Page 36 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Nineteen

Darcy

M y legs are about to fall off, and when they do, Peyton Clarke will be listed as the cause of death.

I haven’t worked out this much since March, and it’s definitely showing.

My thighs feel like they’ve been run over by a truck, a thousand tiny knives prod at the tendons in my ankles, and every time I shift in bed, my hip gives a loud, sharp pop.

It would've been nice to know I didn't need to go on the hike earlier. But then again, if I knew, I probably wouldn’t have gone. And even though hiking isn’t my usual scene—especially since being diagnosed—I’m still a little proud of myself.

Because damn it, I did the thing. Even if my legs are now plotting their revenge.

I can only imagine how much worse they’d feel if Peyton hadn’t let me borrow her foam roller when we got back.

I roll uncomfortably, fingers tightening around the worn edges of my book. A soft laugh escapes me as I remember Peyton’s comment from earlier—how I didn’t seem like the “romance type.”

Honestly, it couldn’t be farther from the truth. I was always the girl who lived for Valentine’s Day parties at school. The one who went to homecoming with my friends, secretly hoping my crush would ask me to dance (she didn’t). I blame my parents for turning me into a hopeless romantic.

What they have is completely unrealistic.

Which is why I’d rather devour Aria Petrov forcing a Windy City billionaire onto his knees, than try to date in real life. Well… partially why.

Thankfully, my mom let us all break away from our “buddies” for the rest of the last day of the retreat.

Which was fine by me because Peyton was starting to get back on my nerves.

Every time I’d pick this damn book up, she’d open her mouth about my Autoimmune Hockey League.

She wouldn’t stop asking questions until I threatened to sleep outside.

Last I saw, she was off with Lena and Harlowe, lumbering through the woods.

With the flip of my page, the cabin door swings wide open. Peyton stumbles inside, her amber eyes wide as saucers.

“You’ve gotta come with me,” she blurts before I can even get a word in.

I blink up at her. “What’s going on?”

“Just grab your coat,” she orders, turning back toward the door.

Every hair on my body stands, my heart climbing into my throat. I sit up quickly, my body aching in protest while my mind runs laps around it. “What? Peyton, what’s going on?”

She glances over her shoulder, and I’ve never seen such an urgent look in her eye. “Just trust me. You need to see something.”

Her earnestness is enough to make me move.

I swing my legs off the bed, shoving my feet into my slides as I grab my baby blue jacket from the back of the door and throw it on.

I follow her out of the cabin and into the crisp night air.

The chill baptizes me, but it doesn’t seem to bother Peyton as she leads the way across the grounds.

Her pace is hurried, and I try to ignore the soreness in my legs as I match it.

“Peyton, seriously, what’s going on?” I ask, pulling my earmuffs from my pocket and tugging them on.

She keeps her gaze straight ahead, her footsteps never faltering. “You’ll see when we get there.”

My pulse thrums in my ears, the heavy thud rattling my sternum, and I don’t really know that I want to find out what this is, but at this point, I don’t have a choice. So I keep moving. If Peyton is acting this frantically, it must be important.

The path opens up, and suddenly the rink is in front of me. The ice is so white it almost hurts to look at, bathed in the cold light from the overhead lamps, the quiet hum of the refrigeration system buzzing in the night.

Peyton strides ahead purposefully, her silhouette cutting against the shimmering rink.

As my feet slow, my eyes sweep the empty ice.

It’s untouched. There's nothing. No commotion, no team member collapsed or clutching a knee, no late-night emergency that would make sense of why I’m here.

No scuffling feet, no shouting, just a perfect stretch of ice waiting for something to break it.

My chest heaves as I look around, spinning in every direction, so sure, so confident that I am missing something.

My eyes fall anxiously onto Peyton, searching for answers, and that’s when I see it.

The two pairs of skates, the two sticks, resting neatly on the bench beside her.

A searing flush rushes to my cheeks, my heart thundering hard enough to drown out the buzzing overhead. My stomach is concrete, sinking to the bottom of my body, crumbling when it hits the cold hard ground as I realize exactly what’s going on.

She set me up.

I storm toward her, cheeks burning against the biting chill.

"You lied to me," I snap.

