Page 29 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

“Clarke, take those off,” Coach calls out, tossing her eyes toward my feet.

My head tips down to look at my skates, then back up to meet her gaze.

I’m about to ask why, when she flashes me a look that tells me my life would be a hell of a lot easier if I just listened.

So I collapse onto the bench and untie them.

“We’re doing some trust exercises,” she explains, flipping through her clipboard to look for something. Whatever it is, she doesn’t seem to find it, because she just drops it back down to her side. “Given certain circumstances, you two will be doing a different exercise, here in the stands.”

My gaze flashes to Darcy, who quickly looks away from me, absolutely swimming in that damn sweatshirt. She didn’t need to borrow Harlowe’s. I’d have given her mine, if she’d asked. But of course, that would require conversation, which seems to be off the table.

“What’s the circumstance?” I ask, looking back to Coach. I’m about to follow it with a snarky remark questioning if Darcy can even balance in a pair of skates anymore, but Coach flashes me another look, and I decide against it. “Never mind. What’s the exercise?”

“ T hen two—no— three people are by the blue line, one of them is like…

closer—“ I drone, gesturing my hand around in a circle, as if that helps my absolutely useless explanation, “—and then the other two are kinda by the face-off spots.” I raise a finger, pointing it down.

Then mirror it with the other, punctuating it with a “doop”.

Darcy just stares at me, like she’s praying I’m done. And thank Jesus, I am.

This is a completely pointless exercise, and she isn’t making it any more productive.

I don’t see what audibly describing game strategies has to do with trust, but whatever flipped psychology this is supposed to do, isn’t working.

You see, in order to give feedback on the descriptions of the drills like Coach instructed us to, you have to actually talk , and Darcy’s hardly budged.

Frankly, it’s rude. When it’s her turn, I actually give her solid critique. Though to be honest, she’s a hell of a lot better at explaining it than me. When it’s my turn?

She calls out the name of the strategy, pretends to listen, and then just nods.

Just bobs that pretty freckled face and keeps her mouth closed. It’s maddening. And I loathe to admit it, I really, really do, but I miss when she wouldn’t shut up. When she kept calling out unsolicited advice, kept telling me what to do.

I crave it, even.

I crave her attention like skates crave the ice. I crave the razor-sharp edge in her voice when she warned me about something I was already acutely aware of. I crave that triumphant smirk curling at the corners of her lips when I’m finally forced to heed her.

It’s absurd.

But her suggestions weren’t just bossy commands anymore. They made me feel like what I did on the ice mattered. Like the moves I made were significant enough to command her attention.

I’m used to the spotlight, accustomed to the weight of eyes on me.

But there was something different about having someone who cared enough to tell me when I was wrong.

Someone who didn’t just pat me on the back or offer empty praise, but who challenged me to be more.

Someone who tossed my name aside like it was insignificant, and dug beneath my surface, demanding I become better.

Throughout my life, my coaches have always told me how great I was. How I’m just like my dad.

I’d love to be like my dad.

But more than that, I’d love to be better.

I want someone to look at me and see more than just a daughter. To see untapped potential and not assume I’m already at the top simply because he was. Darcy did that.

And yeah, I know, I pushed her away and ignored her, and argued with her, but I realize now, how I looked forward to it. The truth is, I’d take the attitude, the pompousness, those cocky little smirks, anything, if only she would look at me.

It’s like I’m stuck, stranded in the sin bin, waiting on a timer that might never end.

“Do you have any feedback?” I ask. Darcy just shrugs.

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on,” I roll my eyes, scooting an inch closer. She scoots two inches back. “That was awful. My communication sucks; you’ve said it yourself. Come on.” I beckon with my hands. “Give it to me.”

But she doesn’t. She just gives me another barely-there shrug.

Quiet settles between us, only broken by the soft melodies of birds scattered in the trees, and the cut of blades on the ice. We sit there in silence, and she stares out at the rink, like she’s somewhere else.

But I watch her. I watch the way her shoulders rise and fall with each breath, I watch the way her jaw tightens as she clutches that damn clipboard like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

Her gaze flicks to mine, before darting away.

“You’re staring at me,” she says flatly.

“I am,” I respond.

“Why?”

Because I like looking at you.

The uninvited words teeter on the tip of my tongue, and I bite down in shock, a metallic taste flooding my mouth. With a wince, I quickly manage to blurt out something else

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Her brows furrow defensively. “No,” she says, but the word is thin. A long, defeated sound spills out of her. “ Yes.”

