Page 51 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Twenty Six

Peyton

T he smell of victory is sweet. Unless you play hockey.

Then, it's musty. Really, really musty. Which is why, after our win today at the home game against the UMLR Warhogs, I spent a solid forty-five minutes in the locker room shower, scrubbing the scent of victory off me. Partly because Harlowe threatened to lock me out of the apartment until I did, and partly because the team’s heading to the Puget Diner to catch a PWHL game to celebrate, and I’d rather not be the stinkiest thing in there.

The December wind catches my hair as I swing open the glass door, stepping into the diner.

Everyone else is already here, huddled around the tiny box television.

Sure, we could go to a fancy sports bar with seventeen 80-inch flatscreens scattered about the place, but they’re always crowded, and trying to replace meat with cauliflower.

The diner is where we feel at home.

Cheers erupt through the restaurant as all my teammate’s eyes snap over to me. They whoop and clap as I strut to the table, giving my best attempt at a catwalk and tossing my hair over my shoulder theatrically.

“Thank you, thank you,” I say, bowing at the attention, like I at all deserve it. When my spine snaps straight, Harlowe pats me on the back, a little too roughly, and Indie’s eyes sparkle.

“Great slapshot Cap!” she beams. I flash her a grin that I hope is opaque.

“Thanks Rose. You killed it out there. That breakaway was insane. ”

“Good work today Clarke,” Coach calls. My gaze snaps over to her, then falls to a large pint glass gripped in her hand, filled to the brim with what looks like flat beer. My nose wrinkles.

“You’re a beer drinker?”

She flashes me a warning look. “With what you ladies put me through, you’re lucky I’m not doing heroin.”

A chuckle escapes me as I glance around at the team.

Everyone’s snacking on appetizers—glazed wings, mozzarella sticks—and Harlowe's got a milkshake the size of her head in front of her, sprinkled with Everything Bagel seasoning, obviously. But there’s one person I’m not seeing.

I scan the room again, eyes moving carefully over every head, bracing for that fiery mane of hair to pop into view.

But still, no sign of Darcy.

I’d have thought she’d tell me if she wasn’t planning on coming. Especially given that since the retreat, she’s been more and more invested in the team. And, I like to think, more and more invested in me.

Though, that’s sort of how our agreement works.

For a fleeting moment, I consider asking about her. But better judgment floods my body.

“You gonna get in here, Pey?” Zayda calls, motioning to the baskets of food on the table. I nod.

“Yeah, just need to wash my hands real quick.”

I head toward the bathroom, pushing open the heavy swinging door.

The moment I step in, I freeze. Darcy’s at the sink, sliding her gloves back on, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

Quickly, I clear my throat, squaring my hunched shoulders as my gaze flicks down to the purple jersey perfectly hugging her body.

Damn. She’s a vision.

Despite the fact that all I want to do is stare at her figure, remember how it felt in my hands, I force myself to speak.

“Oh, so you’re like—” I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. “An actual Portland fan?”

In the mirror, Darcy pauses, those emerald greens flitting down my chest, locking onto my baggy pale blue jersey. She spins around, drawing a hand to her hip, pretty freckled face tipping to the side. “I should’ve known.”

The Portland Porcupines and the San Diego Sabertooths are fierce rivals. Sure, there are less than twenty teams in the PWHL right now, so it’s not like they have a ton of competition, but still—these two have been battling for the top spot ever since the league was founded.

The Porcupines are the worst.

Because they’re almost the best.

Their goalie, Clover Solace, is the best goalie in the entire league. Hell, I’d argue she’s the best goalie in all of hockey. Her stats are unreal, a .943 save percentage and a 1.56 GAA in two and a half seasons. If she keeps this up, she’ll break every record in the sport.

She’s the reason the Sabertooths lost the Walter Cup last season.

“Who would I be if I didn’t rep the team I plan to play on?” I ask, stepping toward her with a grin.

Darcy’s lips curl into a smirk. “A winner.”

I try to fight it, but a suppressed laugh slips from my lips, and I take another step, the heat of her body radiating against mine.

“You’re going down, Coach,” I murmur, flicking my gaze up her body.

Darcy’s brow cocks in challenge. Her eyes flick from mine to my lips, a breath catching in her throat. When her tongue brushes over her lower lip, she exhales, her jersey pressing against mine. My heart thrums against my ribcage.

And all I can think about is four days ago, in Salem.

How I tried— very clearly—to kiss her.

How she— very clearly—didn’t let me.

