Page 54 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

My hand brushes over her cheek, ignoring the hot flutter that transpires in my gut.

“Let them write whatever they want. The only way you'll let us down is if you get on the ice and try to be someone you're not.

Play for you, that's all anyone wants. If we make it to the finals and the Sabertooths are there, we'll deal with it then. You can only play one game at a time. Okay?”

Peyton nods, a soft smile tugging at her lips. Her body relaxes, and those warm, round, honey eyes look up at me. “Okay,” she says.

I thought seeing Brenna would wreck me. That it would bring up all that heartbroken nostalgia and turn me right back into the mess I was when everything fell apart.

But it hasn’t.

In fact, the hardest part of seeing her again is not yelling at her for the absolute garbage calls she’s been making for the past two-and-a-half periods. And I’m not the only one.

“That wasn’t a trip, ref! ” my mom shouts, emphasizing the word like it’s an insult as Bailey slams into the penalty box, frustrated.

Brenna just skates backwards toward the faceoff circle, cool and clinical.

I know she saw me when the game started. Her eyes locked on mine. But there was nothing behind them. No reaction. No nod, no hello, no acknowledgment at all.

And somehow, that feels like a win.

Because the old me would’ve needed it. The apology, the excuse, the closure. But I don’t. Not anymore. My mom, however, is less content.

“That whistle only work one way?” she shouts, arms crossed, clearly done being professional.

I elbow her lightly, ignoring the creak in my joint as it collides with her ribcage. “Mom,” I warn.

She shrugs, eyes glued to the rink. “What? It’s her job to protect both teams. If she’s not going to do it, then I will.”

Caydence leans toward us. “Okay, I thought it was just me. She’s like… getting in the way! I almost tripped over her earlier.”

“It’s not just you,” Mom replies, shaking her head. “This ref’s useless.”

She’s not wrong—but even with Brenna working against us, we’re still up by three. Unless the Hornets score three times in the next four minutes, we’ve got this.

My eyes flick back to the ice. Lena looks tired, her strides starting to wobble.

“Brady needs out,” I say.

Mom doesn’t hesitate. “Wright!” she calls, already turning to Caydence. “Get in there.”

Caydence hops the boards without hesitation, her skates hitting the ice with a thud. She’s already in motion before Brady even finishes dragging herself off.

She drops beside me with a breathless huff, sweat trailing the side of her face. Her chest heaves rapidly as she leans forward, the low bun at the nape of her neck—woven from long, tiny braids—peeking from beneath her helmet.

“You good?” I ask, pulling her water bottle from the shelf and handing it to her. She takes it gratefully.

“Yeah,” she pants. “Just gassed.”

I shift forward, elbows planted on my knees, gaze locked back on the ice.

The refrigerated buzz of the rink dissolves beneath the roar of the crowd as the power play plays out. I scan the ice, searching until I finally spot her. Peyton’s moving fast. So fast it’s almost hard to track her.

She’s a storm out there, darting around a Hornets defender, tapping the puck to Indie, then cutting hard to the inside like she’s chasing her own pass. But its a calm kind of storm.

A contained hurricane.

A methodical tornado with only the ghost of Harrison Clarke making his appearance. The rest of it is her. Completely and entirely her.

And she’s dominating.

Even with Bailey in the penalty box, even with Brenna getting in the way, even with the wrist shot Peyton missed a few minutes ago that I know is still eating at her, it’s not even close.

We’re going to win this game, and there’s nothing the Hornets can do about it now.

Peyton’s head is up, hips shifting, shoulders squared as she glides. The momentum is all hers.

Until it isn’t.

It happens in a blink.

She pivots hard, too hard, and someone’s in her blind spot.

Not Indie.

Not a Hornets player.

Brenna.

Their bodies collide mid-turn. Full speed. Full contact.

The sound is awful. A gut-wrenching thud followed by the clatter of a stick. I push off the bench. My mom pushes off the bench. Gasps surge from the stands as Peyton stumbles back, catching herself.

Brenna’s not as fortunate. She drops to the ground, skidding backwards across the ice.

Everything stops.

The game, the sound, the breath in my lungs.

The rink goes quiet, frozen in time. All I can hear is the faint echo of Brenna’s body hitting the ice, still replaying in my head.

I don't shake out of it until the medics lurch into motion, closing in on her, kneeling down, heads low, voices lower. One of them lifts her visor gently. Another checks her shoulder.

Peyton stands, frozen. She doesn't move until Brenna starts to.

Brenna stirs, then sits up slowly.

The whole bench shifts with her.

