Page 32 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

“That’s ick ,“ I clarify, and she just nods in agreement.

“Exactly.”

My eyes catch her jaw. The cut from the fight is still there, still swollen and bruised, but what makes my stomach curdle is the strange, unsettling goo seeping out of it. Shining the flashlight on it, my brows weave as I get a nauseating look.

“Oh my god, ” I mutter, voice dropping as I examine it. It looks... alive . Like it’s breathing, but not in a fresh, healing way. More like something crawled under her skin and is living there.

Peyton pulls back defensively, her hand flying to cover the cut. “Hey, “ she snaps. “Leave it alone.”

My brow flicks up, but then the sound of spilling water catches my attention. “Shit,” I mutter, stopping the pump mid-motion. I glance back at her, but she’s still covering it.

“Is that what you’ve been doing?“ I ask. “Leaving it alone?”

She tucks her free arm over her chest. “Bailey cleaned it.”

“When?”

“When it happened.”

Shaking my head, I exhale a long, frustrated sigh. I turn toward the cabin, and she follows behind, silently. “We need to clean that up,” I say, nose wrinkling as the image of it flashes in my mind again. “There’s a first aid kit inside.”

I hear a huff behind me, but she doesn’t argue.

By the time we step back into the cabin, my water bottle is nearly empty again.

The moment we’re inside, I’m already on the hunt for that white metal box.

I pull it out from beneath the bed, patting the mattress beside me for Peyton to sit.

She eyes me with suspicion but eventually collapses onto the mattress with a defeated sigh.

Rummaging through the dusty contents, I toss aside bandages and antiseptic until I find the alcohol wipes, gauze, and medical tape. I spread everything out on the shoefly quilt, and Peyton’s honeycomb eyes widen, her thick lashes snapping to her brows in alarm.

“Woah, woah.” She holds up her hands, shaking her head in a frantic, almost comical motion. “It needs to breathe.”

“Oh, it’s breathing alright,” I mutter, tearing open the alcohol wipe. “If it breathes any longer, some politician is gonna try to give it rights.”

Peyton rolls her eyes, eyeing the wipe like it might bite her. She scoots back on the bed. “Ha-ha,” she deadpans, but it’s clear she’s anything but calm. I hold the wipe up, and she visibly gulps.

“What?” I ask, eyebrow quirked.

She stares at the towelette, then throws her hands up like she’s about to launch into a lecture. Her eyes are wide, and she scoots back even farther until her back’s pressed against the wall. Her chest starts to rise and fall in quick, shallow breaths.

I grin.

“Are you… scared of an alcohol wipe?“ I tease.

Instantly, she scowls. “No,” she snaps, but her body betrays her. “I just don’t enjoy the anticipation of the sting.”

I stare at her, unable to hide the smirk tugging at my lips. “Peyton, you’re a hockey player.”

“So?”

“So, even if you don’t usually get into fights, you get beat up all the time. I mean, you took that punch like it was nothing.”

I see something flicker in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe even pride—before she doubles down. “Yeah, that’s different,” she attests. “I can take a punch.”

“But you can’t take an alcohol wipe?”

”I can .“ She crosses her arms over her chest, her defiance still palpable despite the slight tremor in her voice. I lean in with the wipe, and she panics. “Just do it fast, okay?”

“Oh, my drama, “ I groan, pressing the wipe to her skin without another word. She flinches, her face scrunching in discomfort.

“Dammit, Darcy ,“ she mutters, but after the initial contact, the tension in her body fades, and she slowly relaxes into the bed. I carefully drag the wipe over her cut, holding my breath as it oozes beneath the pressure.

“I think what you meant to say,” I start, grabbing another wipe, “is ‘thank you, Darcy.’”

Her eyes catch mine, and she tilts her head. “Thank you,” she says with exaggerated sweetness. Then, after a beat, “That sounded sarcastic, but I meant it.”

I chuckle, tossing the used wipes aside, and press the gauze gently to her cheek, taping it in place. “I know.”

A beat of silence stretches through the cabin, and then another. Finally, just when I’m about to break it, to avoid what I know is coming, Peyton beats me to it.

“Are you feeling any better?” she asks. The base of my throat begins to ache.

“I don’t really know the answer to that,” I say honestly.

The corner of her lip twitches upward, just enough for me to catch it. “I get that.”

And that’s it. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t try to drag it out anymore. She just sits there against the bed, back pressed to the wall, chewing on her cheek. So why it all suddenly slips out of me?

I don’t have an answer.

“I didn’t want to quit.”

