Page 60 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Thirty

Peyton

“ I t’s seven!” I sing, popping my head into Avery’s childhood room.

He lets out a low, protesting groan, opening his sleep-stuck eyes to glance at the clock on his nightstand.

I remember the birthday he got that nightstand.

He was turning thirteen, and, as usual, requested a very specific set of items.

and

3) the dog-shaped table

My parents scoured every inch of Greenrock Valley for a dog-shaped table, only to find that such a thing didn’t exist. At least, not in the confines of the tiny mountain town.

Eventually, my dad just paid my Uncle T to make one.

It’s a little lopsided, and one of the front feet is definitely an inch wider than the other, but when Avery unwrapped it, he was so excited he couldn’t talk about anything else for a week.

“It’s 6:57,” he grumbles, tossing a pillow over his head and rotating in the opposite direction. I roll my eyes, lingering in the doorway as if I don’t know that he isn’t going to budge. Sticking my forefinger out, I flick it up in a quick motion to turn on the light.

He doesn’t move.

“Come on!” I plead, like a child because even when we’re eighty, I’ll still be the annoying little sister. “Don’t you want to open presents?”

Avery mumbles something that doesn’t make it past the muffling of his pillow. I flip the light switch off.

Then on again.

Off.

On.

Off.

On.

Off.

“Isn’t the spirit of Christmas not to be a fuckin’ dick?

” he snaps, ripping the pillow from his face.

He sits up, his navy-blue comforter slipping off his chest as he glares at me with eyes identical to mine.

Avery’s pretty much the male version of me.

We have the same inverted triangular build, the same amber eyes, and the same smile. Only, his is framed by a thick stubble.

“Actually, the spirit of Christmas is for people who don’t talk to you all year long to apologize with monetary exchange.”

He frowns. “Well seeing as you practically forced me to talk to you every two weeks can I be exempt?”

I shake my head. “Leaving voicemails is not ‘force’.”

“It is when you leave twelve of them in a week.”

A short laugh escapes me. “I didn’t leave twel —” When my eyes lock on his, my sentence stops, because I remember that Avery doesn’t exaggerate. At least, very rarely. “I’ll dial it back.”

He nods. “Thanks.”

A blaring noise erupts from his nightstand, and his frown deepens as he smacks the seven a.m. alarm to silence it. His eyes lock on mine. “I’m not sleeping here when you’re in town anymore.”

He pulls himself out of bed, raking a hand through his brown, messy hair.

I frown. “You have to. It’s tradition.”

He trudges up to me, an arrogant smile tugging at his lips. Is this what I look like to other people? This cocky?

“You know what else is tradition?” he asks. I tilt my head.

“The gingerbread house competition?”

He shakes his head, placing his hand on my shoulder and gently shoving me back through the door frame.

“This."

He slams the door in my face.

Yeah, I should have seen that one coming.

Honestly, I’m not sure how I’m not in the same boat.

I should be exhausted after last night. Nothing in the world could keep my hand from moving to the slick heat between my thighs and relieving myself of the pressure that’s been building from the last time I saw Darcy.

It’s only been a few days, and I swear, I’m going through withdrawal.

This might be worse than I originally thought.

I t’s almost two o’clock by the time we all huddle around the kitchen table.

The recycling bin is stuffed full of wadded wrapping paper, the sink full of dirty dishes, and on the couch, Avery’s past-expired, three-legged chihuahua Pumpkin is nestled on top of Mr. Bubbles.

Her ginger fur is streaked with gray, her dry little tongue hanging out the side of her toothless mouth.

I swear the Grim Reaper is scared of her.

So is Mr. Bubbles, which is why he whines every time she shifts.

“Do you have your house picked out yet?” Avery asks, reaching for one of the rolling pins on the floured surface. Every year, the four of us spend hours creating and decorating individual gingerbread houses. Then, we post them on social media and have our friends and family vote on their favorite.

The winner gets to pick the theme for the next year, and, of course, bragging rights.

I have yet to win those bragging rights. And judging by this year’s theme, I won’t be getting them anytime soon.

“ No. And I feel targeted,” I mumble, browsing a list of fictional houses in literature. Avery and my mom chuckle, while my dad casts me an agreeing glance.

“Definitely targeted,” he adds. “You got anything good?”

I shake my head, scrolling past illustration after illustration of complex, architectural disasters. I flash him the screen. “Not unless you want to make a mansion.”

“You can’t do the Gatsby mansion; I’m already doing that,” Avery cuts in. I blink.

