Page 49 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Twenty Five

Darcy

I miss the Grizzly Grind.

I miss the little string lights tangled across the ceiling, twinkling like homemade constellations.

I miss the community bulletin board layered in out-of-date flyers, their pull-tabs long vanished into pockets and wallets and lint traps of laundromat dryers.

I miss the slow jazz trickling from the gramophone in the corner, and the chipped bookshelves stuffed with used textbooks and copies of Wuthering Heights.

But mostly, I miss the coffee.

When I first moved to Minnesota, I told myself the only thing I’d ever miss about Seattle was my parents.

But now, standing in a hotel hallway in Salem, Oregon, clutching a repulsive cup of Keurig sadness, I realize how I might’ve underestimated how many pieces of it are worth missing.

And that, maybe, calling Seattle “home” again isn’t the worst thing in the world.

I shift the hot cup from hand to hand, letting the warmth of it absorb into my gloves. This coffee is too bitter, this hallway too beige, and I am much too awake for someone who isn’t being paid for this.

Though, I suppose pitching my nonsensical concept of autoimmune hockey to someone who might actually make it real is a pretty solid form of payment in itself.

I check my phone.

3:44AM.

This is criminal. Actually criminal. I should be dreaming about The Walter Cup or better coffee or kissing someone I shouldn’t.

Not standing outside Peyton’s hotel room.

But a deal’s a deal. And as I found out yesterday morning, before the win against the Copper Coast Cobras, Peyton’s early morning practices do not stop. Not even in Salem, Oregon.

She’s exhausting.

And unfortunately, I might be into it.

Not a minute later, Peyton’s door swings open.

Despite her usual sleek black early-morning practice clothes, and the heart-attack inducing bubblegum energy drink gripped in her hands, she looks beat.

Her dark hair hangs limp and oily, the bags under her eyes purple puffs, and her eyelids look like they’ve forgotten how to be eyelids.

“Morning,” she yawns, arms stretching out as her duffel bag slips down her shoulder. I blink.

“Morning,” I echo hesitantly. My eyes scan her body, brow quirking in concern. “You sure you’re up for this?”

She hoists the bag back over her shoulder and steps into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her.

“Yes, why?”

“You just look…” I trail off, scrunching my nose as the smell hits.

It’s equally familiar and disgusting; the rotten funk of sweaty gear and worn-out skates.

There’s no lavender to balance it out this time.

Just pure, unfiltered hockey stench. “ Tired. Hey, umh—did you shower after the game last night?”

Peyton shakes her head. “No.” She pauses, catching my recoiled expression. “Is it that bad?”

I think for a moment how to gently say she smells like fermented jill shorts marinated in dumpster juice and sea brine and decide to go with: “Yes.”

She lifts her arm, sniffs her pit, and reacts with an indifference only a lifelong athlete could manage. Her mouth opens, probably to argue that it’s “not that bad”, but I pluck the keycard from her fingers, swipe it, and push the door back open.

Peyton sighs, but shuffles in without a fight.

Seven minutes later, the door swings open again. Her skin is dewy, hair damp and detangled, and the stench is replaced by that soft, powdery lavender.

“Better?” she asks.

I nod and hand her the sad paper cup of lobby coffee I retrieved while she showered. She pounds the last ounce of her energy drink, tosses the can into the trash, and accepts it with a grateful nod.

“Better,” I say, then point to her duffel. “You won’t be needing that, though.”

Peyton’s brows pinch. “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “I mean you don’t need it.”

Her warm golden eyes, now slightly more awake, study me like she’s waiting for the punchline.

I don’t give her one.

“Right. Okay,” she says slowly. “So, I don’t know how cold-hearted bitches practice hockey—”

I grin.

“—but I, personally, need gear. Like… skates. And a stick. Maybe a puck, even. High maintenance, I know.” Her tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of suspicion mixed in.

I cross my arms. “Do you want my help or not?”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. She sighs. “Fine,” she mumbles, dropping the bag with a thud. She steps into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

The metal bench at the bus stop is like ice against my body, but I stay seated.

Standing feels worse—like hugging a metal pole while someone beats it with a hammer.

The four-hour bus ride two days ago left my joints stiff and aching.

Too much stillness is what kicked off this mini flare-up.

Ironically, stillness is now all I can manage.

