Page 22 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Twelve

Peyton

DADDIO

Hey Peanut! How are you feeling?

M y hip collides with the wooden door, slamming my dry stall shut as I stare at the screen. Across the visitor’s locker room, Bailey is braiding Indie’s hair, while Harlowe jogs around, shaking people’s shoulders and riling everybody up.

“You ready to kick some Glacier ass?” she calls, jumping side to side, throwing fake punches.

Caydence rolls her eyes, turning back to the mirror to finish tying back a straight brown ponytail so tight one movement could make the strands snap.

That’s probably why she’s always in a mood. Tension headaches.

“I think the real question is, are you going to let Clay Matthews get past you like they did last year?”

Harlowe’s smile immediately drops, and she stops jumping. “That’s a low blow, Cay.”

Caydence shrugs. “Just a question.”

My phone dings again, and I glance down at the screen.

DADDIO

Remember to stay calm. Trust yourself. You will be amazing.

I take a deep breath, my fingers tracing the edge of my phone, like the cool feel of the metal will soothe me. It doesn’t. That same, panicked tingle still creeps up my spine.

Another ping.

DADDIO

You’re not just wearing a jersey, Peyton. You’ve got the Clarke name on your back. Show them what that means.

The words slip under my skin like an infection. Illusive. Insidious. They’re meant to be a cure, an encouragement to abandon the doubt that pools in my stomach. Instead, the waterline begins to rise. It tickles the bottom of my lungs, wearing down the layers of cells until a hole begins to form.

And then, they flood.

The first time this happened, I was seven.

Like today, it was the first game of the season, and I was ecstatic.

Not because I wanted to win or because my dad had just taught me a new move that I was dying to show off.

No, I was over the moon because it was fun .

Playing with my friends, taking shots, watching Harlowe block the other team.

There wasn’t a single thing that I loved more than being on the ice with my friends.

But as we warmed up, I realized, for the first time, how many eyes were on me. In the beginning, it was exhilarating. I was a kid, so I was flattered that all these people cared to watch me. Until I heard what they were saying.

“You know that’s Harrison Clarke’s kid?” one of them asked. Another looked surprised.

“Really?”

“You think she’ll be as good as him?”

They shrugged. “It won’t make a difference. She’s already got the name. Doesn’t need the talent.”

I wasn’t stupid. I knew my dad was a legend in the hockey world.

While other kids watched Blues Clues or Mickey Mouse , I was glued to reruns of Boston Boas games.

Watching my dad on the ice, weaving through players, making impossible shots, it was surreal.

Before that day, I thought he was nothing short of incredible.

After? All I could think about was how, even if I ever reached his level, all anyone would ever see in me was him.

The realization anchored in my bones, and for the first time in my very short life, they began to feel brittle, as if a single step could crack them in half.

The rink around me blurred, while my heart thrummed so violently I couldn’t hear anything else.

And then, the pressure began. It started the same as it does now—low in my stomach, until it spilled over into my lungs, filling them with water, drowning me in the cold, hard truth.

No matter what I do, I will always be "Harrison Clarke’s daughter.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t love my dad. I did. I do . But until that moment, I’d believed I could carve my own path. I didn’t understand that the whistle had blown before I even had the chance to step on the ice.

Tears welled in my eyes, and as the air in my lungs grew heavier, my breaths turned staggered. My coach noticed when my body began to tremble, yanking me out of the rink. I didn’t get to play that day.

And now? That same suffocating weight is swelling again.

But I don’t have the luxury of youth to crumble under it anymore. I don’t have the option to just sit this one out. If I’m going to drown, I’ll do it with the blade of my skates carving my name into the rink beneath me.

“You okay?”

My heart stops, gaze snapping up. First, I see a pale freckled chin. I have to tilt my head back slightly to fully catch Darcy’s ivy eyes.

It takes me a second to register she’s speaking to me, and an even longer moment to realize that she’s being friendly.

Or, it appears she’s trying. After she blew up the Puget Diner bathroom on Thursday and I called her an Uber, I figured that was the last I’d hear from her drunken bittersweet alter ego.

She’d go back to being the unapproachable, annoying thorn in my side, and I’d keep getting defensive over whatever advice she had for me.

But instead, she’s standing here, looking at me with that same gleam in her eye. A subtle tug etches into the corners of her lips, and all I can manage is a nod. She presses on.

