Page 8 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

My arms fold across my chest, a wall I know won’t do a damn thing to protect me.

Darcy’s already proven to be a pin, digging under my skin in a way nobody else has ever managed.

I can handle assholes. Hell, I can even enjoy the challenge of them.

But assholes who act like they’re innocent ? That’s something else entirely.

Darcy tilts her head. “You never asked.”

“Oh, so I’m just supposed to go around asking everyone about their family ties?”

“ You’re going to talk about family ties?” She scoffs. “You know, if you pulled your inflated head out of your ass for more than a second, you might’ve realized I actually knew enough to help you.”

I can't suppress the sour laugh that tumbles from my lips. “Please. The only thing you’ve helped me with is confirm my suspicions.”

Darcy’s brow quirks, and she steps closer. “Which are?”

“That coach’s daughters are entitled brats. ”

Oof, Peyton. Low blow.

Darcy’s eyes narrow, and her lips purse like she’s savoring the insult she’s about to drop. “Says the daughter of the retired NHL legend. ”

"Hey, I’ve earned my spot on this team,” I shoot back, but the waver in my voice doesn’t convince her any more than it convinces me.

The corner of her mouth twitches, and the bubbling pit in my stomach broils into molten lava. “Sure.” She shrugs, her expression stiffening into something colder. “But you can lose it just as easily.”

With that, she spins on her heel, and the door slams behind her with a harsh clang.

Shit.

I follow, my skates scraping against the ice as I shuffle back on. The moment my blades meet the surface, every set of eyes locks onto me, like I’ve just walked out of the grave. Fuck . Am I dead? Did Darcy already finish me off in the locker room and I just don’t know it?

I glide toward my teammates, whipping around to get in line, the movement making my stomach tense. Bailey leans in, her arm brushing against mine as she whispers.

“We’re caught.”

I don’t divert my gaze from Coach Cole, but I feel my brow cock.

“What do you mean?” I whisper back, but Coach clears her throat, and Bailey jumps, straightening herself back up.

“Nice of you to join us again , Captain, ” she chides disapprovingly. “I was just telling these fine players of yours that I have a zero-tolerance policy for hangovers at practice.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Her gaze skirts across my face, like she’s waiting for me to confess, but before I have the chance, they narrow onto Indie. Sweet, innocent, never lied a day in her life, Indie.

We are so fucked.

“Tell me that you’re all exhausted from a late-night study group, Browne.”

Indie swallows, like, visibly gulps, the small bump in her throat bobbing as her gaze falls to the ice.

Silence is certainly a choice. I’m not sure if it’s the right one, but it’s the one Indie makes.

She glances at the rest of us, a silent question, and in Harlowe’s eyes, I can see her begging.

But just as Indie’s lips part to speak, Coach Cole continues on.

“What you do on your time is your business. But as long as you’re a Grizzly, you’re on my time.

I didn’t transfer from Glacier just to join a circus.

” Her gaze flicks back to me, and even though we’re relatively the same height, I feel a hell of a lot smaller.

“ Bag skates. Until someone throws up, or I tell you to stop. Whichever comes first.”

“Hams, take one for the team,” Harlowe whispers, with just the slightest lisp. Bailey shoots her a look, like she wants to kill her but is also considering the proposition. Me?

I just can’t seem to take my eyes off Darcy.

She’s standing there, long legs leaning against the wall, gaze fixed on the clipboard in front of her.

There’s a pen gripped between her teeth, her fingers drifting across the page as she reads whatever secrets lie upon it.

Coach approaches her, exchanging words I can’t quite hear, then pulls something out of her pocket and plops it onto her clipboard.

A smile breaks across Darcy’s face, a genuine one, and it catches me off guard, something in my chest tightening.

It’s weird. I’ve never had my chest tighten at the sight of someone before.

Sure, I’ve felt a flutter here and there, people notice me, I notice them, it’s a game.

But this feels different, like hearing nothing but lyrics your whole life until suddenly, one day, there’s music behind them.

A melody of sound filling the air, the space between us, cellos and trumpets and clari-fucking-nets, reeling me in, wringing me out, until nothing is left to settle in the void in my stomach but flushed intrigue.