Peyton glances sideways. “Where are we going?” She pulls the hood of her GU sweater over her head—the same one she let me borrow at Harlowe’s Halloween-Birthday party. The one that was too snug in the armpits. The one that smelled like her.

“You’ll see,” I say, squinting at the oncoming headlights trying to guess if they’re bus headlights or just regular headlights.

Peyton huffs. “You know, this wasn’t part of the deal.”

She takes another sip of her putrid “hazelnut” latte that really tastes more like charred dirt.

She grimaces at the flavor. The headlights draw closer, then the front of the bus breaks into view.

I press both palms—pastel green today to match my pants (thanks to Cleo’s fashion tips, and yes, dressing nicer does boost my confidence)—against the bench, forcing myself up with a wince.

“If you’re going to keep questioning my methods, we can—”

“No! No,” she cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “It’s just—the bus home leaves at eight, and if this takes a while, I won’t have time to get on the ice.”

The bus screeches to a stop in front of us, brakes hissing. She climbs on behind me. I fish a handful of change from my pocket, feed it into the machine, and grab our tickets.

The bus lurches into motion before we’re even sat down.

I stumble and catch myself on the back of a dusty but occupied seat.

The middle aged man in it spins around and glares at me like I’ve stolen his firstborn child.

Peyton nudges me forward, and I see her flip him off out of the corner of my eye.

I’m grateful she’s behind me so she doesn’t catch the way I smile.

“That’s kind of the point,” I say, settling in. She flashes me an unamused look. “By the way, how did you manage to get into the rink yesterday morning?”

Peyton grins wolfishly. “You’d be amazed at what the promise of a Harrison Clarke autograph can buy you.”

I chew my lip. “Right. Dad perks.”

She nods.

As we ride through the city, our bodies swaying with the rumble of the bus, stop after stop rolls by in a dark, tranquil blur.

We’re sharing Peyton’s earbuds again, the wire dangling in the gap between us.

Her playlist is the most chaotic masterpiece I’ve ever heard—starting with the All American Rejects, then shifting to Beyoncé, then 50 Cent, The Carpenters, and Gigi Perez.

The strangest part is that it’s not at all jarring. Somehow it works, like different pictures cut into the same puzzle.

After five or six tracks, she turns to me.

“We don’t have to listen to this,” she says, holding her phone out. “You can play whatever you want.”

I shake my head. “I like it,” I say.

I don’t think I really understood the phrase her eyes lit up until I see it happen to Peyton. She doesn’t smile. In fact, nothing about her expression really moves. But something in her eyes shifts, and it’s like staring at the goddamn sun.

“You do?” she asks. “Really?” “Yeah,” I say. “It kind of feels like the score to a low-budget indie movie. But like…the best movie you’ve ever seen.”

That’s when she smiles. A real goofy one. It’s one she hasn’t shown me before. One I feel privileged to see.

There’s something I love about people that you only get to experience when you spend real time with them.

Something about watching them be themselves, completely unaware of the way their lips pull, how their hands move.

How they talk faster when it’s about something they love, and their voice gets louder.

And if you tell them, it’ll make them embarrassed.

So instead, you just watch and listen, praying that no one points it out—so that the next time it happens, they’re not covering their mouth, or lowering their voice.

Not shrinking themselves. Not watering down who they are for the convenience of everyone else.

I don’t want the watered-down version of Peyton. I want her in concentrate.

So we spend the last twenty minutes of the bus ride listening to the playlist, making up scene after scene of our imaginary movie.

Gertie, the main character, is sent to live with her emotionally stunted grandparents after her mom dies ( Back to the Old House , The Smiths).

Her dad’s off somewhere in Europe pitching wildly impractical inventions to anyone who’ll listen.

On the train ride to her grandparents’ house, the train is raided by land pirates ( Stand and Deliver , Adam & The Ants) who kidnap her—not just because of the ransom money, but also because she’s just so beautiful, with her doll-like face and aggressively choppy bangs.

Only, her dad never actually sells any of his inventions. So the ransom never comes.

Instead, she starts working with the pirates. Naturally. And soon enough, she robs her way to the top. Meanwhile, there’s a slow-burn fling going on between her and the group’s original leader that’s slightly toxic but really sexy ( Promiscuous , Nelly Furtado feat. Timbaland).

Eventually, the guy gets jealous that she’s in charge now. So, like any fragile man, he hatches a plan to kill her.