Page 21 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Eleven

Darcy

T he Puget Diner is a hole-in-the-wall, mom and pop, delightfully disgusting establishment.

The booths are practically begging for retirement, with threadbare upholstery that’s seen better days.

And by “better days,” I mean whatever day in ancient history the fabric didn’t have holes big enough to give you a clear view of the yellowed foam cushions beneath.

Despite it being completely empty when we walked in, not a single table is free of crumbs.

There’s a thick layer of grime on the floor, and you could hear the bottom of our shoes sticking to the tiles with every step we took before collapsing into the booth.

It’s no wonder I haven’t heard of it until now.

My mom’s pretty big on health code violations.

I squint at the laminated menu, a thick layer of dried, unidentifiable residue sticking to it. “What the hell is a—” I pause, trying to decipher the letters through the grime. “A Grilled Cheesus?”

Across the table, Peyton’s eyes light up as a smile breaks across her face.

“Oh! That’s one of Bailey’s creations.” She reaches behind her head and pulls off her mask, revealing a little indentation on the bridge of her nose where it’s been pressed for too long.

For some bizarre reason, I feel this overwhelming urge to smooth it out with my finger.

I ignore it. “It’s a grilled cheese with six different types of cheese, paprika, breakfast sausage, green onions, garlic butter, and crushed X-tra Cheddar Goldfish,” she says, counting off her fingers. “Oh, and it’s dipped in gravy.”

My stomach grumbles at the mention of food, followed by an involuntary protest to the sickening combination.

“That sounds disgusting,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

But the low gurgle from my gut betrays me, a sobering reminder that I’m starving, and have just enough alcohol left in my body to convince me that grease is a current necessity. “I’ll have it.”

Peyton grins. She strides up to the counter to place our order, returning shortly after with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, each crowned with a mountain of whipped cream spilling over the sides. I can’t help but raise an eyebrow as she slides one of them over to me.

“I know, I know. Athletes and their diets,” she says, blowing gently on the rim before taking a sip, leaving behind a fluffy whipped cream mustache.

I take my mug, slightly skeptical about the cleanliness of it, but I’m not one to pass up chocolate. “Actually,” I start, taking a cautious sip, only to scorch the tip of my tongue. “I was going to say that hot cocoa should always be fifty-percent whipped cream.”

Peyton’s grin widens as her brows shoot up in approval. “Exactly!” she exclaims, slapping the table with a little too much enthusiasm. From the counter, an older man glares at us. “Sorry, Gerald!” Peyton calls with a half-hearted wave. He just grunts and buries himself deeper in his newspaper.

“Wait, you said Bailey invented the—what was it called again? Cheesus Christ?”

“The Grilled Cheesus,” she corrects, giving her cocoa another casual blow. “And technically it was a group effort, but yes. Bailey’s the grill cook here on weekends.”

I blink. “Huh. Didn’t know that.”

Peyton shrugs. “Didn’t expect you to,” she says nonchalantly, her eyes catching mine. She doesn’t mean anything by it, I know that. If she wanted to poke at me, she’d just do it.

But still, it stings a little.

Why would anyone expect me to know anything about them?

I’m not exactly winning any team bonding awards.

I’ve never really made the effort to get to know anyone off the ice.

Not anyone here, at least. But as much as I complain about this job, there’s a part of me that wants to be good at it.

And knowing the little details—the stuff that makes them them —matters more than I care to admit.

I shift in my seat, the worn booth groaning beneath me, a sharp spring digging unceremoniously into my hip.

The silence between us stretches, the soft buzz of the overhead lights, and the occasional page flip of Gerald’s newspaper the only sounds.

We sip our cocoa, the warmth spreading down my esophagus, expanding through my chest, but even that can’t chase away the uneasiness settled in my stomach.

Finally, the plates arrive.

Gerald sets them down with a grunt, and I stare at the monstrosity of the so-called Grilled Cheesus in front of me, its greasy steam rising to my nostrils. The other dish—a weird amalgamation of breakfast and appetizers—sits in front of Peyton, a heart attack on a plate.

“Thanks Gerald.” Peyton smiles. Gerald cocks a bushy gray brow at her.

