Page 33 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

I prop my back against the wall beside her. “That’s why,“ I say, pointing to her. She tilts her head. “If I had told you, you’d have shut up. Not because I had experience, but because you’d feel bad that I lost it.”

Her head snaps toward me, a defensive look knitting her brows together. “That’s not true,” she testifies. “If I’d known you had a spot on the Portland Porcupines, whatever you said next wouldn’t matter.”

I force a smile. “I love that you think that’s true.”

“It is true.”

I shake my head. “That’s not what the look in your eyes says.”

She blinks rapidly, like she’s trying to flush the pity from her gaze. “What look?”

“The ‘I’m scared to break you’ look.”

“That’s not—“

“It is,” I cut in softly. “It’s how everyone looks at me when they find out.”

Going silent, her arms tuck tightly across her chest. She sits there for a moment, pondering. Finally, she speaks. “I’m not scared to break you.”

“Sure.”

She rolls her eyes, jumping off the bed with an energetic bounce. “C’mon,” she encourages, jogging in place. “I’ll prove it.”

My brows furrow as I watch her move around the room. She reaches for my phone, and before I can grab it, she’s already got it in her hands. “Hey, that’s mine!” I shoot, trying to snatch it back, but she grins and pulls it further away.

“Then get up, Coach, “ she teases. “Show me you can take it.”

I cock a brow. “Take what , exactly?”

She rolls her eyes before grabbing me by both wrists and pulling me to my feet. I stand reluctantly, crossing my arms, trying to figure out where this is going. She flips the phone toward me, silently prompting me to enter my password.

I don’t know why I comply.

She taps through my phone. I shift impatiently. “What are we doing, Peyton?”

Suddenly, music blasts through the speaker. Loudly. Very, very loudly. I lurch forward, grabbing it from her hands and slamming the pause button. She frowns.

“There’s a noise curfew,” I say pointedly. “What are you doing? Throwing a rave?”

She grins, that mischievous glint back in her eyes. “Okay, firstly, ‘Oh, Pretty Woman’ is not rave music—“ She reaches for the phone again, but I pull it away. “Secondly, these walls are sturdy. I bet they can’t even hear it outside.”

I shake my head, unimpressed. “ No. I don’t want to get a knock at the door for blasting music past curfew.”

She rolls her eyes and strolls over to her bag, rifling through it until she pulls out a pair of wired earbuds. She holds them out to me, muttering under her breath. “Such a stickler.” I take them, plugging them into my phone. Then I stare at it, confused.

“Wait, why are we playing music?”

She grins widely. “Because we’re gonna have a dance party.”

I stare at her, waiting for her to laugh. She doesn’t.

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.

“Nope.” She pops the “p”.

“Why?”

“Because,” she replies, pressing one earbud into her own ear. “Apparently, I need to prove that I’m not scared to break you. And besides, you need to dance it out.”

I blink at her skeptically. “ Dance it out?”

She shrugs like this all makes perfect sense. “Yeah. You know—“ She does a little shimmy. “Shake out all of that.” She gestures to me broadly.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I reply, holding my phone out to her. She doesn’t take it. “I’m not a dancer.”

“Well, duh ." She rolls her eyes. "That’s the point.”

“That makes no sense.”

She smiles, and without warning, she leans in and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.

My breath hitches as her fingers graze the skin of my neck, and I freeze.

She presses the second earbud into my ear, glances at my screen, and presses play.

The music floods in, and the percussion picks up with a steady beat.

Peyton starts to bounce around, her movements restrained by the length of the cord. I stare at her with an annoyed expression.

“I can’t believe you’re playing oldies,” I say, unmoving.

She frowns, mid-bounce, her messy brown hair flying around. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Nothing at all. Just—“ I pause, watching her dance with reckless abandon. “It’s a lot different than your bedroom posters or practice playlist.”

Her gaze narrows. “ Oh my god, I knew it was you,“ she accuses, but she doesn’t stop moving. She looks completely ridiculous, bouncing around, but the grin on her face is infectious. “ You changed my playlist.”

I shrug sheepishly. “Sorry. It was kinda intense. I think it made Indie nervous.”

Peyton chuckles and grabs my hand, swinging it back and forth. Her palm is warm against my glove, small but sturdy. She grips me tight, like she’s not scared to hurt me.

“Come on,” she urges, those crescents sinking around her grin. My stomach does flips again. Why is my stomach doing flips? “Bailey and I do it all the time. It’ll make you feel better.”

I stare at her, but she doesn’t give me much of a choice when she grabs my other hand, cocooning my phone between our palms. She jumps up and down, pulling me with her, and despite myself, my knees start bouncing in rhythm to the beat, as Ray Orbison belts out the lyrics.

Peyton’s head bobs, her body moving close to avoid tripping on the wire.

At first, I try to resist. I don’t want to do this, don’t want to embarrass myself more than I already have. But the more I watch Peyton jump around, the more my feet start to tap, the muscles in my legs loosening just a bit.

Next comes my shoulders, the tension in them slipping, and then my hips. The rhythm is simple but catchy, drawing me in against my will. I start to sway with it. Peyton grins like she’s won, her hair bouncing with every movement.

She tugs me closer.

I’m not dancing. Not really. It’s more like needing to scratch your back when your nail polish is still wet. My hands move around, lagging behind the music, feet shifting. Not perfect, but the way Peyton’s cheesing at me, you’d think it was.

Her amber eyes glimmer in the dim light of the cabin, her voice rising loud and off-key as she sings along.

I can’t help but laugh. She’s awful. But the way she throws herself into it, I think she knows.

And for some reason, I don’t even care about the noise curfew anymore.

She can squawk the lyrics as loud as she wants, and I’ll listen to every word.

“You sound like a dying cat.” I chuckle.

She grins. “So?”

The wire from the earbud pulls tight, nearly tugging free from our ears. She steps in to adjust the slack, releasing my hand. For some stupid reason, my heart drops. That is, until her palms settle low on my waist, looping around my hips.

She moves with the rhythm, swaying closer, breath warm against my skin. Her eyes flick up to my lips, and for a moment, everything stops.

She’s still singing, and I’m still listening, but the air in my lungs freezes, and my heart skips. I wonder if she can feel the static. If her heart is pressing against the walls of her chest, searching for the beat of mine.

As the last “pretty woman” rolls off her tongue, we stand there breathless, faces inches apart. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. Peyton’s still holding my waist, her breath still ghosting over my mouth.

Just like the locker room.

And just when I think I can’t take it anymore, when my mind is screaming at me to act, to do something, to close the space, she breaks the silence.

“You know, I have articles written about me too,” she says softly. My gaze stays trained on those plush, soft lips.

“I’m willing to bet those paint you in a better light than mine," I breathe.

A smile flickers across her face. “Sometimes.” She nods. Then her eyes tip up to meet mine, pupils swallowing the golden hue of her irises. “Sometimes not.”

I fall silent, just studying her. The slope of her button nose, the shade of her eyes. I fear that for someone who can’t stand her, I know a little too much about her every perfect detail.

My heart thuds mercilessly. Hopefully. “What do you do?” I ask, but it comes out as a whisper. “I mean, to help with it.”

That little crease sinks into her cheek, and cold air rushes to my lips as she takes a step back. “This.”