Page 47 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Twenty Four

Peyton

“ T his is Avery. Don’t leave a message. I won’t listen. Just text me.”

A loud beep blares in my ear. I start talking, because no good little sister ever follows instructions from her brother, and even though Avery hates voicemails, I know he always listens to mine.

“Hey, Ayve, it’s me,” I say, pulling my baggy Nirvana tee over my head.

Damp strands of hair cling to my neck as I tug it the rest of the way down, the scent of my lavender shampoo losing its battle against the ripe scent of sweaty skates and freshly used shin guards.

The team funnels happily out of the locker room, dragging their sore feet, excessively exhausted from training with Kaiser.

Harlowe waves dramatically, off to butt heads with Clay Matthews in front of a bunch of six year olds.

“Just checking in to see how you’re doing. Dad says Pumpkin is still alive, which is…honestly…kind of… alarming . Anyway, haven’t heard from you in a while. Text me. Love—”

A sharp ding cuts me off. I pull the phone back, checking the screen.

Caydence Wright sent you a message.

I press the phone back to my ear. “Love you, dickwad,” I finish, then hang up and glance around the room.

Most of the locker room’s cleared out now; just Darcy, flipping through her post-practice notes, and Indie, swapping her beat-up black laces for new dark green ones for Wednesday’s game in Salem.

She changes her laces before every game.

Hockey superstition, I guess. I roll the cool gel deodorant across my armpits and collapse onto the bench, tapping the notification.

CAY

Saw this article. Thought you might want to know what people are saying.

There’s a link attached. A link I know by now I shouldn’t click on.

I know what Caydence is doing. What she’s been doing.

She was pissed when I got Captain over her, especially since she’s a senior.

It’s why she’s had an extra long stick up her ass this season.

I know she’s angry. I know her weird fixation on Darcy’s past is probably just another angle in her long-game revenge plan for me. She’s trying to hurt me.

Freshman year taught me exactly what happens when you read something about yourself that hasn’t been vetted by someone who gives a damn. And Caydence definitely doesn’t.

But because I’m in the business of self-sabotage (as Darcy so kindly pointed out during one of our early practices) I click on it anyway.

A bold black headline fills the screen:

Is Hockey Royalty Losing the Crown? Daughter of NHL Hall-of-Famer Harrison Clarke Misses Again

A thousand pebbles drop into my stomach, one at a time at first, then all at once. They weigh me down, getting heavier and heavier until I’m sure my gut’s resting flat against the cold concrete floor.

That should be enough to stop me from reading any further.

But like I said, I’m in the business of self-sabotage.

And actually, I own the damn company. So I keep reading.

In what’s starting to feel like a familiar pattern, GU Women's Hockey Captain Peyton Clarke came up empty in Saturday night’s third period, sailing a clean look wide during a tied game against Pacific West College.

I pause, swallowing, but the dry lump forming in the base of my throat sticks. At least they used my name this time , I think.

Though Clarke has worn the “C,” in every game this season, it’s unclear to some whether she’s earned it with merit, or whether her father, Boston Boas Legend Harrison Clarke, has done the heavy lifting.

While there’s no denying she’s inherited raw talent, finishing seems to be a consistent struggle for the 21-year-old center.

A scoff slips out of me, and I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, unable to pry my tired eyes from the screen. I scored twice in that game—one being a Michigan (do you know how hard that is?)—but of course, they only focused on the one shot I didn’t make.

There’s no winning. Even when I give it everything—no reckless moves, no game-losing mistakes—they still find something to tear apart.

A hot, damp feeling swells in my lungs, like I’m breathing in mist, and I start to cough and choke as I keep reading.

Her father built a career on finishing. She’s built hers, so far, on not. Meanwhile, Kai Robinson—son of Carolina Cougars legend Wes Robinson—has had no trouble finding the back of the net for the men’s GU team. Robinson is set to join the NHL after this season, ending his NCAA career with a bang!

Which raises the controversial question: does legendary talent transfer the same way when it’s passed down to daughters?

That feeling in my throat tightens, a series of wet coughs slip out, and I can’t tell if my eyes are watering from choking or from the article.

I’m blaming the choking.

“Cheese and crackers! Cap!” Indie barrels across the room. “You alright?”

I nod, trying not to laugh at Indie’s substitutes for cuss words, which only makes me choke more.

I start to actually get scared I’m going to suffocate, so I motion weakly for my water bottle.

She spins in place, scanning for it. She doesn’t find it, I realize, when I start drinking and the water tastes suspiciously clean.