“ You are going to build that? " I ask, holding the screen out to face him. His amber eyes flick to the photo, then back to me, expression unwavering.

“Yes.”

“I am so fucked ,” I mutter, continuing to scroll. But only a few moments later, something catches my eye. It’s a drawing of a circular door, planted into the side of a tiny hill. My chest tightens, and I tilt my head, studying it. Something about it is strangely familiar.

Where have I seen this door before? I scroll back up an inch, reading the caption.

Lord of the Rings: Hobbit House

A smile breaks across my face. It’s perfect. Asymmetrical, kind of lopsided, and just low enough to the ground that I won’t have to worry about structural integrity. I flash my dad a coy smile.

“You’re on your own, Pops.”

Dad sulks. He, too, has yet to earn bragging rights.

The kitchen fills with the scent of cloves and molasses as we roll out the dark, spicy dough and catch up on everything we’ve missed since the last time we were all together. We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, and I had a mountain of homework over break anyway, so I haven’t seen them since September.

Avery, as usual, doesn’t talk much. He’s too busy taking a ruler to his stretch of dough and cutting out perfectly even shapes. This isn’t a competition to him. It’s an assignment. He takes it as seriously as he takes his job.

And he takes his job very seriously.

My mom dives into the latest releases from her hockey-fan boutique, a small business she started a few years ago that exploded.

Perks of being a former WAG . She scrolls through photos on her phone, parading new embroidered hoodies and limited-edition decals she paid Avery’s roommate to design.

Afterwards, my dad confesses his new life as an unemployed empty nester.

After he retired from the NHL, he coached Greenrock Valley’s Bantam league, up until last year when he quit out of boredom. Said he wanted to try something new.

I don't think it's working.

“I never thought I’d be passionate about bread,” he rambles. “But once you name it, it’s hard not to get attached.”

I tilt my head, tossing it toward the kitchen. “Are you talking about that jar of guck on the counter?”

He scowls. “Don’t talk about Flower that way.”

I squeeze the inner corners of my eyes with my thumb and index finger. “Did you name your sourdough starter after Marc-André Fleury? ”

Hitching a shoulder, he runs his palm over his tamed beard.“He’s resilient.”

“You have got to find a new hobby.”

He beams, pinching a bit of flour between his fingers and tossing it at me. I squeal, batting it off as my mom chimes in.

“So what about you, Peyton? How have you been?” she asks. Before I can respond, Avery adds:

“Yeah, why’d you bulldoze that ref on Friday?”

My dad’s eyes flick to me. Then my mom’s. Then they flick to each other, and I watch the silent exchange like it’s a tennis match, his Are we doing this? battling her Don’t look at me.

Classic Clarkes.

They weren’t planning on discussing it. I figured as much. If they were, my mom would’ve led with it the second I walked through the door.

Thanks, Avery.

I clear my throat and shift in my chair, suddenly very invested in pressing a perfectly circular cookie out of my dough. I can feel all three of them watching me. Even the dogs are watching me. Hell, even the gingerbread man I decapitated two minutes ago is probably watching me.

“It was an accident,” I lie. But if that’s what all the tabloids are saying, is it really a lie?

My mother cuts in. “Well, at least she’s not hurt,” she says. Then, as an afterthought, “The referee, I mean.”

I frown. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Well, you too, Peanut,” she adds quickly. “But you did hit her really hard.”

“ Really hard, ” my dad echoes, almost impressed.

I look around. “Am I being ganged up on right now?”

Everyone says no, except Avery, who I can always count on to tell me the truth.

“Yes," he confirms. He doesn’t even look up, just tediously scores the cookie dough with a knife. “Dad thinks you’re going through a crisis and Mom thinks you’re hiding an injury because she snooped through your bag and found printed-out articles about joint issues.”

Both of my parents’ shoulders drop. They exchange matching looks of guilt, then flash Avery an unsurprised but disapproving look.

Avery just shrugs, unbothered. “What? It’s the truth.”

“Okay, first of all,” I huff, turning to my dad, “I am not having a crisis.”

It’s not exactly the truth. But it’s not exactly not the truth.

“We’re just worried is all," he explains. "You just didn't seem like yourself on Friday. It was like you were a different player."

“Maybe I am.” I shrug. “Is that alright with you, Father? ”

I say it teasingly, but it’s not really a joke. In fact, my heart is vibrating right now, buzzing in my chest, sending a nervous tingle through every limb of my body. It’s like I’ve swallowed a pager, and I’m getting message after message warning me not to do this. Not to set myself up.