Page 30 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

I glance at the ground, then the sky. Then I spot a distant tree. Then back to the ground, rocking nervously on my heels.

Where did my leaf go?

“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter. She shakes her head again, then lets out another breath.

“Grab your skates, Clarke.” I swallow, reaching for my skates. But then, a soft smile tugs at her lips. “Looks like you could use some ice time.”

D arcy refused to leave the cabin to eat dinner with me, so I sat beside Coach in the resort cafeteria and we bonded over her daughter’s snoring.

Afterwards, pretty much everyone headed back to their cabins.

It’s only a few of us left around the fire—Bailey, Indie, Harlowe, Caydence, and me.

Well, and Mr. Bubbles, who is thoroughly enjoying baking by the flame, drooling in the dirt.

My eyes burn as the smoke curls into them, but I keep feeding the fire anyway, Harlowe poking at it with a wet stick.

“We totally should’ve brought s’mores stuff,” Bailey pouts, shifting uncomfortably on a log. Her brows furrow deeper. “And a seat cushion.”

Harlowe lets out a soft chuckle, and Indie just stares at the flames, not saying a word. Darcy hasn’t been the only one damn near silent since the game. Ever since that fight on the ice, every bit of progress I’ve made with Indie has backslid.

I know she blames herself, for losing the puck, for hesitating when she fell.

She started to vent to me about it later that night on the drive home, but hasn't mentioned it since. I need to talk to her more, but between practice, classes, and trying to get Darcy to stop avoiding me, I haven’t had the time.

So I make a mental note to bring it up tomorrow.

“Guys.” Caydence’s shocked voice cuts in. Startled, we all turn, watching her eyes widen as she stares at her phone. “ No fucking way. ”

“What?” Bailey asks, leaning forward on her log. Caydence hands her the phone, and Bailey hesitates for a moment before reading. As her brown eyes scan the screen, Harlowe and I exchange an intrigued glance. Bailey's lips part in shock, and she hands the phone back without a word.

Harlowe frowns. “Care to share with the class?”

Caydence glances at Bailey, who shakes her head vigorously, as if telling her to stay quiet. But Caydence just smirks, her eyes sparking mischievously as she clears her throat. And before anyone can ask another question, she begins reading aloud, mocking the tone of a reporter.

“‘The women’s hockey team at Minnesota State have big plans. All except for one college junior, Darcy Cole, 21, who has—'”

“What are you doing?” I cut in. A sudden heat prickles across my skin, and the goosebumps tell me it’s not from the fire. Caydence’s lips twitch, but she keeps reading.

“‘—abruptly dropped the team after three years of service, including landing the winning goal for the WCHA tournament just two weeks ago. A source close to Cole confirms in an exclusive interview: ‘This is a high-pressure sport. Some people can handle it, some can’t. I guess Darcy just couldn’t anymore,’ says Brenna Porter, starting left-winger and long-time teammate of Cole. ’”

My chest tightens, heart hammering against my ribcage. This is bullshit. It has to be. Darcy would’ve told me if she played for Minnesota. She would’ve rubbed it in my face. Used it against me.

“‘According to Porter,’” Caydence continues, “‘Cole was recruited to the Portland Porcupines, set to begin training in a few months—'”

“Caydence, stop. This is private—”

“‘There are currently no details as to what led this rising star to burnout,’” she cuts me off, pressing on.

I freeze.

I hate that I freeze. I hate that I didn’t immediately make Caydence shut up. I hate that I listened to every word she said like it was my business, and I hate more that I care. A sharp pain pierces my chest. Why didn’t Darcy tell me?

But then, why would she?

She’s made her disdain for me clear. But wouldn’t that be all the more reason? She could’ve used her experience against me. The Portland Porcupines? The PWHL? That’s every hockey player’s dream.

And it was in the palm of her hand.

“This isn’t yours to share, Caydence,” I warn, but she just shrugs, flipping to the next line. I stand up.

“Stop,” I say, my frustration palpable. Caydence rolls her eyes.

“There’s a picture!" She gasps, leaning in to show us the screen.

And god, why do I look?

I don’t owe Darcy anything. This is public record. It’s not like we’re doing anything illegal. Still, it feels wrong. I know it’s wrong. If Darcy didn’t tell me, if she didn’t flaunt it in my face, there’s a damn good reason.

Despite my typically unwavering northeast moral compass, my eyes betray me, flicking toward the screen.

The photo is of Darcy, her ivy eyes narrowed, her grip on her stick tight. The timer in the background reads one second left on the clock.

I read the caption below it.

Darcy Cole, 21, starting center for the Minnesota Mavericks, scoring the winning goal for the WCHA tournament and sending her team to the Women’s Frozen Four.

I blink, reading it again. Starting center?

What the hell?

“Here I was thinking she was just the Coach’s daughter,” Caydence chirps, and I want to yank her ponytail and hear every strand of hair snap off her pin-sized head.

“Put it away, Caydence,” I demand.

She looks up at me, one eyebrow raised. “What? Touched a nerve? You know, I saw you two walking downtown a few we—”

Before I can snap, Indie speaks up, her voice soft but warning. “Guys?” She points behind us. I turn, my heart dissolving into the acidic pit of my stomach.

There, standing in the flickering firelight, is Darcy. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, face pale against the warmth of the flames.

Shit.

I jump to my feet, turning to her. “Darcy, I—”

But she just turns and walks away, fast, her back to me. I whip around to Caydence, nostrils flaring.

“You’re such a fucking dick sometimes,” I snap. She feigns innocence, her eyes wide with fake surprise. I don’t care. I turn on my heel, rushing after Darcy.