Page 23 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Thirteen

Peyton

W hoever the DJ is at Glacier University really needs to rethink their career. Instead of getting pumped up to kick off the season, Hozier has me deeply considering disappearing into the wilderness and living off fish and acorns. Honestly, fish and acorns don’t sound half bad right now.

But rather than escaping through the trees, my skates slice over the ice as I warm up beside my team.

“Who’s that?” Indie asks. I follow her hazel stare across the rink, landing on Clay Matthews, the starting center for the Glacier Giants.

They glide around, shoulders square, short silver hair catching the light.

They’re on the smaller side, smaller than me, even, but they move so solidly you’d never really notice.

Something curdles in my stomach, too hot, too cold, all at once when I catch their eye.

“That’s Clay Matthews,” I answer, stretching.

“You’ve never heard of them?” Bailey questions. Indie looks at me anxiously, then back to Bailey, shaking her head.

“They’re a sophomore. Last season, they got hat-tricks in three games, and made All-Conference,” Bailey explains. “Right next to Pey, of course.”

I turn my attention back to Clay, studying them carefully. There’s a predatory gleam in their eyes—hot, fiery. It rattles me, sure, but it also stirs something under my skin.

The only way to prove you belong somewhere is to fight for the space you take up. And I plan to take up every inch of it.

Indie, though, she’s not so sure. I catch the audible gulp, the hitch in her chest. The sweat pooling at her temples catches the light, and I can almost feel the electric thrum of her nerves buzzing beneath her skin.

For a second, I start to feed off that rush, slipping back into the panic.

I wonder if she’d believe me if I told her we were in the same boat.

If I told her I was the one driving it. But she doesn’t need to know that I share her insecurities. She needs to know she can count on me.

So I shake it off, take a calming breath, and push it down like I’ve done too many times to count.

“Hey, Rose,” I say casually, like we’re striking up a conversation at a coffee shop.

“Hey, Cap,” she sighs. She’s trying to be peppy, but she’s not quite making it.

“Look at me.” Her eyes flick up tentatively. When they meet mine, I let a small, easy smile conquer my face. “You got family here?”

Her gaze drops, chin dipping low. She shakes her head quickly.

“Good. Me neither. Means we don’t have to worry about anyone watching us, huh?” My voice stays light, trying to float above the doubt weighing her down.

She gestures toward the overstuffed stadium. “Seems like a lot of people are watching,” she says softly.

“What do you think they see?”

She chews on the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit I know all too well. “A rookie.”

I smile, a little more than I mean to. “Exactly.”

Uncertainty pools in her eyes, taking root, preparing to infest her whole body. I continue before she has the chance to let it.

“But that’s good,” I add quickly. “That’s exactly what we want them to think. Let them underestimate you. When they least expect it, that’s when you unleash hell. Got it?”

She nods sharply, her posture loosening a bit. Her smile is still nervous, but it’s there, and I’ll take it.

“Got it.”

When the whistle blows, I slip into position for the faceoff. The puck drops between Clay and I, and everything suddenly feels heavier: the stick in my hands, the skates on my feet, the weight of my dad's eyes through the television screen. I can almost hear him in my head, repeating those words.

You’ve got the Clarke name on your back.

Clay’s fast. Faster than I remembered. For a second, their stick catches the puck, and my stomach drops.

But before they can get away, I lunge, a loud crack echoing through the air as my stick collides with theirs.

The second my blade touches the puck, I swipe it, pushing off, every muscle driving me toward the goal.

I weave through a sea of sleek black jerseys: a flash of green to my left, Lena, and to my right, Indie.

Lena’s eyes catch mine, a silent signal for me to pass, but when I look ahead at the goal, the top right corner is free, just as I had practiced.

As I close in, the noise of the crowd swells, and all I can think about is the journalists in the stands, waiting to see which headline they’ll run:

Harrison Clarke’s Legacy Lives On

or

Even NHL Blood Can’t Touch Men’s Stats

Either way, I’ll never be enough. My successes will always be owed to my dad, and my failures will always serve as proof that not even nepotism can make women’s sports worth watching.

Still, I know he’s there—hands clasped behind his head, eyes glued to the flatscreen. Waiting for me to prove them wrong.

I have to do this. I have to score. For him .

