Page 7 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)
Four
Peyton
FINAL CHAT FR THIS TIME
CAPTAIN CLARKE
Goooood morning ladies! Quick reminder that we're starting in the training room with Kaiser at 6.
Also LNHL Countdown: 18ish weeks
brADY
What?!
HAMMIE
Shittttt I forgot
YERSIE
Yeah so I'm actually coming down with something. Don't think I'm gonna make it.
Z
Same
CAPTAIN CLARKE
Does that "something" happen to be a hangover?
YERSIE
…
Z
Come on, Pey. You know Kaiser is going to eat us alive.
CAPTAIN CLARKE
Best I can do is Monsters and gas station breakfast sandwiches.
HAMMIE
Deal.
CAY
Oooh purple please!
SIMS BUT NOT THE GAME
Blue pls. But not the cobalt blue the light blue.
brADY
Can you get me a Honey Bun too? I'll send $.
YERSIE
Eating a Honey Bun before lifting is absolutely vile.
brADY
I'll take no criticism from the woman that puts everything bagel seasoning on her ICE CREAM.
YERSIE
Fair point
Hey, anyone know what this "big announcement" that Coach has is?
Z
Not a clue.
CAY
Nope.
Browne
I think she mentioned something about administrative changes?
CAPTAIN CLARKE
Look! Little Brownie paid attention! We're raising her so well.
I vaguely remember the admin thing, but I don't really know. Guess we'll find out! I'm running to the gas station. See you all in thirty!
I t’s seven in the morning, and I’ve already peed six times today.
Granted, it’s better than the rest of the team’s hangover dehydration, but the pressure building between my thighs is not the pleasant kind.
And if I have to ask Coach Cole to use the restroom in the middle of her lecture, she’ll have me skating laps for a week.
“Alright, listen up everyone!” she announces, eyes wandering over us as her thin brows press together. I glance at the rest of my teammates on the ice, and while their skates are laced up and ready to go, they most certainly are not.
Harlowe, our primary goalie and my best friend, is practically falling asleep, icy eyes dipping in and out of consciousness, while Bailey, the toughest defense-woman this side of the Columbia, also my best friend, is clutching her stomach like the contents of it are traveling northbound.
How they made it through Kaiser this morning is beyond me.
I can only pray my exhaustion looks different from theirs, which seems to be answered because when Coach Cole’s eyes fall onto me, she says nothing. Her throat clears, pen tapping against her clipboard, before she continues.
“Before we get going, I’ve got an announcement. Some of you’ve only known me for about a month, but for those of you who were at the weekend camp back in July, you already know I don’t exactly do things the usual way.”
Harlowe’s eyes snap open, and she shoots me a quick, concerned glance.
We both attended that camp. After a scrimmage Coach Cole called "divided" (whatever that meant) she had us sit in the stands with pens and paper. She instructed us to write a letter to someone we were mad at, someone who’d gotten under our skin.
Yeah, a letter. Like the kind you fold and stick in an envelope with a stamp. No filters. No holding back. Once the anger was out, we folded the letters and tucked them between our jill shorts and our pants.
I don’t know if it was the psychology behind it, or just the extra weight, but when we got back on the ice, it was like we all understood a new, unspoken language.
Caydence knew when I was going to pass the puck, Lena wasn’t hoarding it anymore, and Harlowe blocked every single shot the other team made.
It was weird.
When our old coach, Coach Kaiser, thought we weren’t working as a team, she’d just scream in our faces until we could all bond over the vein in her forehead.
Thankfully, she got demoted to being our strength and conditioning coach after an altercation with a ref, so we only have to deal with her on training days.
But Coach Cole? She’s different. That’s not to say she’s soft, though.
When Indie, a sophomore who just joined the team, showed up late on the first day of practice, Coach had her skating suicides until she could explain why.
Only, Indie must really hate herself, because she never did.
She just skated, back and forth, faster and faster, pushing herself until she was nearly sick.
“…Right now, like me, she’s a stranger. But she’s got experience, and she’s going to be working with us to help develop your skills, both on and off the ice.
She might be just what we need to get to the NCAAs.
So, treat her with the same respect you’d show me.
” Harlowe and I exchange worried glances again.
I should’ve been paying attention.
My heart pounds, and my stomach churns. I blink a couple times, trying to wet my dry eyes, the sharp, throbbing pressure in my bladder screaming for relief. That’s what happens when you pound two energy drinks before six a.m. The kicker? I’m still fucking tired.
