Page 6 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

I pause, recounting the scene. Okay… maybe I wasn’t the nicest. “Well, I threw a puck on the ice while she was practicing. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t exactly polite, but—”

“Darcy!”

My hands toss up in defense. “Okay, okay, but I was trying to get her attention!”

Cleo scratches her temple thoughtfully, then pats her lap so Socks will jump up and curl into a ball like the two-faced monster he is. Her tone comes out with extreme condescension, but the sweetness of her smile makes it impossible to be offended. “Did you try, I don’t know, talking to her?”

“Yes,” I declare, pointing a finger for emphasis. “But I could hear her earbuds blasting from the boards. Seriously, she’s going to lose her hearing.”

Cleo ponders this, eyes tracing the ceiling before landing back on me. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair actually.”

“Thank you.”

“But why’d you want to interrupt her practice in the first place?”

Ah, the million-dollar question. I wasn’t supposed to be at the rink. I only meant to take a quick peek. Sometimes, if I lie down too long, my joints start to flare, so I decided to stretch my legs, loop around campus, check out the facilities.

But then I saw her. And it was too hard to look away.

Watching her glide across the rink, the puck slicing through the air, it wasn’t like watching a clunky hockey practice.

It was like watching a ballet.

Every move was choreographed. Practiced. Even the way her hair swept behind her in fluid waves, how her fierce amber eyes fixed on the goal, seemed rehearsed, perfectly in sync with the rest of her.

But the longer I watched, the more something about it nagged at me.

She wasn’t taking breaks.

After every shot, every sharp turn around the cones, she’d just restart, ignoring the pain I know too well.

It took everything in me not to throw myself onto the ice.

To shout at her to stop. That’s why I tossed the puck.

I had to say something. Because if she keeps pushing herself like that, she’s going to be sidelined for the rest of her life.

I tried to tell her. But she didn’t seem to care.

“I was trying to help her,” I admit, glancing down at the time on my phone.

Class is coming up, but right now, my body feels like it’s been run over by a Zamboni.

Walking helps, I know, but sometimes, just moving feels like I’m dragging myself through wet concrete.

After my lap this morning, I’m not sure how much energy I have left to push through it all today. “She’s going to hurt herself.”

There’s a long pause, like Cleo’s letting the words settle, making sure I’m really finished. Then a soft smile pulls at her lips, and she smooths her hand over Socks’ back, a low purr rumbling from the cat’s chest.

“Well,” she says casually, hitching a shoulder. “It’s a good thing you’re about to be her coach, then.”

My stomach pretzels into an iron knot, sinking lower and lower until I’m sure it disappears. How the hell am I supposed to help Peyton when her ego’s too inflated to hear anything I say?

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Good thing.”

O f all the professors at Greenrock University, Professor Palit is by far my favorite.

My mom, in her usual meddling fashion, arranged accommodations with the Services for Students with Disabilities board the moment we decided I should move back to Seattle.

Most professors only agreed because they had no choice.

Professor Palit? He agreed because he's a genuinely good person.

I emailed him this morning, asking if it was okay to attend today’s neuroplasticity lecture via video call since I felt like I’d been hit by a truck, and he responded with:

"If you make a snack, turn your camera off. I’ll get jealous."

He also assigned us a case study analysis—you win some you lose some—but as I read in depth about John Doe’s traumatic brain injury, I try really hard to enjoy it.

Which sounds fucked up, now that I think about it, but no sports physical therapist should hate neuroscience.

Not if they want to be good at their job.

And seeing as it’s pretty much my only option at this point, I have to master it.

I pull out my journal, flipping through today’s lecture notes when my phone buzzes on the table. I glance over, Mom’s photo lighting up the screen. Ecstatic at the excuse to procrastinate homework, toss my laptop to the side, and press the cold device to my ear.

“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

“Hi sweetheart!” My mom coos through the phone like I’m still six. And I don’t mind it one bit. “I was just calling to see how your day was.” Three… two… one… “And to check in about your first day of coaching tomorrow.”

Mom was thrilled when I said yes to the student assistant coach position, not like I had a choice.

I knew this call was coming. I’d already mentally prepared my response last night, while I was sprawled on the couch, bawling with Cleo while watching Lord of the Rings: Return of the King.

I try to calculate the seconds between the end of her sentence and the beginning of mine, so it can feel natural.

“Oh, I’m good. Just working on some neuroscience homework.” I pause, for effect. “Oh, coaching? Yeah. I’m… super excited .”