I think about how hurt she sounded talking about Brenna. And how, no matter how much I want to show her I’m not like that, I could never risk pushing her into something she’s not ready for.

So I take a step back. Repeating it like a prayer: Don’t kiss her. Don’t kiss her. Don’t kiss her.

The only problem is I back right into the grimy tile wall.

I shift to the side.

But Darcy moves with me.

Her hands land on my shoulders. Then her eyes drop to my mouth. And I stop breathing entirely.

Don’t kiss her.

Don’t kiss her.

Don’t kiss her.

She looks back into my eyes, like she’s telling herself the same thing, like she’s about to pull away and apologize, just like I did.

“This is a bad idea,” I blurt.

She nods. “The worst.”

“We definitely shouldn’t do this,” I try again.

“Definitely," she breathes.

“You don’t do this."

“And you don’t have time.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

But the moment that word leaves her mouth, I know it’s pointless. And before I can even convince myself I meant it when I said we shouldn’t—

She fucking kisses me.

It isn’t slow. It isn’t careful. It’s a dizzying, enlightening jolt, like we both forgot this kind of euphoria was even a possibility. Our mouths part, tongues slipping together, hard and desperate.

Darcy makes me that way.

Kissing her is like a power play. You know the other team has the upper hand, but you still fight like hell, because in the end, the win is that much more deserved.

And I want to deserve her.

Her gloves are still on, the leather rubbing the back of my neck, and my fingers dive into her hair, tugging her impossibly closer. She tastes like strawberry lip balm. Her body presses into mine and the sheer feeling of it entices a moan out of me.

I always thought things were meant to be better in your head.

That daydreams grow into impossible standards, leaving you nothing to reap but disappointment.

But the moment my mouth parts open, and Darcy sucks my lower lip between the sharp cut of her teeth, I realize that I am not capable of inventing perfection like this.

Just as my hands start to drift down her spine, Darcy pulls back.

It’s so sudden it knocks the breath out of me. She doesn’t say a word. She just stares at me, wide-eyed, breathless. Then turns and walks out of the bathroom like she didn’t just set my whole world on fire.

I blink at the door.

My god.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair’s a mess, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. I’m a wreck.

I wash my hands like I said I would, and when I come back out, Darcy’s seated beside Coach Cole, gripping a ceramic mug.

Her posture’s relaxed at first glance, but there’s a faint crease between her brows, and every so often, she shifts.

They're small movements, barely noticeable, like she’s chasing comfort and not quite finding it.

It makes me think of the other day in the locker room, the way she kept wincing.

Of Salem, when she was struggling to zip up her jacket.

I don’t know if I’m just seeing it now because I know—because she told me she has Rumbustious Arthritis—or if she’s actually getting worse.

If all the extra time she’s been putting in, before and during practice, is catching up with her. Just like the doctors warned it would.

But I know better than to bring it up.

And I should know better than to sit next to her.

In fact, judging by the rapid beat of my heart, I should keep at least ten feet between us at all times. But then she runs her gloved fingers through her ginger hair, flicks those pretty green eyes to me, and it's over.

I'm pathetic for her.

I grab the back of a chair, the legs etching lines into the grimy tile floor as I drag it.

When I approach her, I spin the chair around, and toss my legs on either side of the seat, straddling it.

Then I pull off my backwards cap, ruffle my hair, and plop it back on.

Darcy’s eyes stay trained on me, but the moment I’m beside her, I turn my attention elsewhere.

“Let me guess, you’re a Portland fan too?” I ask, looking to Coach. She lifts her mug, carefully inspecting the glass before taking a heavy swig of her beer.

“Yup.”

“Of course you are.”

Darcy doesn’t hesitate to cut in, sticking her big head in my personal bubble, just as planned. “And of course you’re a Sabertooths fan.”

I grin cheekily, casting her a fleeting glance. “Why? Because they’re the best?”

Her gaze narrows. “Because they’re almost the best.”

An antagonizing laugh slips out of me, and I nod as my tongue traces the inside of my cheek. “That’s the hill you want to die on?”

Darcy leans forward, her face inches from mine. “Yes, because it’s the one at the top.”

Coach’s head falls into her hands and she rubs the inner corners of her eyes tiredly. “Oh Jesus,” she mutters under her breath. But Darcy’s got a fire in her eyes.

I move just an inch closer, so that my breath brushes against hers. I can hear the hitch in her throat. “How much are you willing to bet?” I ask lowly, tone sultry.