The medics try to steady her, but she waves them off with a stiff shake of her head. Pushing off the ice, she glides toward the edge of the rink with uneven strides. Her face is pale, and dazed, but I recognize the determination in her eyes. No stretcher. No help.

She always believed in independence. I think that's part of what bothered her so much about my disability.

A sigh of relief slips out of me as I watch her climb off, a new ref sliding out onto the ice.

“How the hell did that happen?” I ask, watching as they announce a ten-minute misconduct for Peyton. “Did she slip?”

The arena livens with a chorus of boos, though I can’t tell if it’s towards the ref’s call or Peyton. Peyton doesn’t flinch. She just turns and skates toward the box. Her shoulders stay high, her jaw locked in place. She collapses next to Bailey, who immediately starts frantically yapping.

My mom turns to face me, brows knitted.

“You think that was an accident?” she asks.

I pull back slightly, confusion flooding my body. “Yes.”

“Then you didn’t see the look on her face when she did it.”

My stomach caves in on itself. That doesn’t make sense. None of what just happened makes any sense. “Why would she do that?”

My mom flashes me an earnest look, tipping her head as she says, “You tell me.”

I shake my head, trying to argue back. To point out how ridiculous the idea is. There’s no way Peyton would get a misconduct just to ram Brenna off the ice… right?

“You need to call an Uber,” Mom continues.

My eyes snap to hers. “What? But I—”

“Darcy,” she says, so firmly it sends a chill down my spine.

“When this game ends, you’re going back to the hotel.

I don’t want this turning into a circus, and I definitely don’t need the media poking around or Brenna trying to make a scene.

This isn’t the time for you to play 'Angry Coach'. Understood?”

Her eyes lock on mine, unblinking, and I know there’s no room for argument. So I just nod, and look back to the penalty box.

“Okay.”

“ C an you please stop playing that?” I mutter, tipping my head into my hands as Cleo, for what must be the twentieth time since FaceTiming me, plays that damn video again on her laptop.

The clip’s already gone viral. Peyton slamming into Brenna in slow motion, the frame spinning on impact. There’s a dreamy haze filter over it, the audio some trending hip hop song, and Brenna hitting the ice right as the beat drops.

It’s really fucked up.

Cleo smirks, barely bothering to hide it, and shuts her laptop.

“What?” she says innocently. “They said she’s fine. No concussion or anything.”

I glare at her through my fingers. She lifts her hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay. I will not play it again… in your presence,” she says.

“Thank you,” I mumble, shifting on the plush hotel bed.

“It’s a really good edit though,” she adds. Then, her expression shifts, her thick brow quirking. “So… is there something you want to tell me?”

I glance up at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

She rolls her eyes. “Darcy. Come on. First, you’re ranting about how much you can’t stand her every chance you get. Then, you start disappearing every morning, and now she just so happens to slam your ex to the ice?”

Cleo’s got a point. But I don’t know what she wants me to say. I don’t even know what’s happening myself. All I know is that it terrifies me.

“So?”

Cleo grins. “ So , you’ve been practically glued at the hip since you hooked up.”

I let out an exasperated breath. “Okay, yeah , but it’s not—”

Wait, how did she…?

A smile breaks over Cleo’s face and she jabs a finger at the camera.

“I knew it!” she squeals, jumping around like a child. The video feed shakes enough to make me nauseous. Or maybe, it’s everything else that’s happened. “I fucking knew it!`”

“No! No, it’s not—”

“So you didn’t hook up with her?” she asks, crossing her arms. I suck in a frustrated breath.

“Well, I did , but it was—”

Cleo tosses her hands in the air. “Halleluja!”

I grunt, hopping off the bed and grabbing a Seven-Up from the mini-fridge, using my foot to shut the door. “Will you knock it off? None of this is funny.”

She’s grinning so hard it’s a miracle her face hasn’t split. “No. You’re right.”

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. “It’s hilarious.”

A frown pulls at my lips and I catch the time on the microwave clock. “Don’t you have study group soon?”

Cleo rolls her eyes. “Nice try, but you’re not deflecting.”

She glances at the time.

“Shit,” she mutters, then whips back to me, making eye contact with the camera. “Okay. I have to go. But we are talking about this when you get back.”

“There’s nothing to talk about!” I say, holding up my free hand like that’ll make it true. “It happened once. And it is never, ever happening again.”

“Just once?” Cleo asks, one brow arching as she slings her purse over her shoulder. Just as I’m about to admit that I might have also kissed her in a public bathroom, room service knocks at my door.

“Hold on,” I say, strolling over to open it.