Page 28 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Sixteen

Peyton

S he’s drooling.

Full, open-mouthed, loud-snoring, drooling. I can't help but grin cautiously as I watch Darcy’s chest rise and fall in a rhythm, her silky black sleep mask snug over her eyes.

God, she really is a diva.

I slip my finger into the back of my worn sneakers, lifting the heel to slide my foot in. I’m not sure why I can’t bring myself to untie them. It's just one of those things. The soft November sunlight filters through the small cabin windows, illuminating Darcy’s fiery hair.

It’s stunning. She’s stunning. Even with the puddle of drool pooling on her pillow, and the nearly perpetual frown creasing her lip.

I shift to my other foot, wriggling my toes to maneuver into the shoe. But my finger slips, sending the sneaker tumbling to the floor with a thud. I freeze, holding my breath as Darcy shifts under the covers.

I probably should wake her up, given that we’re all supposed to be meeting at the rink soon, but I have a feeling Darcy shares Harlowe’s hatred for mornings. And if that’s the case, I do not want to set her off.

She lets out a soft, indiscernible mumble, and I quickly drop down.

My hand blindly pats the floor, searching for the lost shoe, trying my best not to wake her up—but failing miserably at resisting the urge to keep my eyes glued to her.

They drift down the thin slope of her nose, tracing the constellation of freckles scattered across her skin, then journey down her pale arms, pausing at those damn gloves. I swear, she has a pair in every color.

But I’m more interested in how the hell she sleeps in them. And more importantly, why?

I’d ask her, but she hasn’t said a single word to me since the night of the fight. Not at practice. Not even last night when we filtered into the cabin and I asked which bed she wanted.

She responded by dragging one of them all the way to the opposite wall from mine. Then spent the rest of the night staring at that clipboard, ignoring me.

Look, at first, I understood. She needed space to cool off; I did too.

I shouldn’t have jumped into that fight, and she shouldn’t have stormed in on me, acting like she knew my life story.

I gave it a few days, wallowed in Coach’s lectures, letting it all breathe.

But when a couple practices passed, and Darcy still hadn’t talked to me, looked at me, it all began to feel excessive.

I didn’t join in to piss her off. I didn’t even think of her when I stepped in to stop #10 from swinging at Indie. I was just trying to protect my rookie. But she’s acting like it was a personal affront. A vendetta.

And that’s eating me alive.

It doesn't make sense. Darcy and I haven’t gotten along a single day since we’ve met. Not sober, at least. So why I suddenly care that she disappears right after practice, why it’s causing this incurable sinking sensation in my stomach, is a mystery. A confusing, irritating, pointless mystery.

I make my way toward the rink, my duffel bag dragging me down with every step.

The weight pulls me to the side, and I let it, because my brain is too busy dissecting our last conversation to have strength for anything else.

The fresh, pine-scented air fills my lungs, and normally, I’d be reveling in it.

But all I can think about is that night.

About her, pressed against the locker, brushing her lips against mine

When the rink comes into view, I can’t help but smile. This is perfect. No stands. No florescent lights. No rows of judging eyes. Just the team, the ice, and miles of trees.

“You look like shit.”

I glance up at Harlowe, her ocean eyes still crusted with sleep, short blonde bob sticking out in every direction. I fling my bag onto the bench beside her, the wood groaning under the impact.

“I just love hearing your sweet voice in the mornings,” I retort, flopping down and pulling out my skates. I catch her eye, really noticing how exhausted she looks. Prying off my shoes, I add, “What happened to you?”

She lets out a telling sigh, eyes rolling to the sky, and I swear, for a second, they get stuck. “Caydence is a total priss ,” she starts, bending down to tie her skates. “She has to sleep with one of those stupid sound machines. Guess what she puts on?”

I glance across the rink at Caydence, that painfully high ponytail swaying behind her. “Uhh… white noise?”

“ Nature sounds. Which, y’know, would be fine, if we weren’t already surrounded by it . The noises kept overlapping with the actual sounds outside the cabin, and—”

Blood rushes to her cheeks, and she blows out a frustrated breath.

Caydence isn't the only thing bothering her. After last week’s fight, Coach Cole and Coach Pike—the Glacier Giants’ coach—came up with a joint punishment for Harlowe and Clay.

Starting next week, they’ll be volunteering together at the local youth league. Three hours a week, until summer.

When she found out, Harlowe spent four hours in the gym, pounding the heavy bag until her knuckles were shredded.