I should’ve known better than to go to Will’s party last night—stupid move if I’m serious about the PWHL, more specifically the Sabertooths.
Then again, with my last name, they’d probably let it slide.
To be fair, everyone would’ve gone whether or not I agreed, and the football team deserved to celebrate their win.
So I made an appearance, kept an eye on my team, poured a couple cocktails.
And though I never drank one myself, the exhaustion from only three hours of sleep is almost as punishing.
A bead of sweat rolls down my neck, but I don’t dare move. I must be making some sort of face, because Coach’s brow flicks up, her eyes scanning me with a keen, almost predatory focus.
“Student coaches usually work with the team they've played on, but the board was willing to make an exception. So, I want you all to meet my daughter, Darcy.”
Darcy.
When that name leaves her lips, my stomach sinks, the weight of it pressing against my bladder, and I swear to god, if I piss myself right now, the team will never let me live it down.
Coach gestures to the side, and in walks Darcy.
The Darcy I may or may not have hidden from security guards with at four in the morning yesterday, after a solid three-minute argument with her.
Wait, did she say daughter?
Darcy’s straight, auburn hair sways with each step, like a ribbon caught in the wind, while her emerald eyes scan the ice.
A wave of heat rushes to my cheeks. My body pulses, my heart or my bladder, I have no idea.
All I know is that when Darcy’s eyes lock onto mine, when her thin, red brows lift in recognition, I’m already halfway off the ice, calling out to Coach like I’m in a position to be on her bad side.
“Sorry, Coach!” I yell out. “I really have to pee!”
I don’t dare look back to see her reaction, though I can hear the muffled giggles of my teammates echoing behind me.
I have no idea why; there’s absolutely nothing funny about this situation.
I sprint, as fast as I can manage in these damn skates, off the ice, through the tunnel, and into the locker room.
With frantic hands, I yank open my padded pants, digging my fingers under the layers until I finally feel my skin, and then rip them down to my knees.
I barely make it to the toilet before I collapse onto it, the pressure finally releasing in a rush, my heart still hammering in my chest like I’m about to be a dead man.
Which, you know, I am . Because if the look in Darcy’s eyes isn’t enough to kill me, when Coach finds out I’m feuding with her daughter, she’ll do the damn job herself.
It’s clear they’re close—if not from the fact that Darcy (despite her total lack of experience) is assistant coach, then from the fact that for the last few weeks since practice has started, Coach Cole has mentioned her daughter at least three times a day.
“Oh, my daughter just moved back from Minnesota.”
“Oh, my daughter took that same course.”
“Oh, my daughter braids her hair like that too.”
Would’ve been nice if she'd dropped the name at least once!
The sink water in the locker room is cold on my hands, making them tremble as I scrub them together, or maybe it’s just the nerves surrounding my potential demise.
I splash some onto my cheeks, the sharp chill biting into my skin, sending a shiver that ripples through me.
Droplets trace the curve of my face before dripping down, leaving behind a faint sting.
I stare at myself in the mirror, the reflection slightly distorted by the moisture, my eyes heavy and tired.
What.
The.
Fuck.
A loud creak interrupts my internal spiral, the metal door swinging open, slamming against the wall.
My gaze snaps over, landing on a head of flowy red hair, lingering in the doorway.
Darcy props the door open with her foot, her thin, gloved fingers gripping a clipboard that matches her mother’s, and I wonder now how I didn’t see it before.
Maybe it’s because Coach’s hair is brown, and thin, or maybe because Darcy towers over my 5’4” stance, but the straight narrowness of her nose, the freckles scattered across her cheeks like constellations, it’s unmistakable now.
“Coach says you better get your ass back on the ice.” Her gaze snaps back to me, and my gut twists, brow twitching like it’s got a mind of its own. I swipe at the water on my cheeks, but it doesn’t soothe the tingling sensation washing over my skin.
I should learn from my mistakes. Just nod, comply, pretend like we’ve never met.
But there’s something about the way she looks at me that makes my blood hot.
Maybe it’s the superiority in her eyes, or the way she cut me down the other morning.
Or maybe it’s the fact that she knew we’d be seeing each other today—and didn’t say a damn word about it.
The words claw their way up my throat, and before I can stop myself, I snap. “Nice of you to mention you’re the student coach. Or, y’know, Coach’s daughter.”