Page 75 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Peyton flashes me a sarcastic smile, scrunching that perfect button nose as she steps closer. She drops the basket to the floor beside my bed and collapses into the chair.

“I should’ve let you hit the ground,” she jokes. “Teach you some gratitude.”

“Thank you,” I reply, making sure I sound just sarcastic enough.

She motions vaguely around her own head. “Is your—like— head okay? What’s the deal with that thing?”

I frown. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What?" She throws her hands up in defense. "You hit your head, so I’m just wondering if it’s still working. Like—did you forget anything? Or remember something weird? Or…”

“Ohhh.” I nod slowly, narrowing my eyes. “You’re just trying to find out if I remember you completely fawning over me with fantasy movie references.”

She scoffs, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Nah, I’m just curious because you shattered the concrete floor with that wrecking ball of yours,” she teases, pointing to my head.

I gasp, covering it protectively. “I did not!”

She nods, dead serious. “You did.”

“No.”

“I’m telling you. They might make you pay for damages.”

I flip her off. “You’re obnoxious.”

“There’s like a twelve-inch crater out there.” She shrugs.

“…Wait. Really?”

She breaks into a shit-eating grin. “No. I’m fucking with you.”

I grab a pillow and launch it at her. “Asshole.”

She catches it, giggling brightly. “Yeah, but you like it.”

After that, the room goes silent, save for the soft whir of machines and the steady beep of my monitor. Except it’s not steady anymore. It’s climbing. Fast. And I pray Peyton doesn’t notice.

She doesn’t say anything right away, just watches me carefully, like she’s waiting to see if I'll talk first.

“So… you do remember,” she says eventually, when I don't.

I nod. “If I recall correctly, you said you’d ‘invent time for me.’”

Her face flushes. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it—”

“I do,” I cut in breathlessly. It’s true.

I want to talk about it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

"I've been wanting to talk about it for so long it's just—" I sigh. “You said you’d invent time for me.” I pause, struggling to keep my breath even. “Well, I’d destroy it. I’d break every clock. I’d smash every watch. I’d burn every calendar.

I’d make sure time couldn’t touch us. I’d—”

I falter. My throat tightens. Jesus, how did she make this look so easy?

Heat rises in my cheeks, and I blow out a breath that matches the vibration of my hands.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, motioning awkwardly between us. “How to be with someone without constantly wondering if I’m too much. Or not enough. Without bracing for the moment it all unravels because I’m too broken, or boring, or sad. But I want to try. I want to try with you.”

Tears prick her eyes, and before I can say another word, she’s out of the chair, leaning in, crashing her lips against mine. It’s warm, and soft, and—

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

“Shit, sorry,” she laughs, pulling back, her hands still gently cupping my cheeks. There’s color blooming in her face, but her eyes stay locked on mine.

“Don’t be,” I whisper, breathless. Then I pull her back in and kiss her all over again.

It’s slower this time. Steady and smooth.

Eventually, when she insists she’s not risking me flatlining just for a make-out session, she pulls back with a grin and pats the end of my bed. Mr. Bubbles hops up obediently, spins in three tight circles like he’s been training for this exact moment, and flops down with a dramatic sigh.

“Okay,” Peyton says, nudging the wicker basket toward me, a glint in her eye. “Wanna see what I got you?”

I nod, scooting to the edge of the bed. “What is all that?” I laugh, eyeing the basket and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Well, at first I was just going to get you some hot chocolate—dairy free, obviously —but then I kept finding more stuff, and…” She gestures to the beast of wicker. “Yeah.”

She plops the massive thing onto the chair. I shake my head, still confused.

“Why?” I ask, tilting my head. The light catches the flecks in her eyes as she stares down at me with a challenging grin.

“Why not?”

She proceeds to pull out each item, one at a time, holding them up and announcing them like she’s filming a YouTube video.

“Okay, first, like I said—” She holds up a giant container of dairy-free hot cocoa powder.

“With extra marshmallows, of course. Then,” she reaches back into the basket, “they had like seven different kinds of pain reliever cream and I wasn’t sure which one was the best, so I got all of them.

And ,” she pulls out a collection of items this time, dropping them onto my quilt, “heating pad, freezer gel packs, epsom salts, glittery pink nail polish—”

“Is that a jar of peanut butter? ” I ask, quirking a brow. She nods, holding it up like a trophy.

“Yes.”

My eyes drop into the mess of the basket. Items are piled over one another, an intricate mess of everything that is me. But my eyes lock onto one item in particular. It’s pink and metallic, and I have no idea what it is. I tilt my head, pointing to it.

