Page 20 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Ten

Darcy

I sn’t alcohol supposed to make you hot?

I mean sure, it’s October, and yeah, it’s raining.

But the volume of vodka in my veins should be enough to keep me warm.

Still, goosebumps flood my skin as the icy breeze blows past, sweeping my hair away from my face.

City lights blur around me, and I can’t quite tell where I am right now, but I don’t care.

I just keep walking, boots thudding against the pavement, dissonant to the rhythm of Peyton’s.

Her shorter legs move quicker, taking nearly double the steps to keep up with me.

She doesn’t make a fuss about it, just moves beside me as I force out a breath, the pounding in my chest long eased since we left.

I thought I could handle it—get out, mingle like Cleo suggested.

One drink to calm my nerves, another to loosen up.

After the third, I realized it wasn’t in my prophecy.

I wasn’t becoming more social. I was just getting sloppy and honestly, a little sad.

So I slipped away from Cleo and her friends, telling them I'd be back, only to find myself hyperventilating in a bedroom that, to my surprise, turned out to be Peyton's.

I just needed a moment. A break from it all.

The noise, the bodies. The flashing lights and polite greetings from strangers who clearly couldn’t tell I wanted to be left alone. Girls offering shots, guys making their moves, all of it felt like too much. Too loud. Too friendly. I’d known it going in: I wasn’t ready for any of it.

I guess I’d hoped that pretending would be enough.

Peyton’s face glows in the streetlights, green streaks of color smearing on her cheeks as rain softly rolls down them.

She’s still wearing that ridiculous blue mask, and I would make fun of her for it if I wasn’t so damn hesitant to break the silence we’ve had for the past fifteen minutes.

She hasn’t asked why I wanted to leave. I haven’t asked why she cared enough to come with me.

And both of us seem to be ignoring the fact that it’s happening altogether.

Another breeze hits, creeping beneath my layers. I know it’s cold enough to make Peyton shiver, and sure enough, she pulls her arms tighter inside her sleeves, the cardboard shell on her back doing nothing to shield her. She shudders, and I feel this strange pinching in my chest.

It’s dumb. She’s the one who forgot a jacket. But then, maybe, she was too busy making sure I had one to think about herself.

Huh. Peyton Clarke actually put someone else first. Well, that’s a shocker.

I spend the next few minutes debating asking her if she’d like to turn around.

Or, at the very least, if she wants her sweatshirt back.

Not that I mind wearing it. It’s a little short, a little tight around the armpits, sure, but I like the way it smells.

Like lavender and the faintest hint of salt.

I’m blaming the enjoyment of that on my blood alcohol content.

The soothing patter of the rain picks up, and she weaves in front of me, guiding me underneath an overhang to avoid the drops.

Just as we step under, a loud melody springs from her back pocket, causing her to come to a sudden halt.

I nearly ram into her, tipping back as I dig my heels into the ground to avoid a collision.

She spins to face me, but reaches for her phone first, brows furrowing as the blue light from the screen illuminates her whiskey-colored eyes.

After declining the call, her gaze catches mine, but that valley stays etched between her brows.

“Why’d you come to our party?”

Peyton’s tone is soft. Nothing lies beneath it but pure, innocent confusion, those glowing amber eyes smoothing into something gentler. Something warm enough to wash my goosebumps away. I steady myself against the brick wall.

“To be fair,” I hiccup, “Cleo withheld that information from me.”

Peyton forces a smile, letting out a soft “Oh” before spinning back around, and taking a few more steps. The moment I begin to follow, she stops again.

“Would you have come if she didn’t?” she asks. I’m hardly polite when I’m sober, so being intoxicated, I don’t even pretend to consider it.

“Probably not.”

She nods again, then keeps walking. The shell bounces against her back as she moves, and a soft sigh slips from her throat.

“I’m sorry.” The words spill out of her, but her feet don’t slow down.

Mine nearly stop in their tracks, but I force them to keep moving.

“For being a dick at practice the other day. And… the days before. I know it’s your job to give me feedback, and I just got—I got insecure.

I don’t think I’ve ever had someone tell me I was doing something wrong before. ”

Fuck. We’re doing this now? Couldn’t she have brought it up on Saturday? Or at the next practice? Or... never?

I don’t respond right away. Part of me is still processing what she said, while the other half of my brain is trying to figure out if it’s some kind of trap. And no, I don’t have a clear idea of how this trap would work, but if I weren’t drunk, I’d see the pattern.

I’m sure of it.

I take a deep breath, short clips of that conversation flashing through my mind. How angry she looked. How I made it worse. How I could feel her breath against my lips, warm and frustrated.

Heat spills across my body, a pulse growing between my thighs, and I force words, any words, to come out of my mouth, so she doesn’t spin around and see the unwarranted burn in my cheeks.

“It’s all good,” I say quickly, nearly stumbling behind her.

“No it’s no—”

“Really, I get it. I probably could have gone about it in a better way myself.”

Peyton laughs softly, and I can’t see her face, but her shoulders seem to loosen a bit. “Yeah…”

A heavy gust blows past us, and she shivers, the dark strands of hair on her arms prickling. I take a steadying breath, then finally force myself to ask.

“You okay?”

Peyton spins around to face me, walking backwards. The wind catches her hair, sending loose brunette waves tumbling in front of her face. A grin tugs at her lips as she tilts her head.

“Never better, why?” she calls out, her voice battling the breeze.

I put a hand on my hip, looking at her skeptically.

