Page 43 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Twenty Two

Peyton

CAPTAIN CLARKE

Is anyone coming with me to the chess tournament tomorrow?

Also: Prepare for The Hunt.

HAMMIE

Lena Z and I were gonna go

Wait, already????

YERSIE

Fuck yeah

Z

Wtfff I thought you said you picked a good spot last time

brADY

We did! Kai is a cheater, I swear.

ROSE

Prepare for the what?

“ I t’s gotta be around here somewhere!” Bailey shouts from halfway across the stadium.

Her head disappears into the rows of seats like a leprechaun hunting for a pot of gold.

Only, the pot of gold is an eight-year-old mouthguard case.

It’s an old, dirty time capsule, still containing the overused mouthguard of Lachlan Hunt.

Lachlan Hunt, now the starting left-winger and team captain for the Boston Boas, is the guy. The one who’s, according to ESPN Magazine , “The best thing to happen to the Boas since Harrison Clarke.”

It’s disgusting, covered in who-knows-what, but it’s part of this ridiculous ongoing shtick we have with the men’s team since Hunt left for the NHL.

The game is simple: One team hides the case somewhere so well that not even the cleaners can find it, and the other team has to track it down.

Last year, they hid it in an electrical panel in the floor, and we didn’t find it until six weeks ago, right as the season started.

Caydence, Harlowe, and I hid it by the penalty box after that, and this morning, Kai sent a group message letting us know the case has been re-hidden once again.

“Maybe you should ask the ghost,” Harlowe calls from seven rows back. Then her nose wrinkles. “Wait! I think I smell it!”

We’re all combing through the stands, Mister included, looking for the damn thing. I drop to my knees, peeking under the seats when I hear a voice above me.

“What’s going on?”

I try to sit up, but the back of my skull slams into the bottom of the stadium seat. Clutching my head with a wince, I squint up at Darcy.

She laughs.

“Shit, are you okay?” she asks, still giggling.

I want to scowl. To point out how, once again, she's reveling in my discomfort, but the sound is so bright, so unexpected, all I can do is grin. I wasn’t sure when the next time I’d hear that laugh would be. Especially after what happened.

The heat of her breath, the taste of her lips, the low growl in her voice… It’s all I can think about.

I shake myself out of it and straighten my spine. "I'm good." I stand up, pulling my hair into a bun—because practice is about to start, and definitely not because I’m now sweating.

Darcy nods, still scanning the arena as my twenty teammates rummage through the stands. She looks back at me, brow quirking in a wordless question.

“They’re on the Hunt Hunt,” I explain, tugging the hair band tighter until I feel a strand of hair snap free from my scalp.

Ouch.

“The what?” Darcy’s brows furrow, the freckle between them vanishing. A soft chuckle slips out as I watch confusion pool in those evergreen eyes.

Yeah, pretending nothing happened? Not possible. All I can think about right now is the idea of making those eyes roll back for me.

“The Hunt Hunt,” I repeat. “Us and the guys hide Lachlan Hunt’s old mouthguard in the stands, and then we take turns finding it.” I pause, waiting for the confused wrinkle on her forehead to smooth out.

It doesn’t.

“Wait, you guys are looking for a mouthguard? For someone who was drafted to the NHL like… what… seven years ago?”

“Eight.”

Darcy shakes her head, the wrinkle deepening as more rays appear across her nose. “That’s disgusting.”

I shrug nonchalantly. “Yeah.”

Her eyes catch mine. I want to tell her how good she looks in that outfit—a blue-striped turtleneck, tapered jeans, and these dark blue gloves that I hate because they’re covering her hands.

Darcy’s usually in some form of sweatpants, and don’t get me wrong, she pulls them off well, but it’s also nice to see her a little dressed up.

She looks more confident. Glowing, even.

But before I get the chance to compliment her, she spins around and starts heading down the stairs.

“Alright, let’s start warm-ups!” she calls. A collective groan ripples through the team.

“Give me three more minutes!” Harlowe begs, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. I laugh, and Darcy just shakes her head.

“Sorry, we’ve got a schedule to keep.”

Harlowe flashes me an annoyed look, and I just shrug, jogging down the stairs toward the ice.

The entire time we warm up, Darcy is staring. Not at me, though. She’s staring at that clipboard. At her project. I swear, her eyes don’t leave the page once. I don’t even think she blinks. It’s like she’s superhuman.

Which would make sense, because no normal person should look this good under fluorescent stadium lights.

