Page 37 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

"Look," I force the words out, my voice finally steady. "I appreciate the sentiment, okay? But I don’t need this. And frankly, I don’t want it. I’m twenty-fucking-two, and I’ve got a double knee replacement scheduled for next year.

Alright? So just please , let me be done.

" I exhale shakily. "I have to be done."

A chill surges over my gloved fingertips as Peyton releases my hand. She steps back, lowering herself onto the bench as she pulls on her skates quietly.

"Okay," she says gently. "I’ll leave you alone."

I give a sharp, half-appreciative nod, then begin to turn away, torn between crawling into my bed or seeking refuge in my mother's. But then, under the breath that I have gotten a little too familiar with, Peyton mutters:

"Wuss."

My body locks, frozen in place. A rush of blood courses through me, pooling in the tops of my cheeks.

Before I can even think, before I can remind myself that a reaction is exactly what she wants, I'm spinning around, jaw clenched, teeth grinding as the words leave my mouth in a tight rasp. "What did you just say?"

Peyton shrugs, tightening the laces on her skates before straightening her posture.

"Nothing."

Heat expands over my body, crawling down my neck, and I take a step toward her, narrowing my gaze. "No, you called me a wuss."

"I didn’t call you a wuss."

"You did."

A creak pierces the air as she opens the gate to the rink, glancing at me with a grin. "Must’ve been the wind."

My lips drop open to speak, to cuss her out, to yell, or scream, but for once tonight, my body actually decides to listen to my brain, and instead, I simply roll my eyes and turn around.

Not fucking worth it, Darcy.

I take a step, then another. But then—she meows.

Yeah. She fucking meows.

I whip back around. "What the hell are you trying to say, Peyton?"

"I have no idea what you’re talking about." She puts on an innocent act, tilting her head like a puppy.

"Fuck this," I mutter, spinning on my heel, ready to walk away. But as I start to move, she feigns a cough behind me, choking out the words:

"Scaredy cat."

That’s. It.

I storm toward her, shaking with rage, and jab my finger into her chest. "You know what? You’re really fucking immature, Peyton."

She grins, pushing off the ice and calling back over her shoulder. "I’d rather be immature than be a wuss."

"I am not a fucking wuss!" I shout, but she’s already halfway across the ice, cupping her ear, that smug grin widening.

"What was that?" she calls out tauntingly, her voice echoing off the boards. "I couldn’t hear you!"

"I said I’m not a fucking wuss!"

Peyton gestures toward me with a mocking smile as she glides to the center line. She drops the puck in front of her. "Says the woman scared of a sheet of ice."

Then she winds up and sends the puck flying straight into the goal. She spins to look at me, propping a gloved hand on her hip. "You know what I think?"

I roll my eyes. "You don’t."

She ignores me. "I think you’re just scared that you’re going to be rusty, and I’m going to be better than you."

A bitter laugh rises in my chest, tumbling out. Peyton casually glides past, the puck dangling from her fingers like a toy she’s trying to get me to chase.

God, she’s such a child.

"You’re the one who just said I was better than you, " I fire back.

"And you clarified that was past tense." She shrugs. "As of now…"

I shouldn’t let it get to me. I shouldn’t rise to her taunting. But I’m too far gone. The moment she meows again, something inside me snaps.

I grab the laces on the extra pair of skates, my fingers trembling angrily as I pull them loose. Slipping my foot in, I can feel they’re a little big, but I tug the waxed laces tight anyway, the tension of them digging into the swollen skin around my ankle.

When I grab the stick, it feels heavier than I remember. Even through my gloves, it’s cold against my palm as my fingers tighten around it, digging into the worn tape. I stand up, blades teetering as I step toward the rink.

I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, the chill nipping at my lungs.

It’s a metallic, stale scent, a mingling of sweat and ice that used to belong to me, but now I only experience it from the sidelines.

It’s different, being on it. I let the air sink to the bottom of my lungs, as if the cold can freeze all the uncertainty gnawing at me.

My heart pounds against my ribs erratically, and I reach out, fingers brushing the wall to steady myself. Then, with a sharp inhale, I step onto the ice.

The moment my blades cut into the rink, everything feels wrong. My knees are shaking, my—

My everything is shaking.

I grip the edge like my life depends on it, and if you pulled my gloves off right now, the contrast of my knuckles against the purple hue of my skin would be concerning.

I shift my weight, but the ice betrays me.

