Page 5 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Three

Darcy

S ome people wake to a birdsong. Soft, floaty melodies, drifting through open windows, lashes fluttering with the breeze. Others wake to honking taxis and yelling neighbors, a grease-stained stench assaulting their noses.

Me?

I get the divine privilege of waking to a harmony.

A blaring alarm that pairs perfectly with the scream of my joints—the familiar gnawing ache that greets me every morning.

It starts in my fingers, stiff and swollen, and spreads up my arms like a wildfire.

By the time I sit up, every articulation in my body is begging for a generous layer of WD-40.

I slap my phone to silence it, reaching for the rattling plastic container on my nightstand. The sorted pills fall into my palm, then I swallow them down, letting the cool water numb my throat, and pray that today will be the day relief slowly begins to seep in.

Since I was diagnosed with Early-Onset Rheumatoid Arthritis back in March, I’ve tried three different medications to help soothe the pain.

The first gave me morning sickness so intense, it would give pregnant women nightmares.

The second seemed to work adversely, making every nerve in my body burn like the depths of hell, and every muscle so sore I could hardly lift a fork to my mouth.

So now, I’m two weeks into a new one, and so far, nothing has happened.

No side effects.

No improvements.

Socks leaps onto the nightstand with a dramatic thud, his claws clacking against the wood as he barrels toward me.

I hardly have time to react before he sends my pill organizer and my water bottle tipping to the floor.

The little menace quickly follows, tumbling off the table, only to leap back up, this time aiming for my head.

I throw my arm up, blocking his landing, forcing him to fall into my lap instead.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, plopping him onto the covers, but he’s relentless, crawling his way back into my lap with innocent eyes.

Eventually, I give up, setting him onto the ground and standing up with a grunt of effort, my knees creaking like ancient hinges.

I shuffle to the living room, ignoring the ache climbing my back, and find Cleo sitting at the kitchen counter, the morning sun catching the rows of gems on the shells of her olive-toned ears, casting soft colors on the bartop.

“You know,” I say, plopping into the barstool beside her. “I’m going to have to lock that damn cat out of my room if he keeps treating me like a helicopter pad.”

Cleo lifts a brow but doesn’t take her eyes off her phone as she gives me the same response she always does. “You should be honored.”

I grunt, reaching for a banana. As I peel it open, my eyes land back onto her, her gaze still unmoving, but an intriguing smile tugs at her lips. I peek at her screen, only to be greeted with a reflection of the sunrise.

Finally, I ask, tone light, but taunting, “Who ya talking to, Cleo?”

Cleo’s smile drops instantly, and she shoots me a horrified gaze. Without breaking eye contact, she turns off her phone before sliding it into her lap wordlessly.

“Okay, not suspicious at all.” I take a bite of the banana.

Her lips stay pressed together, like she’s holding something in, probably because she is. And although Cleo and I still have a lot to learn about one another, I know enough to say that any minute now, she’s going to break. She stares at me, jaw tense, lips rolled, until finally—

“I bumped into Will Carter yesterday—like literally walked into —it doesn't matter. Anyway, we were outside the linguistics building and we started talking about English majors and now, like, we're meeting up for coffee to talk about it and I—I don't even know what to do!”

She slaps a hand over her mouth like the words will absorb back into it, but my jaw has already fallen to the counter. I pick it back up, just to point out the obvious issue I’m sure she’s well aware of.

“But Will's—”

“A football player, I know.”

I stare at her, blinking in disbelief, as if doing it slower might make all of this click. "And—"

"And I loathe football players. I know."

I take another bite of fruit, the potassium doing nothing to dull the shock that’s making my head spin.

Cleo's been flirting with new majors since before I moved in. Not that she’s ever formally changed anything.

It's more like a revolving door that she steps into, only to get off at the exact same spot every time. Biomed to psychology, then art history, then pre-law, then back to biomed. Each week, it’s a new dream, a new identity, but none of them seem to stick.

“Oh my god,” she groans, tipping her head into her hands. “What am I gonna do?”

I shrug, failing to bite back the provoking smile tugging at my lips. “Will, apparently.”

Cleo shoots me a daggered look, while I chuckle at my own joke. Normally, it’s the other way around, and I have to admit, it’s fun being on this side of it for once.

“You know it’s not like that.”

A laugh tumbles out of me as I take another bite. “Do I?”

Her head bobs along for a second, lips pressed in a flat line. But when her gaze darts back to me, there’s something pressing in it.