Definitely not mine .

“Shit! Are you okay?” Darcy’s soft voice breaks through the haze, a blur of a red entering my vision. Still half-choking, I nod, tipping my head back and letting the pristine water scrape down the tightness in my throat.

It takes half the bottle, and a couple embarrassing hacking sounds to clear the constriction, but finally, I start to breathe.

“I’m fine,” I rasp, my throat raw, chest sore. I hand the green squeezy bottle back to Indie, wiping my wet eyes on my shoulders.

“Thanks, Rose,” I manage. She shoots me a concerned smile. “Also, your water tastes like it’s been blessed by a thousand non-pedophilic priests.”

Her grin deepens. “I scrub it out every day.”

Suddenly, I wonder when the last time I scrubbed my water bottle was. Too long.

Much too long.

“Are you okay?” she asks again, tilting her head to the side.

I nod. “Get out of here,” I say. “Hammie’s waiting for you in the car to go grab some food.”

Her feathered brows furrow. “You’re not coming?”

I shake my head. “I’ve got some homework to catch up on.”

After Indie says goodbye, dragging her duffel bag behind her, Darcy collapses onto the bench beside me, looking at me like I’ve just sucked out her soul.

“What was that about?” she asks, and though she’s trying to hide it, I can hear the worry in her voice. Despite the sinking feeling in my chest, and my stomach, and just about everywhere else in my body, I force a smile.

“You were worried,” I say with a shit-eating grin.

Darcy rolls her pretty ivy eyes. “Was not,” she replies defensively. “It would just look bad if you died next to me.”

“Indie was a witness,” I point out. “She’d never lie on the stand.”

Darcy smiles, but it’s only halfway there. “Something’s bothering you,” she says.

Not asks. Says. Like it’s a fact. Which it is, but she shouldn’t know that. I clear my throat, shifting on the hard bench, suddenly wishing Indie were still here to baptize my esophagus with her priest-approved water.

“No,” I lie, because without holy water in my mouth, I’m fully capable of lying through my teeth. It’d be useless anyway. Darcy is the self-appointed—and me -appointed—Antichrist. Holy water or not, she sees right through it.

“What’s that?” She gestures to my phone, which is still clenched in my hand, screen lit up, that article front and center. I could turn it off. Slide it into my lap. Pretend it's nothing.

But then I think about practice the other day.

How she stepped into my shoes like they fit.

How she laced them up without hesitating, even though they were muddy from my perpetual fear of being watched and judged which is all my life has ever been.

And I remember hers too. The ones I borrowed when the article about her was shared.

We didn’t talk about it much, but I walked in them anyway. Blisters and all.

At this point, we’re basically sharing athlete’s foot.

So I let out a resigned sigh and hand her the phone.

I’ve never seen that freckle on her forehead disappear so fast. It’s like it got sucked into the vacuum of space the second her eyes hit the screen. And for not the first time since I met Darcy Cole, I’m reminded of the existence of green flames.

Her gaze flicks back to me, face growing red. “This is misogynistic bullshit! ” she explodes, flinging her arm out angrily which makes me briefly concerned for the safety of my cell phone. “You know this is bullshit, right?”

I nod slowly, taking the phone from her gorilla-gripped gloves. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

And I do.

I know it’s bullshit.

But for some reason, knowing doesn’t help as much as you’d think.

And judging by the fact that Darcy’s now pacing, cheeks flushed, freckled nostrils flaring, I’d say she feels the same.

“I don’t even know how stupid shit like that gets published! Like, hockey is plenty interesting without stupid fucking —”

“Darcy, it’s fi—”

“No!” she barks. “No, it’s not ‘fine’! Because they take perfectly good players, players who say nothing wrong, do nothing wrong, and always have to—they always have to—”

She snorts.

Like a pig.

An angry pig.

And it’s adorable.

“...Criticize them?” I offer.

“Criticize them!” she finishes.

I roll my lips inward to bite back a smile as Darcy collapses back onto the bench.

A slight hiss escapes her, which I now know means her knees are bothering her, but I don’t dare point it out.

A piece of hair falls from her long red dutch braid, and she blows the strand out of her eyes with an irritated huff.

“Peyton,” she says, her eyes locking with mine. Feathers stir in my stomach when she says my name, tickling me from the inside. “You played amazing that night. You were fast, and vigilant, and—” She sighs, her voice softening. “Sometimes, I can tell you’re trying to play like your dad.”

My heart sinks.