Page 3 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Two

Peyton

M y ankles feel like someone took their anger out on them with a Razor scooter.

It’s a deep ache that thrums in sync with my heartbeat, tempting me to stop, but I don’t.

Stopping is for the weak, and weakness is not a luxury I can afford.

Every part of me is begging, pleading for a break, but I know better.

I know the Sabertooths wouldn’t stop. My dad wouldn’t either.

So I won’t.

Despite the burn in my thighs, and the pulse pounding in my eardrums, I push off the ice and start again. The mid-October air bites at my skin as my blades carve through the rink, weaving around the cones, my stick following the puck like a shadow.

I’d be at the indoor rink if my access card worked at this hour, but it only grants entry during regular school hours, which unfortunately doesn’t begin at four a.m. The outdoor rink’s not so bad, though.

Some think it’s haunted, because it’s eerie when the sun is still down, but I like it.

The overhead lights illuminate nothing but the ice below my feet, making the rest of the university, the rest of the world even, disappear.

But even here, alone on the ice, I can’t escape my biggest competitor.

Myself.

I crank up the volume, some self-help audiobook blasting in my ears, but no matter how loud I turn it up, my internal voice demands to be heard.

Sharper turn there, she says. So I start again, pushing harder, faster, as though out-skating the voice might make her disappear.

It never works.

The crunch beneath my skates is familiar, each dent and crevice in the ice a testament to my repetitive failures from this morning’s solo practice.

As I near the goal, my gaze locks onto the right corner of the net—the one the Glacier Giants' starting goalie always seems to neglect.

My grip tightens around my stick, fingers sinking into the worn tape as I draw it back to shoot.

But just before my blade makes contact, a loud thud echoes through the rink, and something in my peripheral vision barrels toward me, driven by a vendetta.

I spin around, eyes locked on the rogue puck as it glides across the ice, coming to a stop right in front of my feet.

Shit. Is it possessed? Why is Bailey always right?

My grip on my stick tightens, just in case I have to start fending off spirits, but as my eyes scan the arena, the only thing they land on is a woman, who, despite her pale, freckled cheeks, seems to be very much alive.

She stands by the short gate into the rink, auburn hair loosely tucked in the fold of her black turtleneck sweater.

Her lips part, as if calling something to me, but the monotonous voice in my ears swallows it up.

Normally, I don’t halt a practice for anything.

Not the weather, not the fact that the rink is technically closed, and certainly not for a girl who was rude enough to toss a puck at me.

But when her lips quirk into a smile, one like I’ve never seen, my stomach flips.

I should know this smile. I should know this woman.

Despite its mathematical improbability, I know just about everyone at Greenrock University.

Or—know of . The ice skaters, the theater stoners, the psychology baristas, the biology gamers, the frat boys who hoard the gym but never seem to actually lift.

I make it a point to be at almost every event, to weave into every corner of campus life, so that everyone has at least one person cheering them on.

But this woman? She hasn’t fallen into any of those categories. I would’ve seen her at a game, or a concert, or some random late-night study session. If she’d been there, I’d remember.

I’d remember that smile. Those red strands of hair catching the light as she peeks out from the shadowed stadium seats. I’d remember those freckles, and when she tilts her head, I’m certain I’d have remembered that too.

So, despite my better judgment, I find myself gliding in her direction.

The low hum of the rink floods my ears as I pull the earbuds free, strands of sweat-soaked hair sticking to my cheeks. I drift toward her, the sound of my skates cutting through the ice now oddly magnified.

“What did you say?” I call out, feeling a slight tug at my lips.

The pretty woman leans forward, as if what she’s about to say is so substantial, it demands the force of her entire body to hurl it across the ice. “I said,” she starts, her voice clear as that bright grin deepens. “You’re overcompensating .”

What the fuck?

Paralyzed by disbelief, my body still drifts toward her, helpless against the slick of the ice. Did she just say what I think she said?

It’s not the words that unsettle me. It’s the way she says them. The ease in her tone, as if we’ve shared a thousand inside jokes, as if we’ve exchanged the same worn-out band tee, as if she’s earned the right to say them with that kind of blunt familiarity.

