Page 24 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Mid-way through the second the score’s 2-3.

I take my place at the faceoff circle, and this time I don’t hesitate.

My skates dig in, eyes locked on the loose puck.

Clay catches my gaze just as they wrestle it from my grasp, lips pulled into an arrogant grin.

They’re pushing me, making me work for it, making me prove myself.

And I’m going to make them regret it.

I drive forward, closing in as Indie and Lena flank beside me. Clay’s eyes stay locked on the rink ahead, but I know we’re both thinking the same thing: One slip, one inch, a fraction of a second too slow or too fast, and the puck is mine.

Then I see it; Clay stumbles, just slightly. I pounce, scooping the puck and flying toward center ice. But the Giants are closing in fast.

I glance at Indie, who’s wide-eyed, shaking her head. Lena’s boxed in, no passing lane there either.

It’s now or never.

My eyes lock on the right corner of the net, tracking the angle. I swing just as Clay does. The puck cuts wide, slamming into the boards with a heavy thud.

There’s not a second to drop my head before the whistle cuts through the rink, the ref signaling icing.

My body moves on instinct, but my gaze drifts to the stands.

Darcy’s eyes are fixed on me, and for a split second, the rest of the world fades away.

It’s like we’re two spotlights in the dark.

I forget about my dad, Coach Cole, Clay, the ref, the crowd.

I just see her.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t need her approval. But the way she looked at me in the locker room, how she said she believed in me like she meant it? For once, I don’t want to prove Darcy wrong. I want to prove her right.

Swallowing the ache in my throat, I skate toward the faceoff circle near our goal. I screwed up. Clay got that first goal because of me, and now they’re about to drop the puck inches from our net for the same reason.

I don’t deserve to be here.

I get into position, the puck drops, but before I can even lunge for it, a jarring honk echoes in the arena, signaling the end of the second period. Frustration burns in my chest as I coast toward the bench, then down the tunnel, skates clacking on the rubber mat.

Ahead of me, the team strides excitedly toward the locker room, their voices echoing in the tunnel while they ride the high of the lead. But behind me, Harlowe and Indie shuffle in quiet self-reflection.

I don’t want to talk. I want to be pissed. I want to wallow— boil —in my own anger at myself. I want to replay that miss over and over again until I figure out exactly what my dad would have done instead. But I know they need me. So I slow my pace until I’m beside them.

“How you feelin’ Yersie?” I ask, heat swarming my sweat-slicked skin as we stray further from the ice. Harlowe grunts, tugging off her helmet, which is as much of a response as I’m going to get.

I look to Indie. She’s adjusting the pads under her jersey, gaze drifting some place far away. I nudge her with my elbow.

“You okay, Rose?”

She lets out a sigh and gives a small, tight nod. Just like earlier, it fails to convince us both.

“You’re doing everything you can out there, okay?” I say. “That last play was all on me. Not you.”

She shakes her head faintly. “I should’ve been there for you to pass to.”

I reach over and press a hand to her shoulder. “You tried.”

It’s the simplest statement. And it’s the truth.

Sometimes, all you can do is try. I don’t know why I feel like I’m exempt from it.

Like because of where I come from— who I come from—I’m not awarded the same grace.

I know I’m privileged. Lucky. But sometimes I wonder if things would be easier if I wasn’t.

Everyone else gets to fail and learn. But when I fail, I just prove the media right.

And let my father down.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking until I glance back up and see Indie and Harlowe disappear into the locker room.

I take one breath, then another, trying to summon the version of myself I know Coach wants to see.

The version who’s proud, who believes her own words.

The version I’m unsure exists. As my left foot inches forward, my skates like cinder blocks bound to my feet, a sea of red pools in my periphery.

Darcy must have been behind us this whole time, and now, she’s standing right beside me. She doesn’t speak. She just stands there. And before I can stop myself, the words tumble out.

“If you’re going to berate me and tell me I shouldn’t have taken that shot, I’m already aware,” I mutter.

Those emerald eyes trace me from blade to brow.

And for some absurd reason, all I can focus on is how the stance between us has shifted.

Most people wouldn’t notice. Especially not when spiraling about their career failures.

But from this angle, the extra boost of my skates, our mouths nearly align.

“Actually, I was going to tell you good job,” she replies.

My gaze from her lips to her eyes, and I frown. “What, no pointers? No tips all of a sudden?”

She tosses her sleek, red hair over one shoulder and shrugs. “I think you did what you could in the moment. And when you get back out there, you’re going to put them in their place.”

An ache throbs in the base of my throat, dry and hard, and I squirt a stream of water into my mouth in a futile attempt to cure it. “You know, you don’t have to be nice to me just because we’re at a game. It’s not like your mom is watching or anything.”

The corners of her lips turn up. “Who said I was being nice?”

Is it weird that this is making me feel better? Her biting remarks? Her annoying advice? I trace the chewed dent on the inside of my cheek with my tongue, smoothing out the beginnings of a simper.

She continues, “But I do have one pointer. If you want to hear it, that is.”

If you asked me a few days ago if I wanted to hear anything Darcy had to say, I wouldn’t even have wasted my time with a response.

But now, as she asks, my gaze flicks to my stick, studying the now-worn tape hugging the blade.

I wanted to be mad that she touched my stuff.

That she touched my lucky stick, of all things.

But it was so surprisingly perfect that I couldn’t.