“How’s Bailey feelin’?” he asks. Peyton pulls some napkins out of the dispenser beside her as she answers.

“Oh, she’s good. Having fun at the party that’s for sure!”

A frown conquers Gerald’s already-less-than-friendly expression. “Party?” he asks gruffly, folding his arms. “She told me she was sick. Jasmine called out, I was hoping she’d cover.”

A red hue washes over Peyton’s cheeks, her honeycomb eyes widening.

Then she clicks her tongue once against the roof of her mouth.

“Oh! Oh.” She chuckles nervously, and I tip my head into my hands.

“She is. Super sick actually. You know—” She feigns a gag, and Gerald and I exchange a glance at her theatrics. “Practically on her deathbed.”

Gerald isn’t amused. “You just said she was at a party.”

“She is! It’s a uh—like a Get Well party. You know, tea, naps, Nyquil. All the rage these days.”

“Mhm,” Gerald mumbles before strolling away. Peyton lets out a relieved breath, her body relaxing.

“Do you think he bought it?” she whispers, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s serious.

I blink. “The Nyquil party?”

She nods.

“No.”

Her expression drops, and a heavy sigh tumbles out of her as she picks up her fork. It clinks against the plate, and I finally muster a meager “Thanks” before adding a slightly stronger “For walking with me.”

Peyton glances up from her plate, a lazy smirk tugging at her lips as she shovels a forkful of the grotesque food into her mouth. “Anything for Disney sensation, teenage spy Kim Possible,” she mocks.

I flip her off.

My gaze falls to the sandwich in front of me, and I hate to admit it, but it looks good.

Really good. I pick it up, slowly dipping the corner of the garlic-buttered toast in the cup of country gravy, letting the thick sauce absorb into the bread.

Then, I pause, staring at the mess. Peyton’s watching me with an amused look.

“It’s not going to kill you.” She rolls her eyes.

“It might,” I gesture to the diner.

Her gaze drops to my hands, a valley forming between her brows as she studies me. “Aren’t you going to take off your gloves?” she asks, that little indent on her button nose deepening.

I look down at the black pleather, the grease already seeping through my fingertips. I shake my head. “Nope.”

Her frown deepens, and she points a finger toward the stains already starting to settle into the gloves. “But you’re getting them all greasy.”

“I leave them on while I eat,” I lie. Obviously, that’s completely unhygienic.

I never, ever eat with my gloves on. But it’s better than watching her reaction when she sees my bent, swollen, discolored fingers.

It’s easier than explaining why they look the way they do.

My stomach twists, my throat constricting, and I grip the sandwich tighter, the toasted edges crunching beneath my fingers. “It’s a texture thing.”

She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes just dart silently between my hands and my face skeptically. But after a moment, she just turns back to her food, letting it go.

I take the first bite of the sandwich.

Dammit. It’s delicious.

The cheese is rich, the sausage tender, and maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but this gravy is so creamy I could chug it. My stomach growls in approval, and for a moment, all my self-control slips away. I let out a strange sound, tilting my head back as I take another bite.

Then another.

Then another.

Peyton just watches, completely entertained, and honestly, I don’t even care. She can stare all she wants.

While I demolish my food, Peyton finally begins digging into hers. Turns out, when she’s not talking, she’s almost tolerable. But the longer I sit here the more confused I become. Each passing minute clarifies the last remnants of the alcohol's haze, and with that, the doubts begin to claw at me.

Why am I sitting here, alone with Peyton Clarke?

Why is she sitting here with me?

I swallow a hefty bite, glancing up to find her still staring.

“Why did you come with me?” I ask.

Peyton pauses mid-bite, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She studies me, her fork resting halfway to her mouth. Then, with a half-smile, she shrugs. “I’ll answer your question,” she says, her voice teetering on the edge of teasing. “If you’ll answer one of mine.”

There are a thousand questions Peyton could ask, and none of them are ones I’d want to answer. My stomach gurgles. “Depends on what you want to know.”

Her eyes fall to my gloves, and I immediately regret entertaining the idea. There is no way in hell I am telling Peyton, of all people, about my diagnosis. The woman already thinks I’m some uneducated coach’s daughter. The last thing I need is for her to think I’m weak on top of it.

