Page 64 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Thirty Three

Darcy

ME

I thought I found Lachlan's mouthguard case but it was a container of icebreakers :(

Btw LNHL Countdown: 6 weeks.

ICARUS

Dammit! I've been looking everywhere. Still nothing.

SIMMS BUT NOT THE GAME

Yeah me too.

brADY

Same :(

HAMMIE

What flavor?

ME

Wintergreen.

HAMMIE

Can I have them?

YERSIE

EW BAILS!!!???

Z

yeah that's actually vile

HAMMIE

What?

ME

Umm

Sure?

“ W oah.”

Cleo’s gray eyes scan the union building, flitting booth to booth in agitation. There must be fifty tables, all clamoring about internships and career paths and “building your future” like there’s a future to build on.

The world is on fire. And so are my kneecaps.

I really didn’t want to come. Every time I think about the future, I feel this impending sense of doom.

This Autoimmune Hockey project—AIHL, as Peyton calls it?

It’s a fantasy. A beautiful, reckless distraction.

Just like Peyton. An excuse to keep moving instead of giving up completely.

I know that. I’m not delusional. And sure, Professor Palit is great, but every hour I spend on the ice just confirms what I already know:

I don’t want to be a sports physical therapist. I want to be a hockey player.

My body just won’t let me.

I've been coaching Peyton's morning sessions from the bench for the last few weeks.

And my mom has stuck to her word, barring me from the rink just like she said.

Even though I've been careful—wearing my braces, taking short walks, stretching—this flare up is still hitting me like a truck. My body feels like one giant cramp. Breathing’s a full-body exercise.

My knees ache, my spine is on fire, and if I hadn't been on bed rest for four days in a row, I'd be completely unable to function.

But Cleo needs me. So here I am.

“You okay?” I ask, studying her concernedly.

She looks perfect, as always. The soft swoops in her pixie cut, her olive skin glassy and bright.

Jewelry drips from every limb, bracelets, earrings, chains, things looped through her belt like charms on a key ring.

Every step she takes, her own brassy theme song follows her.

It’s pretty fitting if you ask me.

“Yeah. No, I’m great,” she replies, eyeing the maze of tables cautiously. “I just don’t know if I’ll have time to get through them all.”

I plant a hand on my hip.

“If you can binge season two of Bridgerton in one day,” I counter, squinting at the clock on my phone, “you’ve got time for fifty booths in… two hours .”

Cleo grins proudly.

“Look at you,” she teases, patting my back gently, but not gentle enough to stop the burn in my skin from spreading. “The optimist.”

I roll my eyes, waving her off as I hobble behind. “Yeah, yeah.”

The first booth we approach is drenched in blue. Pens, face masks, even the banner is some shade of muted navy. Definitely medical school. Which is ironic, considering half the existential crises Cleo’s been having stems from deciding she doesn’t want to go to medical school anymore.

But I’m not about to bring that up while she flips through the pamphlet. Cleo can change her mind a thousand times if she wants. She’ll be great at whatever she ends up doing. I haven’t yet found anything Cleo Mardas is bad at.

Except maybe minding her business.

“What’s the average GPA for accepted applicants?” she asks the man behind the booth.

“3.8,” he answers with a smile.

Cleo nods, then places the pamphlet neatly back down. “Thanks.”

With that, she's on the move again, weaving toward the next table, and I follow, though my steps lag slightly behind. There’s a limp creeping into my walk, bordering excruciation that makes me thoroughly impressed I'm even here.

I give credit to the remorse from cancelling on Cleo three separate times last week because my body still hadn't let up.

"Tomorrow" turned into "tomorrow" turned into "tomorrow".

And even though I felt guilty, Cleo never made me feel like I should. She facetimed me while out the first night, brought me takeout the second, and refunded our movie tickets to stream it from the couch the third.

Being deliberately considered is a virtue. Especially when you've been denied it despite begging.

It's something I never realized until I became disabled. This world is built for those who can help themselves, and no one else. But humanity? Friendship? That's for everyone.

Cleo helped me see that.

“Why’d you leave so fast?” I frown. “You have a 4.3. Which, honestly, I didn’t know was even possible.”

She lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah… I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d feel something reading that brochure, but…” Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug.

It takes more effort than I’d like to lift my arm, but I do it anyway, resting my purple gloved hand lightly on her shoulder. “That’s okay."

Her eyes flick to mine. “Am I crazy?” she asks, thick brows drawing together. “For suddenly changing my entire career path junior year?