“Why?”

She hesitates, her freckled lips falling open, then closing again. When she finally does speak, it’s almost a whisper. “I don’t know.”

I know I shouldn’t press. I shouldn’t push her. But when something eats away at you for so long, it leaves you starving for answers. I chew on the inside of my cheek, the small bite of pain grounding me. “It kinda seems like you do know.”

Her eyes snap to mine, and I should feel bad for upsetting her. But all I can think about is how that glaze over her eyes evaporates. It’s replaced by a flickering flame, but I like the smell of smoke. “Peyton, I can’t do this right now.”

She pushes herself to her feet, but before I can think about it, my hand is on her sleeve, Harlowe’s sleeve, stopping her.

“What?” I can’t stop myself now. The words spill out pathetically. “Suddenly you don’t have anything to say to me? You tear me apart every day, pick through everything I do, and then when nothing’s left, you just act like I don’t exist anymore?”

Her gaze narrows, arm ripping away from my grasp. “ Now you want feedback?” She snaps. “You spent weeks ignoring every word I said. Weeks acting like I didn’t know a damn thing. And now, when I finally give up, when I stop wasting my time on someone who won’t listen, you suddenly care?”

All the air in my lungs vanishes. “Yes,” I admit. “I suddenly care.”

Darcy shakes her head, her eyes darting away from me, lips curling into a dry laugh.

“Look, Peyton, I don’t have the energy for this.

” She waves a hand between us. “Whatever this is. You need validation? Fine. You can get that from anyone else. Are you really so self-absorbed that you need it from me too?”

Something strikes against my chest, like a match on hot concrete, and as much as I want to let it burn, I extinguish it with a deep breath.

“I hate it,” I admit, brushing a hand through my hair.

My gaze falls to the dirt ground below. “I hate that everyone acts like I’ve peaked.

Not because I’m great, but because my dad is.

I hate that. I need this. ” A desperate breath slips from my lips, my gaze catching hers as I gesture between us.

“I need you . I need you to tell me when I’m wrong, to push me.

I need the back-and-forth. I need someone who doesn’t just praise me when I haven’t earned it. I need someone who makes me better. ”

A red hue tints her cheeks, spilling out from under those freckles. Her hands begin to tremble, clipboard rattling against her side. “I can’t do that anymore.”

I shake my head. “Why?” I hate how desperate I sound. How desperate I feel. “What is it? Is this about the fight? Because I thought we settled th—”

“It’s not just the fight.”

“Then what is it?”

“I—” She falters, voice cracking. “Look, it’s complicated, okay?”

And suddenly, I’m back in the locker room. Back where she watched me fall apart. Where she wiped the tears from my face. Where her lips ghosted over mine.

Why is it that I want to do the exact same thing right now?

“Is this about what happened in the locker room?” I ask. “About us—”

Her eyes widen, and she cuts me off harshly. “Are you insane?” Her gaze flicks to the rink, looking to see if anyone is watching, then back to me. “Whatever happened, whatever almost happened, didn’t. It didn’t happen.”

“So it is about that,” I say coolly, though a sharp feeling prods at my chest. Darcy shakes her head.

“It’s about everything! It’s about you, it’s about B—”

“ What the hell is going on over here?” Coach asks, leaning against the edge of the rink. Her thin brows are knitted together, lips twisted into a disapproving frown.

Darcy and I both take an instinctive jump back, like guilty children caught in the act. Darcy tucks a loose strand of fiery hair behind her ear, clutching her clipboard so tightly, it might snap in half.

“Nothing,” she mumbles, but Coach isn’t buying it. Her finger shoots out toward the cabins, the sharp line of her brows drawn tight.

“Darcy,” she says. “Go to the cabin. I’ll deal with you later.”

Darcy’s brows furrow, defiance pooling in her eyes. “But we weren’t—”

“I said go.”

Without another word, Darcy storms off, her red hair a streak of fire in the breeze. I watch her go, then turn my gaze toward Coach. I silently pray for a quick and painless demise—but knowing her, it’ll be drawn out—stabbing, strangling, death by bag skates.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, Coach exhales a heavy sigh, pinching the inner corners of her eyes like she’s fighting off a headache.

“Why is it,” she says slowly, each word deliberate, “that every time I see you two together, you’re at each other’s throats?”