“So, are you going to tell me who you snuck out to see this morning? Or are we going to pretend that didn’t happen?”

I pause mid-chew, a pit forming in my stomach.

“How did you—”

“Socks.”

My gaze flashes to the chunky tuxedo cat, tail swishing as he eyes my banana like it’s the last meal on earth. I pull it back, narrowing my eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time the little thief snatched food right out of my hands.

“Snitch,” I mutter, and Cleo rolls her eyes.

“Oh, that, and the fact that you were brewing coffee at three a.m. You know, I have a very sensitive nose.”

A sheepish smile creeps across my face, and I hop off the stool to toss the banana peel in the trash. “Sorry.”

Cleo just stares at me, like she’s waiting for more. She does that a lot. Sometimes it works. Most of the time, it doesn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I really like living with Cleo. But just because we’re roommates doesn’t mean we need to be best friends.

Cleo doesn’t agree, of course.

I hate that I like that about her.

“Well?” she presses again, brows raised, dimpled chin jutting out. “Who is it?”

A nervous chuckle slips from the back of my throat. “Nobody.”

She blinks.

I blink back.

She blinks again. “Liar.”

“I’m not ly—”

“So you just left at three a.m. to, what? Walk around? ”

“Yes,” I reply defensively, but Cleo isn't buying it. She spins around on her stool, eyes locking with mine. “You know I've given up on all that relationship shit.”

“So, you were alone the whole time?”

Fuck.

“AHA! ” She jabs a thick finger in my direction, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “You were with someone!”

“No! Well, yes, but—”

“Who?”

“It’s not like that, Cleo. I didn’t—” And she’s not listening. Great.

“Darcy.” She levels me with a look, and an irritated huff escapes me.

I know she’s not going to let up. Not until I give her a crumb of information to chew on. So, I throw myself onto the couch with all the drama I can muster, pulling a blanket over my burning, freezing toes.

“I didn’t sneak out to see anyone,” I repeat firmly. She leans forward, perched on the edge of her seat. “But I did bump into the women’s hockey captain.”

“Peyton Clarke?” Cleo’s brows shoot up, silver irises swirling as her plush lips fall open.

I nod, exhaling a steadying breath. It feels like I’m standing in a confessional booth, about to admit my sins. Forgive me, Father, for I have snuck into the Greenrock University ice rink and argued with a cocky bitch who has a stellar wolf-cut and smells of sweat and lavender.

Before I can finish, Cleo jumps in again. “Oh, you do not want to go there." She laughs warningly.

My brows drop. “ What? No! I wasn’t—”

She doesn’t let up. “I mean, she’s totally nice and everything, but she’s way too focused on hockey for anything serious. Especially with her dad.”

The cackle that bursts out of me is almost malicious. I shake my head, running my hand through my un-brushed hair, fingers catching on the tangles.

I learned a lot about Peyton Clarke in the short time we spent together. First, she’s arrogant as hell. Second, she smells way too good for someone who had just been practicing. And third?

“She is not nice.”

Cleo purses her lips. “Hate to break it to you, Darce,” she says, hopping off her stool. “But you’re not exactly the best judge of that.”

I frown, even though I know she’s right. I haven’t been the warmest person since I came back to Seattle, but that’s kind of the point. People don’t get close to cold people. Well, except for Cleo, apparently.

"Wait... her dad ?" I ask, the words finally clicking in my brain. Cleo’s head tilts in surprise.

"You don’t know?" she asks.

I pull the blanket tighter around me, scrunching my toes in an attempt to boost my circulation. "Know what?"

A sly grin breaks across her face. "Does the name Harrison Clarke ring a bell?"

My throat goes dry. Harrison Clarke? No way. No fucking way.

"You’re not saying—"

"That retired pro right-winger from the Boston Boas is Peyton’s dad?" She feigns a wince, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Yeah."

I swallow hard, my head dropping into my hands in frustration. Of course . Because the universe clearly has it out for me, I had to go full teacher-mode on the daughter of a pro . Makes sense why she acted like she knew everything.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale slowly, my body sinking further into the couch.

"Nepo-baby or not," I mutter, "she’s still a nightmare."

Cleo rolls her eyes, flopping down beside me. "And you’re the only one in history who believes that."

I cross my arms defensively. “She called me Kim Possible.”

A puzzled smile tugs at Cleo’s lips. “That sounds like a compliment to me.”

“In this context, it’s really not.”

“Well, what is the context?”