“No,” I reply reflexively. “People change careers all the time, even after graduating. If anything, I think you’re smart.

” I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly, like the next part doesn’t mirror my exact dilemma.

“You never know what’ll happen. And if you already know you don’t want to be a surgeon, then—” I shrug, “why keep pouring time into something that isn’t what you really want? ”

She smiles as we step up to the next booth. “Thanks, D.”

Cleo has never called me “D” before. I don’t know if I’m particularly a fan, but the way she said it, so casually, thoughtlessly, like she’s called me it forever, makes my chest warm.

We trail through a plumbing exhibit, skim a study abroad program, and duck past the preying military recruiters in the corner. Eventually, we end up at a table draped in a paw-print patterned tablecloth. Cleo’s eyes catch on a little ceramic dog propped beside a QR code, and she lights up.

“That looks like Mr. Bubbles,” a voice behind me chimes.

It’s smooth. Familiar. I’d recognize it even if it weren’t wrapped in that soft, powdery lavender scent.

I turn, facing Peyton.

Damn.

Something they don’t tell you about being a lesbian: it’s confusing as hell . Sometimes when you see a pretty girl, you can’t tell if you want to be her or kiss her.

Don’t get me wrong, aside from the swollen knees, crooked fingers, and occasional rash, I’m a damn sight to behold. But Peyton?

It’s like all the wonders of the world live within her.

She’s got canyons in her cheeks when she smiles and molten honey in her eyes. Her shoulders are boulders, and her arms ripple with a river of muscles, only half-hidden beneath the oversized tee she’s swimming in.

There’s a stereotype for hockey players: strong, scruffy, hot.

I hate to admit it, but she doesn’t just meet expectations, she exceeds them. Far, far exceeds them.

“What are you doing here?”

The words blurt out faster and louder than I intend. I don’t even know I’m saying them until they’re already echoing. It startles even me. My head jerks up like someone pulled a string in my spine. Like I’m Woody the Cowboy and suddenly, there's a snake in my boot.

“Darcy!” Cleo hisses, shooting me a look like I’ve just kicked a puppy. Which, I guess, isn’t too far off.

I raise both hands in surrender. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just…” I suck in a breath. Why is it shaky? “I just wasn’t expecting to see you. I’m confused.”

Peyton’s gaze flicks between me and Cleo, and the corners of her lips tug into a sly smile. “Yeah, I decided to trade in my hockey career for veterinary science,” she deadpans.

I let out an awkward laugh, probably half a second too late.

“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes in an attempt to regain control of myself. I turn back to Cleo, but she’s already deep in conversation with the woman behind the table, enthusiastically talking about Socks.

That demon.

“I’m actually here for the physics club,” Peyton clarifies, stepping what feels impossibly closer. “Indie’s doing a presentation at five, and I promised I’d show up.”

I pretend to glance around the giant room to disguise the smile tugging at my lips.

This is the third time this month she’s mentioned some obscure campus event she’s “promised” to attend.

A couple weeks ago, I accidentally liked a picture of her sitting on a football player’s shoulders after their win.

I unliked it immediately, then blocked her for three hours hoping the notification would disappear.

She hasn’t said anything, so I’m assuming she never saw it.

Close call—especially since we’re not mutuals, which means I had to search her up specifically.

But the only reason I looked her up was because she bailed on our practice plans to go to some campus poetry slam, and I wanted to make sure she wasn’t lying.

That’s the only reason.

“Oh." I force a shrug. But after a second, I feel my expression shift, so I play it off with a taunt. “Planning to be a rocket scientist, Icarus? That’ll get you closer to the sun.”

Peyton grins. “Something like that. You should come watch. Maybe kinematics will help you block my shots better.”

Her cheek bulges slightly as she tries to bite back a full smile, tongue pressing to the inside of her lip. I take a step closer, watching her pupils dilate as I loom over her. There are two things in this world that have made me appreciate my height:

Hockey, and Peyton Clarke.

“Maybe you should—”

A buzz interrupts me, vibrating through my back pocket into my left ass cheek. My body tenses, and I pull my phone out, glancing at the screen.

MyChart: You have new test results.

Promptly, a lump rises in my throat. I clear it, making just enough room in my esophagus to speak.

“Hold on.” I lean toward Cleo, cutting into her conversation. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a… thing . Do you mind if I take a break?”

Cleo smiles, though her forehead creases in concern. “No, I’m good, D.” She waves me off. “Do your thing.”