Page 45 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)
Twenty Three
Darcy
ICARUS
Do you need a lift to the rink?
ME
I'll walk.
ICARUS
Oh, come on. Let me drive you. I'm a very good driver.
ME
Somehow I believe you.
Walking is good to stretch my body after sleeping. But I'll meet you there soon.
ICARUS
I'm adding you back to the group chat btw.
ME
What
Why
Don't do that
ICARUS
Why not?
ME
I don't want to be in it
ICARUS
But that's where we make plans and shit
ME
Exactly
Really, I'm good. Don't add me.
ICARUS
Okay.
FINAL CHAT FR THIS TIME
***Captain Clarke has added you to the chat***
DARCY COLE
Seriously?
***Darcy Cole has left the chat***
***Captain Clarke has added Darcy Cole to the chat ***
DARCY COLE
Why are you like this?
And why is your name Captain Clarke?
CAPTAIN CLARKE
You can customize nicknames in the chat.
DARCY COLE
And you nicknamed yourself Captain Clarke?
CAPTAIN CLARKE
Don't be ridiculous. Bailey did it.
Wait, what was I before?
DARCY COLE
…
CAPTAIN CLARKE
You did not put me in your phone as a disease
DARCY COLE
I told you, it's not a disease.
CAPTAIN CLARKE
That's it.
***Captain Clarke has changed your nickname to Kim Possible***
KIM POSSIBLE
You did not.
CAPTAIN CLARKE
Indeed I did.
YERSIE
Aw, hi Darcy. Glad to see you finally joined the chat. ** heart emoji **
Now can y'all shut the fuck up it's 4am.
D ifferent. Word class: Adjective. Definition: Not the same as another. Origin: My mother.
At least she acts like she invented the word. It’s what she says when she’s about to do something nobody else is going to like. I know from personal experience.
Anytime my mother said our day was going to be “different” as a kid, we always ended up at the doctor, dentist, or scrubbing the bathroom floor.
So when she announces to the team that today we are going to do something “different”, every muscle in my body goes stiff.
From the looks of it, the team is also well-rehearsed on her antics.
Indie’s eyes grow wide, and Harlowe’s gaze flits around the rink, assessing.
It’s only Bailey who seems stoked, a bright grin stretching across her face.
“Today, I want to see how well the trust-building retreat worked,” she continues, slipping her hand into her pocket. My eyes stay glued to that hand. She’s got something up her sleeve. But what? I don’t yet know. “Get in two lines, standing across from the person you roomed with.”
A flurry of green and white jerseys moves across the ice, getting into formation. I simply watch from the bench, keeping my eyes trained on Peyton. She slips into line, glancing around as if I’d be on the ice. When she finally spots me on the bench, she grins, gesturing for me to come.
I shake my head, but she just keeps waving enthusiastically. Fighting back a smile that I resent for existing, I flick my gaze to my mom, who is… frowning at me?
I tilt my head, shrugging. “What?”
She skates over to me, propping a hand on her hip. “Did I imagine that you went to the retreat?” she asks.
My brows draw together, and my eyes scan the rink, confused. “No?” I pause, just long enough to realize what she’s suggesting. Immediately, I shake my head. “Absolutely not,” I start, but my mom quickly cuts in.
“Get your ass in the rink, Darce,” she orders, crossing her arms now. I just keep shaking my head, like maybe if I do it fast enough, it’ll fall off and I could avoid this whole thing.
But my mom doesn’t budge.
“I only went on the ice once, for like, twenty minutes, and—”
“—And if you can do with Clarke—” She tosses her head toward Peyton, who is staring at me with a crooked grin, “—you can do it with the rest of the team.”
A short, stressed scoff slips out of me. “I don’t even have skates—”
“Under you,” Mom interrupts, pointing under the bench.
Immediately, my expression drops. My hand digs underneath the seat, and I pull out a worn pair of skates.
My worn pair of skates.
“I got the blades sharpened, and new laces, so you should be all set.”
I just stare at them. My eyes trace the scuffed toe, up to the worn tongue. They’re falling apart. Need to be replaced. In some depressing form of poetry, they retired when I did. And yet, my mom held onto them.
When my eyes meet hers, she’s trying not to look soft. She’s failing miserably, but she’s trying.
My heart stutters as I glance around. The only person who is looking at me is Peyton. Or maybe, when her eyes are on me, they’re simply the only ones that I feel.
I swallow, letting out a steadying breath. Then I untie the new waxed laces and slip off my shoes.
When I step back onto the ice, I expect my knees to shake like they did at Pineview.