My left skate slips, and I scramble to catch myself, the thud of my knee hitting the boards as I pull myself back to my feet.

“Careful there,” Peyton calls out. I glance up, watching her skate with ease, a smirk dancing on her face. My jaw tightens.

“Fuck off,” I mumble, trying to focus on staying steady.

She was right. I’m rusty—worse than I thought I’d be. It’s not her fault, but it still feels like it is. If she hadn’t pushed me to get back on the ice, I wouldn’t even know how much I’ve fallen behind.

Peyton circles me, closing the distance with that same teasing grin. She moves fluidly, like the rink itself is listening to her commands. I used to move like that. Now, every push feels harder than the last. My breath comes out in frustrated bursts.

“Come on, Darcy, that’s all you got?” she taunts. “I thought you were supposed to be a pro.”

“Peyton,” I shoot through clenched teeth. “I am going to kick your ass .”

Peyton’s grin stretches wider, which should be impossible. “There we go,” she cheers, pointing at me. “C’mon, give me more.”

I push off the ice again, this time letting my fingers simply hover against the edge. I want to tell her to shut up, to stop making this harder. To stop wasting my energy on her cocky remarks. But when my eyes lock on hers, she’s looking at me like nothing in the world matters more than this.

“What’s your least favorite thing about me?” she continues, gliding slowly beside me. My legs keep moving, picking up pace.

“I hate how you act like you know everything,” I say without thinking. Immediately, my stomach twists guiltily, but when I look at her, she’s still grinning. She nods her head.

“What else?”

My legs move faster, as my mind races, trying to remember every single time this woman has pissed me off. “I hate that you got into a fight on the ice.”

“Good. Keep going.”

My hands hover a foot from the edge, fingers aching to keep my balance, knees slowly beginning to settle as I make a hesitant turn around the rink. A cold breath fills my lungs, the chill cutting through me as my mind skates laps, swirling with every frustrated thought.

“I hate that you’re good at your position because I really didn’t want you to be.” The words spill out. “I hate that stupid poster in your bedroom with the cats on it.” My pace picks up.

“I hate that Cleo adores you because it makes it really hard to hate you.” Faster still.

“And I hate that in the cabin, when you made me dance with you—” My gaze locks with hers, and suddenly I’m in the center of the rink, the ice gleaming beneath me like a vast, white sea. “I hate that you didn’t kiss me.”

The moment the words slip from my mouth, Peyton flicks her stick, sending the puck hurtling in my direction. It comes at me like a bullet, too fast for my mind to catch up, but my body kicks into autopilot.

Instinctively, I turn, my wrists driving forward, and the puck slams into the blade of my stick with a satisfying clack .

It ricochets, flying toward Peyton, but I don’t hear anything except the pounding pulse in my ears.

It vibrates through every inch of me, shaking my chest, rattling my ribcage, thumping in my fingertips, racing down my legs.

Peyton catches the puck with ease, halting it with the practiced tap of her stick, her grin widening as those damn smile lines crease her cheeks.

“Darcy.”

I raise an eyebrow, frustration still bubbling in my chest. “ What?”

Peyton leans her weight onto her stick, looking at me with stars in her eyes. “You’re playing hockey.”

My tongue presses against the inside of my cheek as a smile tugs at my lips, despite myself. It shouldn't be there. There’s no reason for it. And yet—

“You know I hate you, right?”

Peyton’s eyes shimmer, as she lets out a casual, “I know.”

We stare at each other for a minute, saying nothing, but eyes saying everything.

Peyton’s are saying:

I win.

While mine are responding with:

You’re a massive dick. Also, thanks.

She punctuates the conversation with a smile, then pushes backwards, tapping her stick against the ice.

“Come on,” she calls out. “Kick my ass.”

I shake my head with a laugh, propping a hand on my hip. “I think that’s enough for one night,” I say. Peyton’s eyes catch mine, and just when it looks like she’s about to give in, I lunge forward and swipe the puck from her possession.

I wish I could see the look on her face as I barrel toward the goal, but my back is turned to her as she calls out behind me. “Cheater!”

A grin breaks across my face as the wind funnels though my ears, my hair flying behind me in an auburn wave.

My pulse is fast, but my knees are steady, in spite of the burn creeping up my body.

My gaze narrows onto the net, and I can hear Peyton’s skates scraping the ice just behind me.

Before she can reach me, I wind back, and shoot.

The puck soars into the goal like it has so many times before, and still, I don’t believe it as I watch the net give way. Peyton flies past me, scooping it up with a grin.