I have no idea who this woman is and yet, she’s speaking to me like we’re already monumental parts of each other’s histories. Normally, I wouldn’t mind it, but like I said, I don’t usually stop practice for anything. And now I’ve halted it just to be insulted.

I don’t even know how to respond.

So I don’t.

Instead, I cross my arms, my posture stiffening. “You threw a puck at me?”

She shrugs, and a strand of strawberry hair slips free from the confines of her turtleneck.

It tumbles down her chest, a fiery cascade that could set the world alight in its path.

“I was trying to get your attention. You know, I don’t think you’re supposed to be here this early.

Most people aren’t even awake at this hour. ”

My gaze flicks to the coffee cup gripped in her hands, streams of steam lifting off the rim. “You’re awake,” I say pointedly, prying my anchored skates free as I glide toward the boards.

I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I just want to look this woman in the eye while I tell her to mind her own damn business.

But that was a mistake. Because when I finally look her in the eyes, words evaporate.

The dictionary? A distant memory. Those dark green gems stare back at me, layers of fern and ivy tangled within, a deceptively serene secret garden that could have convinced me this woman is a breath of fresh air, if she hadn’t already proved herself to be pollution personified.

Her lips lift again, soft freckled skin stretching, nose glowing red under the fluorescent lights. “I’m an early riser.”

“What, so you set a three a.m. alarm to come throw hockey pucks at people?”

“I didn’t throw it at you,” she challenges, thin brows furrowing. A crease forms between them, and the freckle in the center of her forehead vanishes in it. “I threw it near you.”

Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I pause just long enough to stop myself from snapping at her, but not quite long enough to lose the attitude entirely. “Right. You know, you could have banged on the fiberglass or something.”

She doesn’t seem to mind my petulance. In fact, she glides right over it. “How often do you practice like this?”

I pause again, suddenly struck by the thought that maybe I don’t recognize her because, maybe , she’s not a student at all.

My heart rams against my ribcage as my gaze draws down her body, searching for any sign that she’s got some kind of authority.

Maybe a badge, or a notebook with the words Peyton Clarke violating rink rules again scrawled across the page.

But all I find are baggy sweatpants, black gloves, and eyes like emeralds, glowing in the light as if she’s studying me right back.

“Couple times a week,” I admit, gaze narrowing skeptically. She nods, the golden ring dangling from her septum glistening. A beat of silence follows, tempting me to put my earbuds back in and get to work, but then she continues, her tone assured.

“You’re going to burn yourself out.”

My jaw tenses, fingers drumming against my stick.

Who the fuck does this girl think she is?

“Sorry, do you even play?”

The question comes out condescending, but honestly, I couldn’t care less. Okay, maybe I feel a little bad. But I’ve been skating since I could walk. Who is this girl to give me unsolicited advice? She’s probably never even touched a puck, until she gathered the audacity to throw one at me.

Her posture snaps rigid and she pushes away from the boards, arms crossing defensively. “When I was younger.”

Despite my (admittedly) feeble efforts, a dry laugh tumbles from my mouth. “Yeah, okay. No offense,” I add, fully aware it’s about to be offensive. “But I don’t need advice from someone who couldn’t even stick with it.”

The woman’s expression shifts, that freckle on her forehead disappearing again, lips tightening into a line as if they were stitched shut.

Her eyes sharpen, pinning mine with a challenge.

“Look, I’m just saying, I’ve seen it before.

Overworking yourself like this is only going to do more harm than good. ”

“And I’m just saying, that if you were willing to give it up, you clearly haven’t been in my shoes.

” I take in a steadying breath, a futile attempt at soothing the irritation swelling in my chest. I’m supposed to help Zayda, our alternate goalie, study for a test at five, and I’m running out of time.

But this woman isn’t on my time, so instead of backing off, she doubles down.

“I get it, you love it.” She hitches a shoulder, letting a sigh slip out. “And there’s power in that. But you’re going to lose that power if you overdo it.”

A scoff slips from me, disbelieving and bitter. I’m supposed to, what? Take this random woman’s advice after she hurled something at me and then followed it with an insult like it was prophetic hockey wisdom?

I should brush it off, turn the other cheek, be the bigger person. My brother can be like this—blunt, nosy, a little too comfortable in his own opinions—I’m used to it. But this? The way she talks to me, like she’s my goddamn coach?