She shakes her head, calming herself down. “So what about you? How was bedtime with Yours Truly?”

“Oh it was great,” I answer sarcastically. “First, she dragged her bed the furthest possible distance from mine. Which turned out to be an act of mercy, because she snores like a—”

A sharp whistle rings through the air, and every head turns to look at Coach. She’s… strangely peppy for someone who threatened to revoke my title yesterday when I tried to reason with her about the rooming arrangements.

In some strange, fucked up way, being reminded that my position is at stake was validating.

Coach presses her glasses up the bridge of her nose, a charmingly bright smile sewn into her cheeks.

“Alright, ladies, let’s do some warm-ups!

” she calls, gesturing us onto the ice. Her eyes scan us with a glimmer that terrifies me.

She has something up her sleeve. I just don’t know what yet.

I stroll over to the rink, but just before I can step on, Coach sticks her arm out, blocking my path.

“Clarke, where’s Darce?” She raises an inquisitive brow. Mine drop in confusion.

“I don’t know. Still in bed, I guess.” I shrug, turning back to the rink, but Coach’s arm doesn’t budge.

Fuck. Me.

I turn back to her, a sheepish grin stretching across my face. “Yes?” I ask coyly.

Coach just stares at me, unamused. I sigh. “Okay, I was going to wake her up, but she looks like an angry morning person and—”

She cuts me off with a raised hand. “Where you go, she goes, Clarke.”

I pause, gnawing on the inside of my cheek. I have two choices here:

1) Piss Coach off

or

2) Piss Darcy off

Either way, I’m poking the bear. It’s just Black versus Grizzly.

“Coach, if you saw the way she was looking at me—”

“I know exactly how my daughter can be, Peyton.”

I nod apologetically, and her eyes flick up, peering over my head. I spin around.

Damn.

You know in those rom-coms when the protagonist's alarm goes off, and they roll out of bed looking effortlessly perfect? Their hair is styled, they wipe their eyes, and boom —they’re ready to take on the day and make a seven-course breakfast with $80 worth of fruit?

Yeah, Darcy is definitely not that protagonist.

Her red hair is an absolute mess, sticking out at angles that feel gravitationally impossible.

There’s an annoyed crease on the bridge of her nose, dark circles under her eyes, and she’s still wearing her pajamas—fluffy pants patterned with dragons and scrolls, though at least she’s tugged on a hoodie.

And, of course, she’s clutching that stupid clipboard.

“I’ll be back,” Coach says, but I don’t pry my gaze away. “Stay here.”

Unlike the one Darcy had borrowed from me, this hoodie hangs loose. Her gloves—pink now—swim in the sleeves, and my brows furrow when my gaze draws up her arm to her shoulder.

#40

What the hell?

I blink, spinning toward Harlowe, who’s already pissing Caydence off based on the glare in her unsettling bright eyes.

“Darcy stole your hoodie,” I tattle, tossing a thumb over my shoulder. Harlowe quirks a brow, glancing at Darcy, then back to me. She waves a dismissive hand.

“Nah, I lent it to her last night. She was shivering at dinner.”

I don’t realize my jaw is clenched until my teeth slip, sending a grating scrape through my skull, vibrating through every bone in my body. The corners of my lips turn down, and I cross my arms.

“What’d you do that for?”

Harlowe's eyes draw up from my feet to the top of my head. “Because she was cold and I have two mothers who taught me chivalry?”

I shake my head, looking back at Darcy. She’s in some heated argument with Coach, and I can’t make out all the words but I think I hear “phone died” and “that arrogant bitch” somewhere in the mix. My eyes catch on that number again.

Stupid number. It doesn’t even look right on her.

I mean, Darcy doesn’t have a number but if she did, it definitely wouldn’t be forty.

And the way the sleeves consume her hands, I mean, really, how does she plan to get anything done?

Half my wardrobe is baggy clothes, but even I know when you’re working, you need something that fits right.

A little tight, even. Something where the sleeves won’t get in the way.

Red strands flow as Darcy feathers a hand through her hair, letting out what appears to be a frustrated breath. She nods at whatever Coach says, then they both begin walking toward me.

I quickly avert my eyes, suddenly very interested in… this cool leaf on the ground in front of me . I bend down to pick it up, studying it for the sole purpose of looking busy.

It actually is a cool leaf. It’s got these orange lines, bleeding into the—