“Peyton, you’re freezing.”

She looks down at her arms, then meets my eyes again, shrugging. “I don’t mind the cold.”

There’s something about the way she says it, a slight hitch in her shoulder, the little divot in the side of her cheeks, that makes me want to catch up with her, instead of insisting on turning back. Like if Peyton Clarke doesn’t mind the cold, maybe braving it with her wouldn’t be so bad.

I’ve definitely had too much to drink.

Her back straightens, eyes glowing as an excited gasp escapes her. “Hey, do you want to go see the Ferris wheel?”

I raise an eyebrow, pulling back in surprise. I’m not shocked by her spontaneity. Peyton’s made it clear she does what she wants, when she wants. What’s surprising is that she’s asking me to be part of it.

“The Ferris wheel?”

She nods, stepping into the purple glow of the streetlights. Just as she leans forward to press the crossing button, her eyes catch mine. And I don’t know if it’s the stress or the alcohol, but I swear:

Rain has never complimented someone so perfectly.

Watching the drops trace paths down her green-streaked skin, pooling in the edges of her lips, the damp strands of hair clinging to her cheeks, and those golden eyes drinking in the indigo glow of the lights above, the air in my lungs freezes.

And I realize that maybe Peyton is breathtaking, even in spite of her arrogance.

"I’ve never been,” she continues, rocking back and forth on her heels.

I straighten up, prying myself from my drunken Peyton-induced daze, feeling my brows wrinkle. "Wait, you've lived in Seattle since freshman year, and you've never been on the Ferris wheel?"

Her head shakes, lips pressing in a disappointed pout.

I throw my hands up dramatically. "That's, like, freshman 101.

You know, visit campus, check out all the local sights.

I—" I cut myself off, the words dangerously close to spilling about Minnesota.

I swallow them back, praying the alcohol hasn't loosened my tongue too much.

It tends to have that effect on me. "I mean, every transplant has to go see the Ferris wheel. Pike Place, the Space Needle…"

Peyton just shrugs, hugging herself tighter. "I've been busy, I guess."

Her fingers fidget in her sleeves, eyes falling to the cement. And suddenly, my tongue loosens just a little too much. “Busy with what?” I ask, stepping into the rain. “Practicing till your knees give out?”

It’s meant to be a jab—light, playful. Our usual back-and-forth. But instead of firing back like I expect, instead of giving me one of her usual sarcastic comebacks, Peyton just... shrinks.

I don’t know why it surprises me. She’s smaller than me, I guess, but I’ve never really noticed it before. Not until I put on her hoodie, but even then, she always seemed bigger than me. Like she took up the space around her whether she was supposed to or not.

But now, with her eyes averted and her shoulders recoiled, she suddenly seems so small.

And I hate myself for it, because I know exactly what it feels like. The pull to disappear, to fade into the background so nobody notices when I’m not okay. The way my body has taken up less and less room since everything started, and how I’ve tried to make myself as invisible as possible.

But Peyton, she doesn’t seem like she should be the same. She’s always been the one who stands tall. Too tall, for someone of her stature. She doesn’t hide.

Or so I thought.

My lips part, likely a sad attempt at a tipsy apology, but before I can, Peyton cuts in.

“Does it matter?” Her voice is steady, not soft, but not harsh either. She just asks the question. And suddenly, I’m caught in this tangled mess of irony, each thread twisting and tugging, threatening to snap.

The fact that I spent my entire life training cautiously, just to lose it all to an illness.

That I stood by every single person on my team when they needed it, but when it was my turn, nobody showed up.

That I dreamed of escaping the constant Seattle rain, only to end up out here, walking through it with a woman I can barely stand on a Thursday night.

A hollow laugh slips out before I can stop it. I shake my head.

“Nothing matters,” I answer. It’s the kind of thing I would’ve said back in middle school, the angsty, melodramatic version of myself. But it does feel true. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed—it’s all gone now. So why did it matter?

And if Peyton wants to push herself until her career burns out early? That doesn’t matter either.

Peyton stands beside me, squinting into the rain as it picks up. We should turn around, head back to the party, so she doesn’t catch a cold. But she doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s focused, set on whatever thought is running through her mind, and for a second, I wonder if she even heard me.

Finally, she glances up, her arm looping through mine. Without a word, she tugs me across the street.

I let her.

Our boots splash through the pooling puddles, raindrops pummeling our skin, but somehow, Peyton’s arm still feels warm against mine. It singes the fabric, igniting my nerves and stinging my skin against the contrast of the frigid air.

The ground tilts beneath my feet and I struggle to find my balance, the world around me swaying as my rigid, uncoordinated legs fight to keep up.

We hop back onto the sidewalk, bodies moving fast, my heart even faster.

I try to slow the palpitations, but then her arm tightens against mine, pulling me closer.

My heels dig into the ground. It takes a sharp pull for Peyton to notice I’m not moving anymore. She stumbles, caught off guard, and falls back into me. Confusion pools in her eyes as she catches herself, turning to face me.

“Where are we going?” I shout over the rain.

Peyton uses the sleeve of her shirt to wipe droplets from her face, the green paint trailing down her neck, nearly gone now. Above us, a neon sign flickers, a glowing cherry red bleeding into her dark lashes as she blinks.

It makes her look dreamlike. Sultry and velvety. I can't help but wonder what she might look like under every hue of light.

“You’re in the depressing stage of drunkness,” she explains, and a small smile edges at her lips. “Which means it’s time for food.”