Page 25 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Fourteen

Darcy

We spent hours playing, listening to “Mony Mony” by Billy Idol through the television speakers. She brawled with Tim Thomas and won. I played against the Tampa Bay Lightning and lost. I had never had so much fun with someone off the ice.

When the first wail of sirens pierced the walls of her house, my stomach instantly dropped.

I’d never told my mom where I was.

My heart pounded as I looked out the window, red and blue lights lighting up the neighborhood. I knew they were there for me. And even though I felt like I was going to vomit, I had no choice but to own up.

I waved to Brenna, grabbed my bike, and made my way to the closest car. The cops escorted me back to my parents.

I’ll never forget the way my dad clung to me when I arrived. His breath was ragged, face swollen and red from crying. I was struggling to breathe with how tight his trembling arms had squeezed me. It was like if he let go, I’d disappear again.

But my mom?

She didn’t say a word.

She just kissed my forehead with her cold, pale lips, then turned and walked to her room, shutting the door softly behind her. There was something painful in that moment. Worse than being yelled at, or grounded. It was the one and only time I ever saw my mom so upset that words ceased to exist.

Until now.

The crowd’s roar tunnels through the arena, rattling up the bench and vibrating in my legs. On the ice, refs and linesmen swarm the tangle of bodies—blowing whistles, yanking at limbs, peeling players off each other.

But my mom says nothing. Her eyes sweep the bench, a silent warning that somehow triumphs the sound of the arena.

Me? All I want to do is scream.

It’s no secret that fighting’s against the rules in women’s hockey. Unheard of? Not exactly. But when your captain joins in instead of stopping it, it’s more than just a bad look.

It’s a message.

That we’re undisciplined. That we’re emotional. That we’re everything critics say women’s hockey is. And it doesn’t just hurt the team. It drags the whole league down with it.

The penalties are one thing. But the headlines? The soundbites? The ammo it gives people already convinced we’re not worth watching? That’s what sticks.

Maybe it cuts deeper because I’d give anything to still be out there. To play. To have one more chance at this life, and calm the storm. But instead I’m watching our so-called leader lose control in front of thousands. Charging at opponents and knocking them to the ice.

I can’t tear my eyes from the chaos as the pile of bodies finally starts to separate. Players scatter, gliding back to their respective benches.

But I just stare at one player in particular.

Peyton glides toward the penalty box, helmet in one hand, gloves tucked beneath her arm, blood pooling in her bruised jaw. Lena follows, frustrated, and behind her, Bailey—stuck serving Harlowe’s penalty since goalies can’t—looks just as pissed.

I rise to my feet, my gloved hands stinging against the frigid air as the blood inside me heats to a boil. My mom’s hand clamps down on my arm.

She doesn’t say anything, just shakes her head once.

I’m burning from the inside out. But I sit anyway.

The ref approaches the boards, raising his arm.

“Number 72, green—two minutes for roughing,” he says, nasally tone clipped. “Number 40, green—two minutes for roughing. Penalty will be served by number 9. Number 11—”

At the sound of that number, my eyes can’t help but flick back to Peyton. She slams into the box, collapsing onto the silver bench. My jaw is so tight that my back teeth scrape together, sending a nauseating chill down my spine.

“—green—five-minute major for fighting.”

Shit.

“Numbers 10, and 23, black—two minutes for roughing.”

Clearly they didn’t see that punch.

“Number 87, black—five-minute major for fighting, game misconduct.”

“Holy shit,” Caydence whispers. “Clay just got ejected.”

But I don’t care about Clay Matthews, or their ejection from the game. I care about Peyton.

I can’t believe I fell for it. Her hollow rhetoric about the team and what it means to her. She locked eyes with me as she shoved 10 to the ground—an impertinent reminder that no matter how much I wish she was different, Peyton is nothing more than a reckless, privileged player.

A five-minute penalty. That’s the rest of the game.

She should be spending it on the ice, driving this home, racking up her stats. Instead, she’s stuck behind glass, watching uselessly as the rest of the game unfolds.

We hold the lead, likely due to Matthews being out.

We kill the penalty. The buzzer sounds. The crowd roars.

But I don’t feel like celebrating.

I n the hallway outside the locker room, the fluorescent lights flicker, an eerily spasmodic beam that raises the tiny hairs on the back of my neck.

