Page 76 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)
Thirty Nine
Peyton
I s that anatomically possible?" Clay (yes, that Clay) squints at the pair of ice skaters flying over the outdoor GU rink like the forces of gravity are optional. Their rhinestone-speckled outfits catch the late-afternoon sun, blades cutting into the ice as they land cleanly.
Harlowe threads her fingers through theirs, furrowing her brows.
"Jesus," she mutters, rubbing her reddened eyes. "And I thought we abused our bodies."
I glance down at their hands tangled together and chuckle quietly.
No matter how many times Harlowe’s told me the story, I still can’t quite believe she and Clay fucking Matthews are a thing.
Though I have to admit, they’re cute. Harlowe towers a full ten inches over them in her pastel green zip-up and light-washed denim, while Clay, boasting a black muscle tee and complimentary moto jeans, leans into her side.
I turn my head to the left, toward Darcy, her cane wedge between her thighs as she sits.
"So you… died? " I ask, letting myself soak in the sight of her.
She looks like autumn. Like peaches soaked in sunlight.
When the sun hits her lashes just right, they catch fire, soft red-gold flames flickering around those emerald eyes.
I never noticed before how each freckle on her skin is its own shade of orange.
I think it might be my new favorite color.
She nods solemnly.
"Yeah," she sighs, crossing her arms. "Disintegrated. Poof ." She puffs out her cheeks, mimicking an explosion with her hands.
“Damn. Brutal,” Harlowe deadpans, tearing off a generous chunk of Everything Bagel–seasoned soft pretzel and stuffing it into her mouth.
She licks her salt-flaked fingers, and when her eyes catch mine, they’re dry and glassy, like she hasn’t slept in a week.
Really, it's just from the edible she took an hour ago.
She blinks repetitively, trying to rehydrate them.
"Hopefully Bailey can revive me next week," Darcy continues. "Because having to watch them lead us into Mordor completely unprepared is torture. "
"Wait." I frown. "If you can be revived, what’s the point of dying?"
“That’s kinda deep,” Harlowe drawls.
I roll my lips inward to bite back a laugh.
“I dunno.” Darcy replies, hitching a shoulder. She turns back toward the ice. “Guess I’ll find out."
Her bare fingers brush against mine as she reaches into my bucket of popcorn.
She’s more comfortable with people seeing her hands now.
She only wears the gloves when her circulation acts up.
Thankfully, spring’s finally here, and the warmer weather hasn’t been flaring her Raynaud’s as much.
She tosses the popcorn into her mouth, crunching thoughtfully as she watches the next line of skaters take the ice.
A series of "ope"s and "whoop"s and "excuse me"s echoes nearby as Bailey descends the steps, squeezing past a row of knees to reach us. In her hand is a comically large fountain soda, the straw wedged between her lips as she slurps obnoxiously loud.
“What’d I miss?” she asks, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie.
“The debunking of physics,” Clay replies dryly, nodding toward the skaters on the ice. Then they lean forward slightly to glance at her. “Also, sorry about the championship. That sucks.”
She exhales sharply. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
“I mean, first-round elimination is kinda—” Clay winces dramatically, pressing a palm to their heart.
Harlowe shoots them a daggered look, but doesn’t let go of their hand. “Says the one who didn’t even make it to finals.”
Darcy and I exchange a knowing glance.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter.
“Here we go,” she echoes under her breath.
Clay opens their mouth. “Well if your captain hadn’t—”
“Guess what?” Darcy interjects suddenly, halting the oncoming bickering match. Both Clay and Harlowe swivel their attention to her, and I find myself equally curious about whatever diversion she’s just manufactured.
“What?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Her eyes glint mischievously. “You have to guess.”
Everyone groans in unison.
“Now that's torture,” Harlowe grumbles, slumping into Clay’s side.
Clay nods. “Yeah, I’m not doing that shit.”
“Oh, come on ,” Darcy pleads, face scrunching with faux offense. “It’ll be fun.”
“I’ll play!” Bailey pipes up, still nursing her soda.
Darcy lights up, spinning toward her with a grin. “Okay, okay. I’ll give you a hint: S .”
“ S?! ” Harlowe and Clay shout in horrified unison.
“‘S’ is a letter, not a damn hint,” Clay protests.
Harlowe waves her pretzel in objection, adding, “Yeah, what are we supposed to do with that?”
“S… S…” Bailey repeats, tapping her chin in concentration.
I take a solid thirty seconds to ponder the hint, before ultimately coming to an impasse. “Yeah, sorry babe,” I say to Darcy, “I love you, but I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.”
