Page 26 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)
Tears well in her eyes, chest heaving with shaky breaths, but she doesn’t look away. I should leave. I know I should. But I only manage a single step back, before my spine presses against a cold metal locker.
She steps forward, so close that her breath ghosts over my lips.
“You don’t know a damn thing about what it’s like to live up to everyone’s expectations,” she starts, her voice low but steady. “To have this shadow hanging over you because you’re ‘Harrison Clarke’s daughter’. Not ‘Peyton Clarke’, not ‘rising star’, just ‘Harrison Clarke’s daughter’.”
Her voice cracks, just barely, and she swipes at the water pooling in her eyes.
“You think I don’t know that I’m privileged? You think I need you to tell me that? That privilege consumes every inch of my mind, every second of every day. I can’t get away from it.”
My heart pounds mercilessly, each beat rapping against my ribs.
My breath staggers, rising and falling in sync with Peyton’s.
It’s strange how often that happens. How time and time again, our bodies seem to remember each other, responding in tandem.
With each shallow, unsteady inhale, my chest brushes hers.
And when I glance down, I’m suddenly reminded of the fact that she isn’t wearing a shirt.
Her soft, creamy skin grazes against my windbreaker.
A pulse sparks in my core, and I force my eyes from the valley in her chest, meeting her gaze.
There’s a fire in her eyes, yes, but despite that, I can’t look past the tears.
It tugs at my chest, at my lungs, at my heart.
I swallow hard, fighting the sudden and unwanted urge to close the little space between us.
To wipe those tears. To steady her breath.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice softer now, betraying me.
“I don’t know what it’s like. I don’t know what you’ve had to do or haven’t had to do to get here.
” I rake a hand through my hair, sighing in frustration.
“But that fight earlier? It could’ve cost us the game, Peyton.
We could be looking at fines, suspensions.
We could get banned from the NCAA championship!
For some of these girls, this is their only shot.
You’re the captain. You’re supposed to stop fights, not jump into them. ”
I see the shift in her eyes before she says anything. The fire inside them doesn’t die, but it softens. Like embers fading in a cold wind. Her plush lips fall open, but she takes a calming breath before she gets the words out.
“I know,” she whispers. “I was just trying to protect Indie.”
It’s so soft I almost miss it. But it lands in the pit of my stomach, a drop in a puddle, sending a ripple through my body.
Protect Indie? Protect her from what?
For a second, I wonder if there was something I didn’t see. Something I missed. And suddenly every instinct I’ve tried to bury claws its way to the surface.My fingers lift to her chin, curling just beneath it, gently tilting her face up to mine. Forcing her to look at me. To see me. To hear me.
My glove grazes the split on her jaw, and she flinches—not away, but into the touch. Honeyed eyes lock on mine, and suddenly, everything I’ve been trying to hold together feels like it’s unraveling.
I should just tell her. Explain why I care so much.Let the truth detonate because it's going to implode anyway.
“ Peyton —” I start, but it catches in my throat. I want to say something, anything , but the words won't budge. The anger is still simmering. The guilt too. But something else is taking hold, latching on, planting roots.
She grips the front of my jacket, fingers clutching the fabric desperately. And I know— I know I should step back. Create space. Remind myself of the reality of the situation.
She’s my player.
I’m her coach.
She just got in a fight on the ice. She’s impulsive. Reckless. The one who doesn’t seem to care about consequences.
And I’m the one who aches to be in her place. The one who would trade anything to feel what she feels to the point where I hate her.
Or to the point where I try to.
But her lips brush mine, and my heart stutters so violently I’d lose my balance if I weren’t pinned against a locker.
Everything inside me goes up in flames, starting in my chest, spilling downward, an insistent flaring ache only cured briefly by the contracting of my thighs.
My gaze flicks from her eyes, to her full, round lips, watching her tongue slip across them. I want to touch them.
I want to touch all of her.
I lean in, tracing my finger up the side of her jaw and—
BANG!
Peyton jerks back, falling into the sink, body going rigid. My eyes snap to the door just as it slams shut behind Indie. My pulse batters my ears.
Did she see me? Did she see us?
A breath catches in my throat.
There was nothing to see. Just a trick of proximity. Bad timing.
So why am I still on fire?
Indie doesn’t look at us. I don’t even think she notices we’re here until Peyton calls her name, and her head snaps up.
“Rose?”
Her hazel eyes dart between us before her mouth pulls into a tight, forced smile. It’s an expression so brittle it could shatter with a breeze.
“Hey, Cap,” she manages, her voice hoarse. She shifts her eyes to me and forces another smile, just as broken as the first. “Hey, Coach.”
Peyton and I exchange a concerned look, but she doesn’t hesitate another second before stepping toward her.
“What are you still doing here? Didn’t the bus leave already?”
Indie nods, averting her gaze. “Yeah. I was just going to catch city transit.”
Peyton pats the bench, collapsing onto it in unison with Indie.
Watching them, watching her know exactly what to do, almost stings as much as watching her on the ice.
I don’t know Indie well. I don’t know exactly how to be there for her in the way she needs.
And the sudden realization that I haven't been doing my job either plagues me.
Swallowing the dry ache in my throat, I cast Peyton one last, useless glance.
But her gaze stays fixed on Indie, like I’m already gone.
Wordlessly, I step into the hallway, the florescent light washing over me.
I smooth out the wrinkles on my jacket where her hands used to be, and I pray, to whoever might be listening, that Peyton will pretend this never happened. Like I plan to.
This job was never going to work. It’s like trying to mix oil and water. We’re always going to clash. I keep getting pulled in, invested in something I’ll never have—what she has, what I lost. And if I let her keep dragging me into this, let her make me care, I’ll never move on.
And god , I really need to move on.