Everyone’s already packed up and headed for the bus, leaving me alone in the vacant stadium.

Since Glacier’s only twenty minutes from the apartment, and we already did post-game cleanup, I asked Cleo to come get me.

Riding a bus packed with sweaty hockey players and my angry mother is the last thing I want right now. Besides, Cleo and I have plans to try this new Mediterranean restaurant.

An itching, burning sensation sparks suddenly in my hands. It starts off slight, but within seconds, the scorching, prickling fire spreads. I glance up and down the hall. Empty.

I peel off a glove. My skin is red, splotchy, fingers swelling from the damp heat. Quickly, I push into the locker room, heading for the sink. The hinges creak as the heavy metal door closes behind me, the potent scent of sweat and metal flooding my nostrils.

But I stop in my tracks.

Standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her forest green sports bra, is Peyton.

Her face is flushed, skin still damp, and there’s a swollen cut near her bottom lip, oozing.

She doesn’t even look at me. She just keeps staring at her reflection, pulling her hair into a high messy bun, a bead of blood trickling down her chin.

Dark, sweaty tendrils fall around her face, framing her amber eyes and clenched jaw.

She either doesn’t notice me, or she simply wants to act like I don’t exist. I wish I had that type of control right now. Things would be easier if I could pretend Peyton doesn’t exist. If I could act like her selfishness, her recklessness, has no effect on me.

It shouldn’t.

Like I said the other night, I shouldn’t care if Peyton wants to work herself into an early-ending career.

I shouldn’t care if she takes her privilege for granted.

If she drags the team down with her. If she drags the sport down too.

Caring won’t give me my career back. It won’t give me my body back.

I should walk out of here, let Cleo feed me hummus while she explains cumulonimbus clouds and her new fixation on meteorology.

Being in any close proximity with Peyton right now is possibly the worst idea anyone could have.

But the longer I look at her, the more I see the 11 flashing on the ice, just before she shoved #10.

All of it, the anger, the envy, boils inside me, and before I can stop myself, the words are already spilling out in a bitter laugh.

“You know, you really had me fooled,” I spit, stepping behind her. Those amber eyes catch mine in the reflection, and she doesn’t turn around, but she doesn’t look away either. “For a second there, I really thought you meant all that bullshit about the team and how much this means to you.”

Her gaze narrows, brows weaving together as her hands fall into clenched fists at her sides.

“I already heard it from Coach. I’m going to hear it from the media. I don’t need to hear it from you.”

I try to take a soothing breath, but it’s no use. It’s as shaky and shallow as the one before it. As shaky and shallow as the one that follows.

“See, I think you do,” I shoot back. “Because clearly, none of it’s getting through.

You don’t act like a captain. You don’t lead.

You don’t sacrifice. You don’t even want to pass during a game.

Since I got here, all I’ve seen is you breaking rules, turning a blind eye while the team gets drunk with practice the next day, and doing what’s best for you.

People would kill to be in your spot, Peyton. And you act like it’s your birthright.”

She jerks around, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. Her posture stiffens, and even though she’s a good five inches shorter than me, I suddenly feel like I’m shrinking. She steps toward me. I take a step back.

“You think I don’t know that?” she snaps, her voice rising with each word. “You think every time I step on the ice, I don’t look around and wonder if I’d even be there if it weren’t for the name glued to my back? That every time I make a decision, I’m not questioning if it’s the right one?”

“No, actually,” I answer, jaw ticking. “I don’t. I don’t see any proof that you think about anything before you do it. Not unless you know it’s going to put you in the spotlight.”

A humorless laugh slips from her lips, and she shakes her head, those molten amber eyes locking with mine as she takes another step.

“Why do you think I’m on the ice at four a.m. every morning? What, you think somehow that’ll prove that I’m better than everyone? When nobody is around to watch me?” She shakes her head. “I’m not trying to prove I’m better, Darcy. I’m trying to prove I’m enough. That I’ve earned this.”

My mind flashes back to practice, to the way she traced that C on her jersey like it was foreign. To the word “insecure” that she dropped in the rain the other night. To that morning, when we met, how many times she restarted her drills, that disappointed furrow in her brow each time she messed up.

“You’re the captain. You’re one of the most highly regarded centers in the region . You’re the child of a professional athlete. You have it all, why do you need to deserve it?”