“S… S… S…”
“It’s the only hint you’re getting,” Darcy replies smugly, crossing her arms as a coy smile etches in the groove of her mouth. Clair de Lune drifts over the speakers, a comical choice for this argument's soundtrack if you ask me.
“What kind of hint is ‘S’? ” Clay continues. “I mean, I’m not Alex Trebek—may he rest in peace—but I’m pretty sure hints are supposed to… I don’t know… help .”
“Don’t get me started,” I mutter. “Last week she refused to hand me my coffee until I guessed the syrup flavors.”
“How long did that take?”
“Twenty minutes,” I deadpan. “Three flavors, by the way? Total cheating.”
“ YOU FOUND LACHLAN’S MOUTHGUARD!!! ” Bailey yells, so loud a couple people in front of us turn around and shush us. I flash them an apologetic smile.
“I knew you’d get it!” Darcy squeals, diving into her messenger bag. She pulls out a scuffed blue case with a big white S stamped on the front and holds it up like a trophy.
“Wait— whose mouthguard?” Clay asks, a little "v" etched between their brows.
“Lachlan Hunt,” I answer.
Clay blinks. “Okay, but like… he lost it here? Or—wait—how the hell did you get that from the letter ‘S’?”
Bailey grins triumphantly. “Easy. I just kept repeating ‘S’ and then it sounded like ‘ssss’ like a snake. Which made me think of boas. Boa constrictors. And that made me think of the Boston Boas, which made me think of Lachlan!”
I swear, if this were a cartoon, the following sound would be the tink tink of our eyelashes as we blink. We all turn to Darcy, trying to figure out if this Nancy Drew-level Easter egg was actually her plan. She frowns.
“I just said ‘S’ because it’s a Shock Doctor mouthguard,” she replies casually, holding up the case and tracing her finger over the big white "S" printed on the front. "See?"
Bailey stares at the mouthguard case for a minute, then, without a word, turns back to the rink. I reach around Darcy, patting her on the shoulder.
"Good thinkin' though Hams," I reassure her. Then, suddenly remember, "Hey, is Rose still coming?"
She nods. "She's finishing up a final but she should be here any minute."
Indie’s been tagging along to a lot of campus events with me lately, ever since we lost in the first round of the NCAA championships.
So far, we’ve hit up a drag show (which she loved), a swim meet (which she definitely didn’t), and even volunteered at a voter registration drive—where, to my surprise, she ended up running the whole thing after the original organizer went home sick.
Since scoring that first shot in the finals, she’s been an unstoppable force, just like I knew she would be.
If the Sabertooths knew what was good for them, they’d stop spamming Coach with messages begging me to reconsider their offer, and start asking about Indie instead.
A soft vibration buzzes in my back pocket, and I pry my eyes from the impressive axel on the ice to look at my phone.
An unknown number is calling you.
"You okay?" Darcy asks, cocking a brow.
I nod, pinching mine together. "Yeah. Just… an unknown caller? I'm gonna—" I motion to the patch of grass over by the gate.
She nods, and I weave my way out of the stands, pressing the phone to my ear just before the call goes to voicemail.
"Hello?"
Immediately, a smooth, mellow voice fills the other end. "Hi. I just would like to confirm that I’m speaking with Peyton Clarke?"
My eyebrows furrow, and I clear my throat. “The one and only!" I joke. Then I pause, considering. “Actually, probably not. Sorry, how can I help you?”
“This is Alvie Lippencott,” she responds. There’s something about her voice that scrubs goosebumps down my body. Something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Wait— Lippencott? "The head coach for the Portland Porcupines. How are you doing today?"
My brain sputters for a second, like an old engine running low on oil as I try to process what exactly is happening. "Yeah, I know who you are!" I blurt out, probably way too eagerly. "I’m—I’m good, how are you?"
"I’m doing well, thank you for asking." Her voice softens, just slightly. "I’m going to cut to the chase. To make a long story short, we’re in a bit of a pickle here, and I wanted to contact you personally about an opportunity with our team."
I blink, my pulse suddenly hammering. I grip the phone tighter. So tight it almost pops out of my grip. “Sorry, what?”
She continues. “One of our star players has unfortunately suffered a pretty serious injury. She won’t be returning this upcoming season.”
A gasp slips from my lips. "Oh my god, that’s awful!”
"Yes, it’s quite unfortunate," Alvie acknowledges, her tone sympathetic but professional. "But it’s fortunate for you ." She pauses, just for a moment. "I’ve been following you at Greenrock University since your freshman year. I have to say I’m a big fan."
My pulse spikes even faster. I can hear it, feel it, everywhere . My hands. My throat. My stomach.
"Because of my dad?" I ask, hesitantly. The lump in my throat solidifies during the long pause on the other end, stomach twisting into untamable knots.