I slip past one defender, then another. As I wind up to shoot, everything slows. My labored breath clouds in the cold air, synchronizing with the violent thud of my heart. Behind me, bodies, but it’s like they’re paralyzed. Frozen in time. Or maybe I am.

With a quick shift of my shoulders, the lift of my left foot, the puck connects with my blade.

A buzzing tremor climbs the shaft, slipping through the thick gloves, flooding my hands with a numb, electrifying tingle.

The puck arcs in the air, the Giants’ goalie lunging a millisecond too late.

The net ripples as the rubber disc sinks in, and the blast of the whistle breaks the haze, everything stirring back to life.

The roar of the crowd, the glowing orange 1 on our side of the scoreboard, Lena slapping the back of my helmet as my teammates swarm me, passing me around like a trophy. It should feel like a victory.

But as I skate toward the bench, catching my breath, the truth settles back in. The outcome’s still the same. I’ll never have my own name.

Coach fist-bumps me as I hurl myself over the boards, but I don’t get a chance to acknowledge Darcy—or the slight downturn of her lips—before Bailey climbs in behind me and yanks me onto the bench.

“Nice shot, Pey!” She grins, her porcelain cheeks burning red.

I pant, adjusting my cage. “Thanks, Hammie.”

I glance back at Darcy. She’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the game.

My gaze shifts between the play unfolding and the intensity in her expression, the two in perfect sync, like she’s the one controlling it.

Cause and effect, conductor and symphony, stick and puck.

But disapproval still clings to her lips.

I know what she’s thinking. That I should’ve passed to Lena.

And she’s right.

I should have.

But sometimes, I find myself chasing the proof. Putting myself above the people who count on me, because I need to be the one to silence the doubt. The funny part is, it never works. Every time I choose to put my image first, that voice inside me gets louder.

I’m a selfish captain. I don’t know why they gave me this role.

When Caydence scores and the glowing 1 flips to 2, I jump back on the ice, those words replaying in my head.

I’m a selfish captain.

I’m a selfish captain.

I’m a selfish captain.

As I glide up to the faceoff circle, Clay’s eyes catch mine.

And this time, I’m not rattled. I’m frozen.

The whistle blows, and before I can react, they swipe the puck and dart to the side, slipping past me like I’m stagnant.

I snap out of it quickly, desperate to steal it back, but I’m not fast enough.

Clay moves like me, like they’ve been doing this their whole life, like nothing in the world matters more.

They weave through the mess of skates and sticks, slipping in and out of players with precision, sending Indie, intentionally or not, tumbling to the ice.

I try to close the gap, but each time I push, they’re already one step ahead.

As Clay flies toward the net, Bailey and Lena rush in, but it’s already too late.

Clay winds up for a shot just as I’m closing the gap, their stick coming down with a calculated swing.

Harlowe drops low to block it, her body crashing to the ice, and all I can do is stare as the net gives way, the puck sinking into it with a thwack.

The whistle sounds, a familiar shrill pitch that rattles my skull. My stomach drops, but I don’t get to dwell in the feeling.

Instead, I’m interrupted by a loud clang echoing through the rink, my attention darting to Harlowe.

Her cheeks are flushed, eyes burning furiously as she slams her stick against the goal.

The ref, Carlos, blows his whistle, shooting her a warning.

She bites back a curse, forcing out a quick, reluctant apology.

Our eyes lock, and I see it building, all her fury simmering beneath the surface.

Harlowe has a way of collecting her anger, like a river that slowly fills with rain.

Unless she’s woken up early, she’s pretty good at containing it.

But when she steps on the ice, when she misses a save, when the game slips through her fingers?

The floodgates open. All that pent-up frustration surges out, and in those moments, it’s up to me to stop the rush before it drowns her.

Clay shouts something at her—I miss what—but they’re gone before I reach her. My hands land on her shoulders, steadying, and the front of my helmet gently taps hers.

“You good?” I ask, still gasping for air.

“Fuckin' Caydence got in my head,” she mutters frustratedly.

I give her helmet a firm pat, stepping back to give her space. “Matthews had to get past all of us before they got to you. Fuck Caydence. She could never do what you do.”

Harlowe exhales slowly, rolling her neck to shake off the tension. She meets my gaze and nods, her shoulders relaxing a little. “Thanks, Pey.”

The first period is a blur after that, shifts on and off the ice, the Giants capitalizing on a power play after Caydence’s tripping call, Lena responding with her own goal right after.