But they don’t. Instead, I glide right over to Peyton, positioning myself in line across from her, gripping a stick that my mom handed to me.
As I pass by Caydence, I hear her mutter something under her breath, but I ignore it.
“Well, well, well. Look who decided to join us.” Peyton smirks.
I roll my eyes, glancing over at my mom who still has her hand in her pocket. What is she planning?
“Did this morning not count?” I ask, still looking away. She taps her stick against the ice, clearly trying to get me to look at her, but I don’t. Looking at Peyton is distracting, and I cannot be distracted the first time I’m on the ice in front of everyone.
Especially if I want to keep up the illusion that I’m completely fine.
“No, because we didn’t even get on the ice,” she says, almost in a whine. Before I can catch myself, my eyes flick to hers. I quickly glance away, but it’s too late. She juts out her full bottom lip, and I suddenly remember how it felt between my teeth.
I swallow. “Yeah, and your muscles are going to thank me later.”
This morning was the first “session” I had with Peyton.
Instead of warming up and hopping directly on the ice like she usually does, we spent about thirty minutes stretching, then another twenty talking about how much she misses her brother.
By the time the ice skating team showed up for practice, Peyton hadn’t even stepped into the rink. She was irritated.
I was successful.
The less time Peyton spends on the ice alone, the less time she’ll spend self-sabotaging in her head.
Peyton’s lips part to respond, but a loud clap cuts in before she gets the chance. Everyone’s eyes snap to my mom, who finally pulls that hand out of her pocket and holds it in the air. I squint, focusing on the sleek strip of black fabric dangling from her grip.
“We’re going to play a game,” she says, her tone upbeat. “One person blindfolded. The other, guiding. This is about communication, intuition, and trust. Everything this team needs to win the LNHLs.”
A few chuckles float through the rink, but it’s the sound of Bailey’s voice that breaks through the noise. “Oh, Harlowe, you know all about those,” she teases, flashing her a taunting grin.
Harlowe just doubles it. “Yeah, and I can give you a lesson later if you’d like.”
“All talk, no action Yersie,” Bailey fires back.
But I can’t focus on their back-and-forth. My stomach’s already doing flips, unease creeping up my spine. Out of all the exercises, all the things my mom could have chosen, why, why did it have to be blindfolds?
As my mom starts handing out the strips of fabric, my eyes drift to Peyton. My cheeks are scalding, flushed with heat, and I’m pretty sure hers are, too, though for a very different reason. With that smirk plastered on her face, I’m sure her muscles are burning.
“Stop smiling,” I command, dragging a hand through my hair. I exhale a steadying breath, but when I look back up, Peyton’s still grinning. “It’s not funny.”
Her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek. “It’s a little funny.”
“It’s not.”
She’s still fucking smiling. “Okay. It’s not.”
“Let’s try to be civil, ” my mom’s voice cuts in as she holds out a blindfold. My gaze drops to her hand, but my body doesn’t budge. Peyton doesn’t hesitate to grab it.
“You got it, Coach,” she chimes. My mom nods, moving toward the edge of the rink.
“I’ll take it first,” Peyton says. I watch as she pulls the blindfold over her eyes, fingers fumbling with it behind her head like she can’t figure out the damn thing. She mutters under her breath, trying to get it right, but the fabric keeps slipping.
I look away, grateful that her eyes are covered because it means she can’t see the flush in my cheeks, or the outline of my heart, pounding against my chest. And as she’s standing there, her jersey loose without the padding underneath, the silky black fabric tugged over her eyes, all I can think about is that night.
Especially as she curses softly under her breath.
I remember how she whimpered my name. The way my tongue slid between the slick folds of her pussy. How her hands felt in my hair, gripping it tightly in desperation. I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I shouldn’t find myself enjoying the sight of her, all flustered and clumsy again.
But I do.
“Want some help?” I offer, forcing my tone to be cool.
Peyton’s lips curl into a pouty frown, like she’s preparing to tell me off, so I decide to step in before she gets the chance.
My gloved fingers graze against hers as she hands over the fabric, and I glide behind her, gently pulling it over her eyes.
My heart pounds heavier, and I swear, when the blindfold presses to her cheeks, her breath hitches.
That soft lavender scent fills the air as my hands move behind her head to tie the knot. The pulse in my body travels to my throat, and I swallow hard in an attempt to drown it.
“Remind you of anything?” Peyton murmurs under her breath. Mine catches, which I know was her goal, so I mentally kick myself for helping her reach it. I don’t grace her with a response. I just pull the blindfold tighter, making another tense knot.