“What is that?” I question.

Peyton’s eyes fall to the basket, then a giant grin conquers her face. She pulls out the object and hops off the bed, presenting it to me like a show-woman.

“This,” she starts, grabbing one of the folded metal rods and snapping it in place. After she secures the second one and rotates it vertically, the realization hits me.

“You did not get me a cane,” I say defensively, crossing my arms. Peyton’s grin falters, a valley forming between her brows.

“Okay, just listen,” she explains, but I’m already shaking my head. “I read online that canes can really help with the pain, and—”

I cut in, firmer this time. “Peyton, I am not using a cane.”

I should know better, by now, that nothing I say will ever deter Peyton Clarke from speaking her mind. She looks me up and down, propping a hand on her hip. “Do you enjoy making yourself miserable?”

I scoff. “I am not making myself miserable. I just—”

“Okay, riddle me this, Kimberly,” she interrupts. I roll my eyes. “If I had a fever, and I refused to take Tylenol, would you not question my intelligence?”

“I—” I start, but nothing else comes out. Because yes, I would. I sigh. “Okay, yes, but—"

“But nothing,” she shoots, clapping her hands. “We both know you're not going to be able to get surgery until you heal from your— whatever this is. You're going to need something to help you in the meantime. So stand up.”

“Peyton, I really don’t want to—”

When she cuts me off with a grating meow, I have no choice but to comply. I pull myself off the bed, the ache echoing in my chest when my socked feet hit the cold tile. My tubes tug slightly, like the wires of her earbuds, and she rounds the other side of the bed, pulling my IV pole along with me.

“Okay fine,” I huff, gesturing to her face. “Just stop meowing.”

Peyton beams proudly. I add, “You know you’re annoying as hell?”

Her grin widens. “Yes,” she answers, handing the cane over to me and taking a step back. “All I’m asking is for you to try it out. If it doesn’t help, we never speak of it again.”

I stare at her, processing. This moment, right here, kind of reminds me of Cleo, pushing me to take the coaching position. It’s crazy to think about what I would be doing instead if I hadn’t. To know that I wouldn’t be here, with Peyton. And because of that, I try.

The foam padding is cool in my hand, brand new and uncreased. I watch the material crinkle when my grip tightens around it. At first, I just hold it, staring at Peyton with annoyance. She leans against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You have to actually put weight on it for it to—”

“Yeah, yeah I got it,” I mumble, shifting slightly.

I put a little more weight on it, taking a step.

It feels ridiculous, and I almost stop immediately, but when I look at her, at everything she’s done for me, I feel obligated to try.

So I take another. And then another. And funny enough, with each step, the throbbing in my knees and ankles eases, just a bit.

“This is so not sexy,” I mumble. Peyton smirks.

“Are you kidding?” she asks. “This is incredibly sexy. You’re like…

” She pauses, and nothing could have prepared me for what she says next.

“A catty teacher in the 1800s.” She turns around, pressing her stomach to the wall so that her perfect, muscular ass is facing me. “I’ll be the naughty student if you—”

I laugh despite the pain in my chest. “Shut up,” I say, now walking in circles. She turns back around, hitching a shoulder.

“It’s the truth. Is it helping?”

I hobble back over to the bed, using the cane to lower myself. “No.”

Peyton rolls her eyes, strolling back over to me. She leans in so that her face is inches from mine. “Liar.”

A reluctant smile takes over me. “Yeah,” I admit, scrunching my nose. Peyton collapses next to me with a sigh, rubbing her hands along the thigh of her sweats.

I study the pile of stuff for a moment. Every single thing Peyton picked for me has a back story. A meaning.

She knows me in specifics. Not in general. Not in theory. But in the details that weave the fabric of my being. It’s not a rare way to be known. But I think it’s the most important.

"Hey," she says. My eyes flick up to hers as she reaches into the basket and pulls out a bottle of nail polish. "Can I paint your nails?"

We spend the rest of the afternoon doing just that, talking, and drifting in and out of sleep.

The team pops in and out, slowly trickling down to just Peyton and me after I finally convince my mom I’ll be okay.

Harlowe swings by to steal Bubbles away.

It’s a bittersweet goodbye, softened only when Cleo reveals she smuggled Socks into the hospital in her backpack.

He takes Bubbles’ place at the foot of my bed for a few hours, until he begins to demand dinner, forcing both him and Cleo to leave.

Eventually, I fall asleep in Peyton's arms, my thumb brushing over the curve of my freshly painted pinky.