Page 46 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

When she thanks me, I realize that I haven’t let go. I quickly drop my hands back to my side, pulling my stick from the hold between my thighs and gliding back into place across from her on the ice.

The crack of sticks against pucks echoes through the rink, and I glance around, watching the rest of the team beginning to play. I suck in a slow breath, letting the cold air sink to the very bottom of my lungs, and feeling them expand, my chest rising and rising, until finally, it collapses again.

“Alright, I’ll guide you,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. But there’s a slight waver in my voice when my eyes fix on her again. “Just... follow my voice, okay?”

She nods, and her back straightens as she adjusts her stance.

“Ready?” I ask.

She flashes me a cocksure grin. “Always.”

I hit the puck toward her, calling out “left” as it glides toward the side. She stretches, her stick swinging just a second too late. The puck slips past her, clinking against the boards.

“Shit,” Peyton mutters frustratedly. I skate over the puck, scooping it up, and getting back in line. Even with the blindfold, I can tell she’s embarrassed. A warm flush peeks from beneath the fabric, her jaw tight.

“Let’s try again,” I say, and she nods.

I push another pass to her, letting her know it’s a direct path, and this time, she’s too quick. Her stick swings before the puck reaches her, and it slides into the boards with another dull thud.

“Come on,” she mutters to herself, her voice a little sharper this time. It’s clear that as patient as she can be with others, Peyton has no patience left for herself. I clear my throat, reminding myself of our agreement.

“Think before you move,” I say. “Listen for the hit, but don’t react until you know where the puck is at.”

Peyton groans, frustration clear in the way she slaps her stick on the ice.

Her shoulders are tense, her posture tighter.

“Is everyone else missing?” she asks. I glance at the team, Caydence and Harlowe are passing the puck like dinner rolls, while Indie and Faith fumble a bit, but still catch some.

A frown begins to creep across my face; I don’t enjoy being bad at things either, but if I tell Peyton that everyone else is making it work, she’ll just spiral more.

So I hold back a sigh, biting down on my own frustration and turn back to her.

“Don’t worry about them,” I say, my tone softer this time. “Just trust me, okay?”

“Remember, communication!” my mom calls, the reminder echoing across the rink. “Trust each other. That’s what this is about.”

Trust.

It’s a two-way street. One I haven’t driven down since Minnesota. That is, until Peyton.

Her free hand moves in a wave as she inhales steadily, lips pursed and practiced.

“You okay?” I ask, and I mean it. She scratches her cheek, letting out one last breath.

“Yeah, it’s just harder than it looks. I don’t like that you can see everything I’m doing, and I can’t see you.”

I nod silently.

If it were me, starting out with the blindfold on, having to trust Peyton to make passes I could catch, I don’t think I’d be doing much better.

I’ve been watching her on the ice for a month now, but I’ve only played with her once, leisurely.

I don’t know all the ways she moves. How she tends to aim.

But I do know that sometimes, I wish people could step into my shoes. So I do the same for her.

“I’m closing my eyes,” I announce, fingers tightening around the foreign stick.

Peyton’s voice spills out in a panic. “What? No, that’s a terrible idea. How are we going to—”

“Peyton.” I say her name slowly, softly.

Like I’m savoring it. It melts in my mouth and leaves an aftertaste that makes me crave another bite.

“Don’t worry about what everyone else is doing.

Block it out.” I sigh, adjusting my stance as I stare at the back of my eyelids.

“Nothing else matters. Just me and you, alone together.”

She goes silent. All I hear is the sound of the other players, back and forth. Another heavy sigh slips from her lips, and I take a moment to do the same.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Alone together.”

The familiarity of technique flicks from my shoulder, down to my stick. The puck barrels toward her, this time with more intention, and to my surprise, I hear a click. Not against the wall of the rink. This is lighter, louder, and when my eyes flutter open, the puck flies right past me.

"I hit it!" she exclaims, and her excitement is infectious. A smile breaks across my face, and I quickly skate to retrieve the puck. When we get back in line, we start again.

I hit it toward her, with more confidence this time, and close my eyes, listening to the ice beneath our skates, the subtle shift of her body as she positions herself.

Her stick moves, and then the sharp clack of it hitting the puck echoes in the rink.

This time, it's clean, and the sound is clearer.

I can't stop the smile that pulls at my lips as the sound of the puck against the ice grows nearer. I’m ready. This time, I strike it back with the same energy, trying to match the rhythm we’re suddenly finding.

But when I swing my stick, my timing is just off enough that the puck veers wide, sliding past Peyton with a whoosh. The mistake is small, but in the silence that follows, my heart races, hoping she doesn’t hear the tinge of disappointment in my own breath.

But Peyton just laughs softly, the sound warm and light. "That was close," she chuckles, then pauses. “Are your eyes still closed?”

“Yes,” I answer, then they flutter open. “Again?”

She nods. And when that crooked smile breaks across her face, I feel warm.

When we start again, we both move a bit more deliberately, like we’re learning how to dance without stepping on each other's toes.

"Good work, girls," my mom calls from across the rink, and I expect it to startle whatever communication, whatever trust is flowing between Peyton and I, but it doesn’t.