“Yeah?” My mom’s voice sounds light, hopeful, and I can’t find it in my heart to crush that hope. To remind her that the only reason I’m accepting the position is because I need the credit to graduate. “If they give you any trouble, you’ll tell me, right?”

I nod, as if she can see me. “Of course, Mom. Always.”

“Alright then.” A soft sigh slips through the receiver. “You’ll be great, Darce. They’re lucky to have you.”

“I get it from you.”

A bright laugh bursts through the speaker, and even though there’s this tightness in my chest, it makes everything else feel a little looser, if only for a second.

“You’re such an ass kisser,” she teases.

I laugh. “That I get from Dad.”

My mom laughs too, but it fades fast. A quiet moment settles between us—one second, two maybe—and then her voice is softer. Hesitant.

“Hey, Darce?”

“Yeah, Mom?”

“I’m—” She stops, like she’s debating what she wants to say. When the words finally come, they’re not what I expect. I don’t think they’re what she expected either. “I’m just really glad you’re back with me. Even if—”

“I’m glad I’m back with you too,” I cut in, swallowing back the dry lump in my throat.

The silence stretches a bit longer, just the hum of the baseboard heater filling the dated apartment. Then, with a soft sigh, Mom shifts gears. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Your dad’s about to drag me on a date,” she says, trying to sound upbeat again.

"Okay, have fun.” My lips tug into a small smile despite the weight in my chest.

My parents have that disgusting kind of love. The kind where the honeymoon phase never ends. As a kid, I hated it. But now, it’s kind of nice. It reminds me that relationships like that actually exist outside of fantasy movies and romance novels.

"We will. Love you, Darce."

"Love you too, Mom."

The line goes quiet, then she hangs up. I toss my phone onto the table, glancing back to my laptop just in time for Socks to hop up on the keyboard.

“ Shit. Socks!” I groan, snatching him up and plopping him onto the ground. I point my finger at him, like he gives a single fuck about what I have to say. “Don’t climb on my stuff!”

Socks meows, probably telling me that he was here first and if I don’t like it, I can leave.

I sit back and pull my laptop onto my lap, ready to get back to work, but when I look at it, my assignment’s gone. Instead, there’s a photo stretching to each corner of the screen. My stomach lurches, and I freeze, staring at it.

It’s me. From March, during the WCHA championship.

I’m in mid-shot, poised in front of the net with the puck just about to release from my stick.

My eyes are locked on the goal, a fierce determination sewn into my face, even though the clock behind me shows only one second left.

The arena around me is a blur, but in the background, you can see the look of pure anticipation on my teammates' faces.

Some of them are frozen mid-scream, others with hands gripping their sticks like they can already taste the victory.

The shot, the last-second miracle that sent the crowd into a frenzy and the team to the NCAA Women’s Ice Hockey Championship. It was the game-winner.

It was also the last time I stepped onto the ice.

So now, looking at the photo, all I feel is heaviness. The weight of the fact that everything I had, everything in reach, is gone, and there is nothing I, nor anyone else, can do to bring it back.

I slam the laptop shut, the force of it startling Socks as the image burns behind my eyes.

I bury my face in my hands, something hot simmering deep inside my chest as a teary breath slips out.

It's crazy how love magnifies everything. Happiness, anger, grief. It feels ridiculous, grieving something that was never alive, but I guess that’s how hockey made me feel.

Alive.

Socks meows from the side, and I groan, lifting my head up to see him hop up onto the couch beside me. He purrs, rubbing his head against me, before setting a single paw onto my leg. I push him away, half-heartedly. “Not now, Socks.”

But he doesn’t listen, of course. He simply plops down, all thirteen pounds of him curling onto my lap.

And something about the warmth of his tiny body, the rhythmic pressure of his kneading, lightens the weight, just a little.

I lean back, my body sinking into the pillows of the couch.

Maybe I am grieving, or maybe I’m just stuck in the past. I know change is inevitable, but how do you let go of the very thing that made you who you are?

Socks purrs loudly against me, and I hate to admit it, but it’s nice. He might be a pest, but I’m suddenly a little more understanding of why Cleo loves him so much. I close my eyes for a moment, breathing, letting the soft kneading of his paws ground me.

I don’t know how long I stay like that. Sitting in silence. Reliving the past.

But eventually, the stillness becomes too much. It’s just hockey. It’s just a game. But it was my game, my identity. And now it’s gone. There’s nothing I can do to get it back.

…is there?