Page 58 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Twenty Nine

Darcy

M y mom’s never been great with crying. My dad’s the soft one. He gets misty during raw dog food commercials, but my mom grew up in a bootstraps kind of household, where feelings were things you dealt with silently, or not at all. So, watching the face she’s making right now? Hilarious.

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.” Cleo sniffles, her eyes glassy and overflowing.

She’s holding up the pajama set my parents just gave her, identical to the one I just opened.

Including the size, which means hers will be comically long.

But Cleo doesn’t even seem to notice. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.

The golden threads weaved throughout the plaid fabric glow in the multicolored lights on the Christmas tree behind her. When she stretches the shirt out, to see the full style of it, her arm grazes a branch, sending a wave of fresh pine in my direction.

Cleo doesn’t really talk about her family much.

They’re all the way in Chicago, and her relationship with them…

it’s complicated. So when she didn’t have plans for Christmas, and since I live and breathe for this holiday, I invited her to spend it with us.

We do Christmas on Christmas Eve. I don’t really know why. It’s just how it’s always been.

My mom watches Cleo cry like she’s got the plague. Her brows furrow.

“It’s… Ross ,” she says confusedly, gesturing at the pajamas. My dad whips his head toward her, eyes wide. In the reflection of them, I can see the flames from the fireplace, and I have to stifle a laugh, because it’s the scariest I have ever seen my father. And it’s not scary at all.

“Paula,” he hisses.

“Sorry!” she blurts, then immediately leans forward to pat Cleo on the back awkwardly. She looks like she thinks she might catch something if she lingers too long. “It was the least we could do. You’ve been such a good friend to Darcy.”

Cleo just sobs harder, clutching the pajamas. I keep patting her back, biting down on a smile. I love her. I love Christmas. I love this ridiculous, slightly dysfunctional moment.

Something warm melts in my stomach, a feeling I don’t think I’ve fully felt since March. I want to correct my mom. To say that Cleo and I are just roommates, nothing more. But I don’t think that’s true anymore.

Actually, I don’t think it was ever true. No matter how hard I’ve tried.

My dad leans forward, handing her a tissue.

“Thanks,” she manages, dabbing at her eyes.

My mom and I make eye contact as I reach into the pile and hand another gift to Cleo.

“Another one?” she asks, her voice already cracking.

“This one’s from me,” I tell her. My dad shoots my mom a quick warning look as Cleo crumbles all over again. Her fingers tremble as she works the ribbon loose, tears trailing down her rosy cheeks.

She pulls out a thick notebook and stares at it, confused. I can see the polite smile forming. The “Oh wow, thanks, I’ll never use this” kind. I grin.

“Open it,” I say.

She flips it open, and her hand flies to her mouth, the notebook dropping into her lap. Without another beat, she launches herself at me and squeezes until I hear my bones crack.

“What is it?” my mom asks, raising a brow.

Cleo pulls back, wiping her face with the tissue, which is now just a soggy, flaking mess. My dad hands her another. “It’s a D&D planner,” she explains, holding it up proudly. “It’s a game I play.”

I smile. “Do you like it?”

She nods quickly, eyes still glossy. “I love it. Does this mean you’ll play with me now?”

“I’ll consider it.”

I push myself to my feet, doing my best to mask the pinch in my joints.

It’s been constant lately. So bad that I nearly pretended to have a fever so that I didn’t have to get out of bed.

But Cleo deserved to have a real Christmas.

My parents too. “I’m gonna grab some apple cider. You guys want some?”

Everyone nods, a chorus of yeses.

“I’ll come help you,” my mom says, rising from the couch.

The moment we step into the kitchen, her eyes catch mine, glinting with amusement.

“Does she cry like that a lot?” she asks in a hushed tone. I pause, thinking about it.

“That’s actually the first time I’ve ever seen her cry,” I say, sounding just as surprised as my mom looks. “I don’t think her family sent her anything.”

Something sparks in my mom’s eyes, and her brows furrow. “Do you have her mom’s number?” she asks, crossing her arms. “I’d like to exchange some words.”

I laugh. “Unfortunately not.”

As I reach up into the cabinet, looping my fingers around a collection of mug handles, a fire spreads from my wrist, up my arm.

It shakes as I bring the mugs down, setting them on the counter with a light clatter.

In my periphery, I can see my mom staring at me, brow cocked, eyes judging.

So instead of looking at her, I dig through a drawer for a ladle.