“Who ya talking to? Boyfriend?”

I slide my phone into my bra, hoping my dad’s words don't absorb into my chest, don't spread through my bloodstream and taint the way I play. He means well, I know that. But every time I’m reminded of the name on my back, my jersey feels tighter.

Darcy’s brow cocks as her gaze drops to my chest. And for a split second, I’m terrified she’ll see right through me. Like her eyes could peel back my skin and reveal the wild thud of my heart, the flood of my lungs, the nerves twisting inside me, forming little knots along their fibers.

But then her eyes meet mine again, and I remind myself that one drunken conversation doesn’t mean she knows me. Coach probably sent her over here anyway. Just a way of smoothing things over, to get some of the weight off my shoulders before the game.

I decide to test this theory. See if she’s really going to keep up this new act or if she’ll drop it just as quickly as she dropped the game. I lean in ever so slightly, forcing the anxiety down and tacking on a sly smile. “Jealous?” I ask.

Unsurprisingly, Darcy immediately closes the space between us, rolling her eyes. “In your dreams, Clarke. I’m just making conversation.”

Phew. Same old Darcy.

I tilt my head, narrowing my gaze just enough to make her shift uncomfortably.

It’s a bit of a power move, sure, but it’s also satisfying, seeing her wriggle under my stare.

If my dad taught me anything, it’s that when someone pushes you, you push them right back.

“Every night.” I wink. “How’s your stomach, by the way? ”

“Fine .” She huffs, looking around the room, then back to me. “How’s the team?”

“Good,” I answer without a thought. But then I glance around, studying them all for a moment.

I swallow, lowering my voice. “Well, mostly. It doesn’t look like it, but Indie’s lowkey freaking out, and I’m a little nervous about Faith’s focus.

She’s been going through a breakup, and is not handling it well. ”

Darcy’s head tilts curiously. “How do you know that?”

I shrug. “It’s my job to know. They’re my people.” My gaze snaps to hers, and for a moment, everything else fades. The locker room, my dad’s texts, the pulse in my ears. A soft smile tugs at her lips as I continue, “Nothing means more to me than them.”

Darcy opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, a sharp clap echoes through the locker room, making her jump back like she’s been shocked by a live wire.

It’s almost comical how far she pulls away, as if being seen within a five-foot radius of me could ruin her entire life.

Coach Cole stands in the doorway, steadily scanning the room.

“Alright, team! Let’s get out there and kick some ass!

” her voice booms. The team erupts into excited murmurs, moving toward the door.

I open my stall, shoving my phone inside and start jogging in place, trying to shake off the nerves.

The movement is less about warming up and more about trying to stir up some adrenaline, like if I move fast enough, the butterflies in my stomach will hit their heads and black out.

But just as I start toward the door, something catches my sleeve. I take another step, but still, there’s resistance. I glance over my shoulder.

Darcy’s fingers are wrapped around the fabric of my jersey, pulling me just enough to halt my movement. I frown, spinning to face her.

“Can I… help you?” I ask hesitantly. Those freckled lips part, snap shut, then part again, chasing a verbal breakaway. I cock a brow, waiting, until finally—

“I just—” She clears her throat, straightening her posture.

“I just wanted to tell you that you’ve got this,” she says, finally letting go of me.

“You’re one of the best centers in the conference, this division , even, and I can tell how much this team means to you, and—well I just wanted to say that… ” She pauses, taking a deep breath.

What?

I study her, trying to sort through the mess of her sentence.

I can’t tell if she’s being sincere or if this is just another passive-aggressive jab wrapped in a pretty, red-headed bow.

I look at the door. Coach Cole stands there, arms folded, eyes glued to us.

When I catch her gaze, she doesn’t even blink.

She just stares at me like she’s waiting for something.

Right. Sent by her mother.

I turn back to Darcy, the corners of my mouth twitching as I prop a hand on my hip. “This is really hard for you, huh?”

She pauses. “Yeah.” After a beat, those emerald eyes widen. “Not because I don’t believe it—”

“I know, I know,” I cut her off, grabbing my helmet from the bench. I toss a smile over my shoulder as I move toward the door. “Thanks, Coach.”

My stomach flutters when she smiles back. “Go get ‘em, Cap.”