I take a breath, preparing myself to shut the conversation down, but just as I’m ready to revoke the offer entirely, Peyton finally speaks.

“Why do you still have that broken puck?”

Everything in my body freezes, and it feels like there’s a rock in my throat.

I should be relieved, right? I mean, at least she didn’t ask about my “younger” hockey career, or my gloves, or why on Earth I’m a student coach.

But somehow, this feels worse. Mainly because I’m not really sure I have a proper answer.

It’s just a puck. A broken piece of rubber that’s not even usable anymore.

But then again, maybe that’s exactly why I slipped it into my pocket.

Why I’ve been carrying it around. It’s something that once had purpose.

The game couldn’t play without it. And now it’s just discarded. Replaced with a new one.

But it’s not just a puck. It’s proof of Peyton’s endless hours. It’s time, and effort, and passion, and pain. It deserves to be recognized for what it was, not just for what it’s lost.

Obviously, I can’t say that out loud. Peyton would think I’m insane, and not that I care about her opinion, but it would be a lot easier to get her to respect mine if she believes I’m sound of mind. So I lie.

“I collect junk.” I shrug. “Make collages with them in my free time.”

Peyton arches a sculpted brow, an intrigued smile tugging at her lips. “Oh! You’re one of those people,” she says, and I get offended even though I’m not.

“What do you mean ‘one of those people’ ?”

She waves her hands, rectifying. “No, no. Not like that, just, y’know . One of those people who upcycle trash. It’s awesome, actually. Bailey went through a phase like that, but we had to cut her off when she started bringing in soggy cardboard from the dumpster.”

I force a shallow laugh, a pit sinking in my stomach. I don’t know why I feel guilty for lying. It’s not like Peyton cares any more about my life than I do hers. Still, from a coaching perspective, it was a mistake. Trust is crucial in my job, and clearly, we don’t have it.

“Got it,” I say, nodding. Peyton brushes her hands together, shaking off crumbs, then keeps talking through a mouthful of food.

“I walked with you,” she starts, eyes fixed on me.

Sometimes, when she looks at me, it makes me uneasy.

Not for any particular reason, other than the fact that I don’t like being stared at.

Most people make eye contact for a few seconds, then look away.

Peyton stares until I forget how long it’s been since I blinked.

The view’s nice, I’ll give her that. There’s something about the dark, almost bronze flecks swirling around her irises like autumn leaves drifting in the wind. Still that doesn’t make it any less intimidating.

No. She doesn’t intimidate me. She just… distracts me. Bothers me, even.

“I walked with you because even though we don’t get along—”

“You don’t like me,” I interrupt, quoting her from earlier. The corners of her lips curl, and she shoots me a defensive look.

“That’s not—”

“Your words.” I shrug.

She rolls her eyes and ignores me. “You’re a pretty woman who is tipsy, this is Seattle, and I have basic morals.”

I almost laugh, but it catches in my throat. At the end of the day, hockey players will be hockey players. I cock a brow, ripping a page from Peyton’s book, and reading it right back at her. “Pretty?”

If she’s flushing the way I’m pretending not to, she’s hiding it well. She leans forward, breath grazing my lips as a smug smirk tugs at hers.

“It’s a fact, not a compliment. Don’t let it get to your head. ”

A flutter stirs in my stomach, that pulse striking between my thighs.

At first, it’s almost pleasant, something warm spreading through me, and I wonder if it’s from the heat of her breath, or how dangerously close this feels to flirting.

But we don’t flirt. And this isn’t real.

And suddenly, that flutter shifts, transforming into something more unnerving.

Bubbling. The warmth evaporates, replaced by a sharp pain piercing my abdomen.

No. It’s not her words or her breath. It’s not her at all. My face goes cold, blood draining from my cheeks.

Peyton notices before I can mask it, brow creasing with concern. “Are you okay?” she asks.

I nod vigorously, slipping out of the booth with haste. “Yup!” I manage through a wince, clutching my stomach. “I just remembered I’m lactose intolerant.”