“When was the last time you saw Dr. Oswell?” she asks. The tone in her voice tells me that she already knows the answer. I hitch a shoulder, still avoiding her gaze as I move over to the crock pot of cider. She lifts the lid off for me, streams of cinnamon apple steam flowing out of it.

“I don’t know, like two months?” I say, lowering the ladle into the pot. I do it slowly, watching the warm amber liquid pool into the scoop. I can’t help but think of Peyton as I do it. Of those apple-cider eyes.

“So those meds seem to be working then,” my mom continues. She says it like a statement, but I can feel the question that lies beneath.

“Umh…” I falter.

Here’s the thing: It’s hard to know if the meds are working when you’ve been pushing yourself harder than before you started taking them. There’s no baseline anymore, no steady control to measure against. It’s like trying to judge an entire team when the lineup changes every game.

Mom steps closer, her voice growing firm. “Darcy,” she says, and I curse myself for looking at her.

“Mom.”

“You can hide it from the team, but you can’t hide it from me. I know you’ve been struggling more than you’re showing.”

I let out a heavy sigh, pouring the cider into the cups. I’ve been trying really hard to ignore the pain. And when that’s not possible, I’ve been doing everything I can to push through it. I made it to winter break, which means I have a week's rest before I’m supposed to meet up with Peyton again.

“I’m okay, Mom,” I say. “Really.”

My mom shakes her head. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Okay,” I say pointedly. “Fair. But really, I’m okay. See?” I gesture to myself, proud at how well I hide the wince. “I’m resting.”

Mom doesn’t budge. “You’re not stepping on the ice at practice again until you get a doctor’s note clearing you.”

“What?” I ask, brows furrowing. “But that’s not fair! You’re the one who wanted me to—”

“And I still do,” Mom cuts in, swiping one of the mugs off the counter. “But I’m not going to watch you ignore all these warning signs again. You’re not invincible, Darce. You can and will get worse.”

My throat goes dry, a hard aching lump forming in the base of it.

“I know,” I mumble. She lets out a heavy sigh, pulling me into a hug. It’s gentle, careful. Mom knows how to hug me without hurting me, because once upon a time, she was me. The only difference is that she got treated in time to go into remission.

I look down at her, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. “Can you schedule the appointment please? I really hate calling.”

Mom chuckles softly against me, then pulls back.

“I already did last week. It’s on the 27th at four.”

“Such a meddler,” I mumble, and she gives a half-shrug.

“It’s my job." Both of her brows raise, and something in my stomach twists. I know that look. I’m scared of that look. “Speaking of meddling,” she continues, leaning her back against the counter. She blows on the cider, then takes a long sip. “Have you talked to Peyton since the game?” Ah fuck.

I hate lying to my mom. I’m also notoriously bad at it. So I tell her the amount of the truth I can manage. “ Yes, ” I say slowly, studying her. She smirks. “And I have no idea why you’re looking at me like that.”

Mom deadpans. “Oh really? You have ‘ no idea’ ?”

I roll my eyes, failing to fight a smile. “It’s not what you think.”

“And what do I think?”

I don’t dignify her with a response. I just roll my eyes and snatch up the extra mugs on the counter, a limp in my step as I move.

“You know, it’s not against the rules!” Mom calls out behind me. Something in my chest flutters, and I blink away the surprise before turning to look at her. The Christmas lights strung along the window behind her give her a multi-color glow.

“Doesn’t matter, because nothing is going on.”

Of course, that would have an effect on the situation, if there were a situation for it to have an effect on. But Peyton established that boundary, and so did I. I turn back around, but my mom is relentless. “Peyton is a lovely girl!”

This time, I don’t stop. “So I’ve heard,” I call back, pretending like I haven’t spent the past few weeks living it.

I ’m back at the apartment, two hours into doom-scrolling on the couch, animated Christmas movies flickering quietly on the TV.

Cleo’s head is resting in my lap, fast asleep, swimming in the plaid pajamas my parents gifted her.

Innocently curled up on her legs, Socks is acting like I didn’t have to fend him off from chewing her hair a few minutes ago.

My phone chimes, a banner flashing across the top of the screen.

ICARUS

Hey Kim Possible

My chest flutters, and I click on the notification.

We’ve talked plenty in the few days it’s been since I woke up to her no longer in my hotel room.

We just haven’t talked about what happened .

I stare at the gray bubble for a few minutes longer than I care to admit, then my bare fingertips hit the cold glass, tying out a response.

ME

What, Icarus?