I catch her eye, but am quickly overwhelmed. My heart pounds even heavier than before, and I glance away, waiting. For her to press, to ask the questions I know are coming. But she doesn’t. She just breathes, quiet, steady. And for some reason, that makes it easier for me to breathe too.

“The first time I noticed the pain was freshman year,” I begin.

“It wasn’t constant. Just aches, here and there.

Sometimes, my hands stung, but that was normal for me.

I didn’t really think much of it.” Suddenly, my knees feel weak, so I drop onto the bed next to her, avoiding her gaze.

“I thought it was just the intensity of it all, you know? Going from high school sports to D1, I figured some soreness was to be expected.”

Peyton watches me, listening intently. I almost wish she would talk.

Maybe if she would open that big mouth of hers, it would remind me of what a bad idea this is.

Remind me of what happened last time I trusted someone.

Of why Peyton’s the last person I should try again with.

But for once in her goddamn life, Peyton Clarke shuts up.

I didn’t know she could do that.

“Sophomore year, it got worse. I noticed my finger was kind of bent? Thought I fucked it up on the ice or something.” I shake my head, mentally cursing myself.

“I went to the doctor for muscle pain, but they said it was hormones and to eat better and exercise more. I mean, they literally told a D1 athlete to exercise more. By junior year, I was pretty miserable. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t want to tell anyone.

I was so close to landing a spot on a pro roster…

" My voice catches, and I try to laugh again, but it just comes out as a dry, humorless sound.

“So I just worked through it. The grinding joints, the weight loss, the fatigue. If I’d pushed when the doctors downplayed it, maybe I could’ve kept playing. But now my knees are toast, and my hands...”

I trail off, and Peyton’s gaze drops to the bedspread, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the quilt. I can see her debating whether or not she should ask. When her eyes meet mine, I try to soften my gaze so she knows she can.

It must’ve worked.

“What is it?” she asks softly.

“Early-onset Rheumatoid Arthritis.”

Her head kinda tips to the side, and I have to fight back a small smile. Her dark brows knit together. “I don’t… I don’t know what that is,” she admits.

I pause, considering how to best explain it. How to show her, without peeling off my gloves. Without letting her see my swollen ankles. After a second, it clicks.

I hop off the bed and rummage through my bag until I find my pill organizer. Opening tonight’s compartment, I pour the five pills into my palm.

Her eyes go wide as she watches, studying them silently.

I point at the pills one by one, ignoring the uneasiness gnawing at my stomach. “These two prevent joint damage. RA basically tells your body to attack the lining of your joints. So, if you don’t treat it—“

“Then it can damage them,” she cuts in.

I nod. “Yeah. And even fuse them together.”

Her eyes widen, and I move to the next pill. “This one’s a DMARD—“

“A what? ”

I chuckle. I never thought I’d laugh when talking about this. I’ve yelled, I’ve cried, and I’ve gone silent. But I’ve never laughed. “A disease-modifying antirheumatic drug. It does the same thing… I think? Honestly, I kinda zone out at my appointments. Don’t really trust the doctors anymore.”

Peyton flashes me an earnest glance, but I keep going, my voice steady.

I don’t understand it. Even just thinking about it sometimes causes a flare in my chest, forces my eyes to well.

So how can I suddenly let it all spill out, no Smirnoff, no tears?

It doesn’t make sense. Peyton being easy to talk to doesn’t make sense. “And these two are for the pain.”

She nods, her throat visibly working as she swallows. “Does it—sorry, you don’t have to answer that actually,” she says quickly, shaking her head.

I shrug. We’ve gotten this far. “I’ve already told you pretty much everything,” I say. “In short at least. Ask away.”

Her eyes snap back to mine, searching me. A soft worry pools in the golden flecks, and that, that right there, is what I was afraid of.

“I was just gonna ask… like, where it hurts.”

A heavy sigh slips from me before I can stop it. I grab my water bottle, twisting the cap open.

“Everywhere,” I reply quietly, and I tilt my head back, swallowing the pills with a few large gulps. I wipe my lips, nodding again. “Everywhere.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “And you can’t play anymore? Like, at all?”

I want to lie. But the last time I lied to Peyton, I didn’t enjoy it. “I can ,“ I admit, and I have to force the rest of it out. “But leisurely. And after I had to quit… I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

“That’s why you get so upset about me practicing so much,” she realizes softly. I nod.

“I lost hockey over something I couldn’t control. I couldn’t imagine losing it over something I could.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. “That morning in the rink, when you threw the puck? You could’ve shut me up so fast.” She says the last words with a half-laugh, but it fades quickly.