Her long red hair tumbles down her chest, freckled lips moving in a mesmerizing motion as she chews the edge of her pen while she thinks. Her—

Shit.

She’s looking at me.

I’m pretty sure the expected thing to do when you’re caught staring at a pretty girl is to look away. But why the hell would I deprive myself of the little quirk at the corner of her mouth when her eyes catch mine?

She looks back down at her pages, cheeks flushing as she forces her expression to harden.

Yeah, I don’t think she’s going to be able to pretend either.

“Alright team!” Coach claps her hands, the sound bouncing off the chipped plexiglass boards. “Let’s get into some drills!”

T he bead of sweat dripping down my face tickles my cheek, my chest heaving hard as I step off the ice. Practice ended nearly an hour ago, but the ice skating team has a competition at Glacier today, so there was a gap between our practice and the guys’.

Kai fist-bumps me as the men’s team funnels in, and I tap my earbuds to bring the loud ringtone in my ears to a halt.

“Hello?” I say through the mic.

“Hey Peanut!” My dad’s cheery voice fills my ears, and I can’t help but smile.

We’re pretty close, Dad and I, but neither of us really care to talk over the phone often.

Mostly because I’m busy, and he likes to think about things before he says them out loud.

Avery and I are more like our mom in that way.

We say whatever comes to mind. Most of the time. “How was practice?”

I wipe the sweat off my face with my sleeve. “It was good.”

“Good, good.” He pauses for a beat, then another. “Not overworking yourself I hope.”

“Huh? No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “How’s Ayve and Mom?”

“They’re good. We’re all good. Avery’s excited for you to come for Christmas.”

“He didn’t say that,” I reply pointedly, like I know it for a fact. Which I do, because Avery’s candidness doesn’t exactly reflect his affection toward people.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s super sweet, if you can look past him pointing out a giant zit on your forehead, or the persistent, antagonizing smirk tugging at his lips.

I think I have that too, I’m just more bubbly so I can play it off.

Still, when you really get to know him, you’ll realize he’d do anything for you.

Avery hates the rink. He can’t stand the cold, the smell of the rubber, or the hum of the refrigeration system.

To this day, he refuses to go to any games or practices.

But there was this one time, when I was seven, that he had no choice but to show up.

My mom and him had just come from a doctor’s appointment, and she wanted to drop off lunch for my dad and me.

Avery was up in the stands, sulking, when I slammed into the boards.

He didn’t even think twice. He was on the ice before anyone could blink, wearing nothing on his feet but worn Clifford sneakers.

Of course, he slipped and banged his head before he could even reach me and ended up with a concussion instead.

But he tried. He tried to get to me before anyone else could. And that’s been his way ever since.

My dad pauses, considering. “No, he didn’t. But I know he is. He came by with Pumpkin yesterday and asked what day you’d be here.”

“That makes me feel honored, actually.”

A laugh escapes him. “It should.” Another pause. “How are you feeling about the con tournament? Think you guys have a chance this year?”

My cheek goes raw between my back teeth as I gnaw mercilessly, all the muscles in my body stiffening. Heaviness creeps into the center of my abdomen, digging its way into my stomach, and dragging it down, down, down.

How am I feeling about the LNHLs?

Like I’m going to vomit.

“Yeah,” I say, pausing to buy time.

My dad was recruited to the NHL four days after his eighteenth birthday. I’m twenty-one.

Granted I know it’s different as a woman.

The NHL is never going to seek me out in a draft, and the PWHL was founded when I turned nineteen.

Logistically, I could never mimic the pace of my dad’s career.

And I don’t want to. But when I see articles flying around about Harrison Clarke’s Legacy, I get stressed.

What if this is as far as I make it?

The thought claws at the back of my mind, sinking its nails deeper and deeper until it climbs its way to the front.

Part of me wants to pretend I’m okay with that.

A small league, just enjoying the game, no pressure.

But the other part, the part that’s been silently screaming at me for years, knows that it would prove what I’ve feared all along.

That I’m only here because of my dad.

If the Sabertooths see something in me, if they decide I’m worth it, maybe, just maybe, I’ll feel like I’ve actually earned this.

I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to keep the panic at bay.

“Yeah, it’s, um... I really think this is the year!” I try to sound upbeat, but my voice shakes, and my heart pounds against my chest like it's trying to escape. I swallow hard, willing the anxiety back down into my stomach. Willing the water out of my lungs.