Peyton raises her hands in defense, the whites of her eyes growing. "Wait, wait, woah," she counters, but her calmness only fans the flames flickering inside me. "I didn’t lie to you."

I grab one of the sticks, the cool of the fiberglass seeping through my gloves as I shove it angrily into her chest. "Then what is this?" An ache claws at the chords in my throat, and I do everything I can to steady them, though my words still tumble out jagged. "You said it was urgent."

Peyton runs a hand through her hair, forcing a guilty smile. "To be fair, that’s subjective,” she says, but I’m done being placated.

My eyes narrow and I take another step forward. “So when I try to give you advice, I’m ‘nosy,’ but when you do it, it’s ‘urgent’?” I toss the stick back down on the bench with a clatter. "You don’t know what you’re doing, so just stay out of it , Peyton."

I turn away, the raw ache in my throat swelling, threatening to suffocate me.

I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have let her keep believing I was a quitter, that I had truly moved on from all of this.

I should have allowed everything to unravel as it was, slipping from this situation, from this job, to live the rest of my miserable life that I had mapped out for myself since March.

I feel foolish.

Fucking stupid, actually, for not anticipating this. For not seeing Peyton’s stubborn, relentless nature, and recognizing that I would be nothing more than a project, a way for her to prove something to herself, to inflate her own fragile ego.

Tears well in my eyes, but I swipe them away quickly, my breath trembling as I force myself to step forward. But before I can take another, Peyton’s voice cuts through behind me.

"I’ve seen your stats."

I freeze.

Every ounce of air in my lungs deserts me, my heart sinking to the vacant spot where my stomach used to lay. My teeth scrape together, rattling my skull when my jaw tenses. She had no right to look at my records. No fucking right.

"I don’t want to talk about this, Peyton," I mutter instead, trying to stay calm. This is what she wants. To piss me off. To push me.

I can’t see her, but from the sound of her voice, from the soft crunch of fallen leaves beneath her feet, I can tell she’s taken a step closer. "You’re not just good. You’re better than every single person on this team, including me."

Tears roll down my cheeks again—fucking traitors—and despite every instinct in my body telling me to walk away, to knock on my mom’s cabin, to fall apart in her arms like I’ve done so many times this year, I turn around.

My arms cross tightly, as if that will do anything to shield me from the prying arrogance of Peyton Clarke.

“ Was," I say, looking her straight in the eye as tears pour from mine. "I was."

Peyton steps closer, and the hairs on my arms rise, a shiver skittering down my spine. My breath hitches, ragged and weak, but I force myself to meet her gaze.

“See, I knew you were going to say that,” she says, and I can hear the smug certainty in her voice. She thinks she knows me. Thinks she’s figured me out. “And I think that’s part of your problem. You—”

"Oh my god!" My hands tremble as I pinch the bridge of my nose, a humorless laugh slipping out. "Are you seriously going to try and tell me what my problem is?” I shake my head, blinking back the wetness in my eyes. “Just because I told you doesn’t mean you get it. It doesn’t mean you know me. You can’t fix me, Peyton. "

She stops. Like for once, for one goddamn second in her privileged life, she’s considering that she might not know everything. But of course, it doesn’t last. Her voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its tenacity.

“I know.” She hesitates, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“I can’t make this better. I can’t fix what you’re dealing with, and it kills me.

I know it’s the last thing you want to hear, but you deserve to know.

And it doesn’t kill me because I think you’re fragile.

” Her gaze steadies, pressing but not daring.

“It’s because you’re not. You’re stubborn, and resilient, and because of that, the fact that you’ve given up.

.. I know this is unimaginably shitty. It’s fucking unfair.

And I can’t change it. I can’t make it go away. ”

She steps closer, her subtle lavender scent encircling me. That throbbing ache tugs at my throat again, but this time, I fight it back. Peyton’s hand reaches out, and I should pull away, but my body doesn’t even flinch when her fingers intertwine with mine.

"I can’t give you your career back. I can’t take away your pain. But I would never forgive myself if I didn’t try. If I didn’t do everything I could to make this easier for you. Even just a little."

Her hand squeezes mine, and every nerve in that arm sparks hot. Her golden eyes look up, soft and round, and I almost believe her. That Peyton just cares. That she’s only doing what she thinks is right.

But when has trust ever played out in my favor?