table.

Honestly, I don’t think she can help it.

She’s practically an over-caffeinated hamster, running circles on a wheel that never stops.

I’m more of a tortoise, at least these days.

It’s not like I mind it, though. She’s nice enough and always invites me to her social shindigs, though I never show up.

The only downside to living with Cleo is her cat.

Socks is a menace, through and through. His sole mission in life? To make mine as miserable as possible. The first night I moved in, I woke up gasping for air.

Turns out, he decided to make a bed out of my face.

Cleo insists it’s a sign that he “likes me,” but I swear, the little fucker is plotting my demise.

“Well? Rotten Tomatoes rating?” I ask, taking a regretful sip of my latte.

Cleo taps her finger against her lips like she’s considering something monumental.

“Eighty-eight. Honestly, I almost called in a fake tragedy when you started pacing. It looked like you were about to have a full-on meltdown.” She raises a pierced eyebrow, putting on her best serious face.

“But then it seemed like you had it under control. Kinda anticlimactic, if you ask me.”

I roll my eyes again but can’t stop another laugh from escaping. “Oh, well, I’ll try to throw in a plot twist next time.”

Cleo smirks. “Maybe a surprise musical number? ABBA really sells it for me.” She snorts, eyes falling onto the slip on the table, and without another thought, she scoops it up. “I’m joking , Darce. You think I’m just here for the drama? I’m here for you .”

I flash her an earnest look, one that lyingly says I don’t believe her.

The annoying part is, I do believe Cleo.

And that messes with me. She cares so much about me, when she doesn’t even know me.

Not to say I don’t care about her. I do.

Honestly, besides my mom, she’s the closest thing I have to a friend. But that’s what’s terrifying.

I don’t do friends anymore.

I watch her carefully, jaw tight, breath lodged in my chest as she unfolds the paper. Her gray eyes scan the words, dark bushy brows knitting together.

“So, basically, you have to coach for ten hours a week and go to all the games?” She looks up at me, searching for confirmation.

I nod.

“And in return, you get paid and a course credit?”

I nod again. The ball of tension in my jaw tightens into something heavier, which sinks into my chest.

While Cleo’s head tilts, the rest of her posture seems to straighten. “Sounds like a good deal to me,” she answers, shrugging.

“But—” I start, but she cuts me off with a telling look.

“Darcy,” she says softly, her gaze flicking to my cup. Her eyes narrow as she spots the “whole milk” label and shakes her head. Without skipping a beat, she swaps her drink with mine. I don’t have it in me to explain that energy drinks trigger my flare-ups, so I just stay quiet.

“I get it. Well, no, I don’t. But your mom does.

And she’s right.” She meets my eyes, her tone more serious now.

“You’re never gonna be happy if you try to completely cut hockey out of your life.

It’s like spiders. You can spray the house till the cows come home, but they’ll always find a way back in. ”

A frown creeps across my face as I process her analogy. “Do we have spiders? Should I call pest control?”

She ignores me, taking a sip from what was my latte, and wrinkling her nose.

“ Ugh. Peanut butter? Seriously?” She swaps the drinks back with a grimace.

Thankfully. “Honestly, babe, staring at the dusty box of trophies in the living room is making me kind of depressed. Put them on the mantle. Donate them. I don’t care. Just do something , you know?”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die on my tongue because Cleo’s right. Hockey isn’t just a sport to me. It’s who I was. Who I still am, even.

No matter how much it hurts to admit.

My stomach twists as I look back at the paper. I want to grab it, tear it into a million pieces, and toss it into Sock’s litter box. But where would that leave me?

Still here, studying for a degree I never thought I'd need, working some job I’ll never love, and, eventually dying alone, buried under a pile of cats who suffocated me.

Cleo leans across the table, a dimple popping into the side of her lip. “Look, you don’t have to throw yourself out there, alright? Just show up once. See how it feels.” She gives me a small, encouraging smile.

I know what I should do. I know what’s right, even though every bone in my body feels like it’s about to crumble at the thought of it.

Even though my muscles flare in protest, already waging a war against the idea, aching at the sight of that damn slip.

Maybe I could do what she’s asking: show up for practice, see how it feels.

Get a glimpse at who I used to be.

“I’m not a coach,” I mumble, and Cleo deadpans.

“Darcy, you moved in two months ago and negotiated like, twenty house rules. You’d command the sky if it listened.”

Something between a sigh and a chuckle slips out of me, and I shake my head.

If I’m being completely honest, it’s not only the coaching that’s stressing me out.

It’s what comes after. I’m bracing for that moment when I have to walk back onto the ice.

Because one way or another, I know that moment is coming.

“I’ll think about it,” I repeat.