And the thought that Darcy might know more than I originally believed—that she’s the only one in my entire career who’s cared enough to challenge me, to go head-to-head instead of assuming I’d get by on my own—makes the satisfaction of ignoring her advice start to fade.

My brow twitches, a bead of sweat tickling my skin. “What is it?” I ask.

She leans in, that deep cherry scent sanctifying me, voice dropping low.

“You’re telegraphing your moves. Like Clay does.”

I blink. “Telegraphing?”

She nods, tucking her clipboard against her chest and straightening up. “Yeah. You tend to look at where you’re passing before you make the move. Your head dips a little while you try to decide. It’s a small thing, but it’s enough to give away what you’re about to do. Clay does the same thing.”

I stare at her, lips dropping open in surprise. “And you noticed that?”

She shrugs. “I’ve been noticing it.” A bright, kinetic gleam pools in her eyes. “You’re better than that. Pay attention, to you and to Clay.”

A wave of something I can’t quite name—relief, admiration maybe—washes over me, and I look at her intently, nodding.

“Alright.”

Darcy’s brows lift in surprise. “Alright?” she questions.

I nod once more. “Alright.”

I hate to admit it, but Darcy’s right.

I can’t unsee it now—the slight dip of Clay’s head before they pass, before they shoot. I’m not sure how I missed it before, but now that I know, swiping the puck from them is like taking candy from a baby.

And I’m not the only one back in my groove. After our regroup, and my surprisingly sincere speech in the locker room, everyone’s firing on all cylinders.

Especially Indie.

She’s got the puck now, and she’s a blur, pushing forward with strong strides.

Something tells me that if anxiety wasn’t eating away at her, she’d be faster than Clay and I combined.

I can tell she’s nervous, feeling the Giants on her trail, but Bailey’s right behind her, blocking their advances.

The whir of the crowd amplifies as she gets closer.

This could be our chance to put another one on the board.

But just as she glides toward the crease, #10 materializes. With one swift motion, they swipe the puck away from Indie, sending her stumbling to the ground again.

I should turn around, follow them, and regain control. But something stops me, tugging at my chest, pulling me back.

That letter “C.”

Indie’s sprawled on the ice, her breath heavy and frustrated, gloves slipping as she struggles to pull herself back up. Her helmet’s askew, a tendril of hair falling loose, and when our eyes meet, I see the hint of tears threatening to spill.

I slide over to her, offering my hand.

Her eyes shoot up, surprised, and for a moment, her body tenses, like she’s about to push me away.

As if accepting help would make things worse.

I know that feeling. But she takes my hand anyway, fingers locking tightly around mine.

I pull her to her feet, patting her shoulder just as the crowd erupts into a deafening roar.

The Giants scored another point.

By the time I even register it, the score’s already on the board.

3-4. Even though we’re still up by one, my stomach sinks. But it’s fleeting, because somewhere behind me, I hear a voice.

"I don’t know if you know this, but you’re supposed to block it," Clay sneers, a cocky grin spreading across their face as they hover in front of the net. Harlowe’s eyes narrow, and something smoldering sparks in her gaze.

Oh shit.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” she growls loudly. Her body tenses, the heat in her cheeks spreading down her neck.

Clay doesn’t back down. The space between them shrinks until they’re nearly mask to mask. The sound of my pulse is heavy in my ears as I move toward them, trying to break it up.

But I’m too late.

A shove from Clay, their hands pressing into Harlowe’s chest, and she’s on them in an instant. Tossing her stick to the side, her fists come up—first one, then the other—landing hard against Clay’s shoulders, their helmet, anywhere she can get a hit.

Gloves hit the ice in a clatter, lost in the chaos that follows.

I watch in a daze as Harlowe’s fury is unleashed in merciless strikes.

But Clay’s no victim. They shove her back, throwing a punch that catches her square in the chest. She stumbles, but she doesn’t stop; she’s right back on them, fists flying.

Everything around me blurs. I should step in. I should break this up. But I’m frozen, watching as a fight begins to spill across the ice. Sticks, helmets, gloves, limbs.

And then something in my peripheral grabs me.

My eyes dart across the rink, catching on #10.

Her gaze is locked on Indie, who’s standing to the side, staring in horror.

It’s intentional, aggressive, and I don’t know what comes over me, but they’ll have to carry me out on a stretcher before anyone lays a goddamn hand on that girl.

I slam my skates into the ice, pushing off harder than I thought possible. My heart is pounding, legs burning as I fight for every inch of space between me and #10. I don’t even brace myself as I crash into them with all my weight, the impact knocking the wind out of both of us.

We tumble to the ground, gloves and helmets slipping off, the cold ice sinking into my jersey.I barely have time to process the feeling before I glance over my shoulder.

Darcy’s eyes are locked on me, and in that split second, the world slows to a suffocating crawl.

I feel it, the jagged edge of glass tearing into my chest. Her expression is frozen, a perfect, disheartening compound of anger and disbelief, like she’s waiting for some impossible shift in the universe. A rewind.

I never knew fire to be green until I look into her eyes and see the flame.

It hits me then, what I’ve just done.

She believed in me. She trusted me. Finally began to understand what this means to me. Thought that I was all in. That I was serious.

And in one swift motion, I lit the match that burned her.

I try to move toward her, slipping as I pull myself up, lips parting to call out. When suddenly, a blur of black and white—then a sharp crack sears through my jaw.