“You totally tricked me!” She pants, broad shoulders heaving. I smirk, folding my arms.

“And you lied to me, so now we’re even.”

Peyton glides in a circle around me. “I told you,” she says, spinning the other direction. “I didn’t lie.”

Then she pushes off the ice with everything she’s got and planes toward the opposite end. My feet move after her, albeit clumsily due to the ill-fitting form of these skates. I wonder, for a second, who these even belong to, and pray it’s not Faith because she’s got a nasty case of athlete’s foot.

“Come on,” Peyton teases, skating backward. “Catch me if you can!”

The cold air stings my cheeks as I chase after her, my heart thudding against my ribcage, thighs practically melting off my body.

God, it burns so bad. But then, it burns so good.

It’s this odd blend of RA aches and second-day soreness.

Something harsh yet satisfying. Punishing yet rewarding.

Bitter yet sweet. The gap between us shrinks, and I know I’ll pay for this tomorrow, but right now, I don’t give a damn.

I just want to play.

I’m almost there, close enough to reach out, just inches from the back of her green jacket. I push forward, tilting my stick in an attempt to gain control of the puck, but then—

BAM!

Peyton plummets to the ice. It happens so fast I almost miss it. She crashes down with a dramatic thud, arms flailing as she tries to catch herself, but it’s too late. My knees rattle as I dig my skates into the ice, the cold powder spraying out from under them as I bring myself to a halt.

“Shit!” I call out, moving back over to her. “Are you okay?”

Peyton’s face down on the ice, her body shaking against the ground.

Fuck.

I lean over her, hand grazing the back of her jacket. “Peyton, are you okay?” I ask again, heart racing.

A sound comes out of her, and I don’t realize that it’s a laugh until she flips onto her back, and I see the smile stretched across her face. That cut near her lip is fresh again, though this time it’s not oozing. She continues chuckling, body shaking mirthfully as she stares up at me.

“That hurt.” She giggles. I roll my eyes, offering her a hand.

“Sounded like it,” I respond, releasing a shaky breath as subtly as I know how. I don’t need Peyton walking around thinking I care.

She eyes my hand, squinting at me, then grabs my arm with a surprising amount of strength. I shift my weight onto my heels, bracing myself to pull her up, but suddenly, I’m flying forward, tumbling on top of her with a soft thud.

She lets out another laugh, and I want to be mad, but before I can decide it’s the route I want to take, I’m laughing with her. Her hand still grips my wrist, and she looks up at me with a triumphant grin.

“Did that hurt?” she asks.

“Yes. And just so you know, when I can’t walk tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”

Peyton’s breath, warm and ragged, ghosts across my lips. Her amber eyes are like sunlight shining up at me, heating my skin everywhere they look. My eyes, first, then my lips; they trail down my neck, pausing on my chest. My breath hitches.

“I’ll give you a massage,” she says, her free hand tracing an X over her heart. “Scout’s honor.”

I try to push myself up, palms slipping on the ice, but a gentle pressure holds me down. Her hand rests on the small of my back. Every instinct screams at me to break free, to regain control. But my muscles refuse to obey.

She brushes a stray strand of hair behind my earmuffs, the touch sending an ironically warm shiver down my spine. I’m sure I look ridiculous right now, hovering over her, headband slipping sideways, but she just smiles at me.

“Do you still want me to kiss you?” Peyton murmurs. My hand cups the side of her face in a silent admission.

It’s been months since I’ve touched someone like this. Since I’ve kissed anyone. Eight to be exact. And if anyone else were asking, I’d say no. I’d make up an excuse—say I have mono, or cold sores, or just inhaled a family-sized bag of Doritos. Anything that would put this possibility to an end.

But none of that comes out.

And for some, demented reason, I can’t think of anything I’d want to do more than kiss Peyton Clarke right here on the ice.

“Just do it, Clarke.”

She doesn’t wait another beat. No hesitation, no delicate tap-in. This isn't some polite peck. This is a sudden death overtime kind of kiss. A full-on declaration of unequivocal intent.

Her mouth crashes against mine, and whatever air I believed I was holding onto slips right through me. The ice beneath might as well be a tropical beach, because the frost is gone, melted away by the scorching, delirious heat of her body.

This isn't just a game anymore. This is a high-stakes, breathless showdown. A winner-takes-all kind of exchange. Every argument, every witty barb, this is the culmination. This is sudden death, and like I said before, I don’t like to lose.