Coach pats her on the back, and when Darcy lifts the object off her clipboard, the music comes to a screeching halt. It’s a whistle. And when the shiny piece of metal lifts to her lips, I swear to god, she smirks at me. What a little—

Wheeeep!

The sound cuts through the air, and in an instant, we’re off, blades cutting the ice as we start our grueling agenda.

The moment I move, my lungs begin burning, my heart starts palpitating, and the wind sucks what little moisture my eyes had been granted.

We just started and I can barely hold myself up, every part of me begging for mercy, but I can’t stop.

Not with Darcy watching. Not with Coach’s eyes following our every move.

And not with the letter “C” stitched to my chest, a reminder that, whether I like it or not, I’m supposed to be a leader.

Most days, it’s validating. Right now? I’d consider trading it for a lemon-lime Gatorade and a solid excuse to lay in bed.

The cold air cuts into my skin, sharp as glass, but it’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing.

The steady rhythm of my breathing is broken only by the sound of my skates carving through the ice and the thud of my own heartbeat throbbing in my ears.

I know I’m not the only one struggling. Everyone else’s grunts and gasps mix into the symphony of pain that replaces the one from Darcy’s smile, but it doesn’t matter.

Darcy just keeps blowing that whistle, like she’s daring me to fall apart.

But I won’t. I can’t. I refuse to give her more fuel to add to the fire. So, I push harder, even though every fiber of my being is telling me to stop, to take a break, to throw in the towel and let the ice swallow me whole.

A strange, gurgling noise bubbles up from the pit of Bailey’s stomach, and I glance at her, watching as she presses one hand against her abdomen, legs still driving forward in rapid, sprinting motions. She groans but draws her arms back to her side, continuing the exercise.

The whistle blows again, just as my skates reach the center line, and I propel myself into the opposite direction, casting a glance at Darcy. Her eyes are fixed on me, direct and calculating, lips pulled up into a satisfied smirk.

Masochist.

I’m slowing down, I can feel it, and no matter how hard I try, no matter how fast I feel like my legs are moving, exhaustion is setting in.

I look back ahead, preparing to make another sharp turn when the merciful sound of that beautiful metal whistle rings longer through the air, and Coach’s voice calls out.

“Time!”

I come to a screeching halt, my skates digging into the ice as powder flies behind me.

My legs are on fire, my chest violently heaving, and sweat pools in every crevice of my body but at least it's over. The team gathers, panting, trying to take steadying breaths, and Coach’s gaze sweeps over us. She shakes her head.

“I hope you’ve all learned your lesson,” she says, assessing us warningly.

I glance at Darcy, expecting something. Maybe a smirk, or a nod, but she’s already lost in the details of her clipboard again, scribbling down notes. I can’t help but tilt my head, wondering what on that clipboard could be more entertaining than the team wiped out at her instruction.

Coach steps forward, sharp jaw tensing as she claps her hands together. “Now, let’s get to the real work.”

I ’m shocked, honestly, that not a single one of us threw up during practice. There was a moment or two when I felt I might, from the sheer exhaustion and caffeinated syrup sloshing in my stomach, but I choked it back, knowing that I don’t have the privilege of messing up. At least, not again.

Besides, vomiting rights were best reserved for Bailey. I think it's safe to say our rage room plans have been moved to Saturday.

The feeling lingers as I toss my jersey into my duffel bag, pulling my green Grizzlies hoodie over my head. My sports bra is drenched with sweat, clinging to my skin, but I embrace the body odor and slap on an extra layer of deodorant.

“I need food,” Harlowe grumbles, slamming her dry stall shut. Beside her, Bailey lets out a soft but telling groan.

“I think I might vomit if I eat something,” she whines. Then her gaze narrows, brows weaving together as she considers it. “I think I also might vomit if I don’t?”

I chuckle, smacking my hand against her back. “I’m going to the diner. You guys coming?”

They both nod, Harlowe peeling off her sweat-soaked socks and tossing them into her bag with a wrinkled nose. Her eyes flick up, a taunting smirk tugging at her lips as she stares at someone behind me.

“Nice going, Browne,” she teases. “Really stood up for us there.”

I whip around, gaze landing on Indie, who is innocently clinging to a towel like it would be a crime to see her naked. Her cheeks flush, and she begins stammering over her words, none of them discernible.

“I—well—um—” She sighs, and I can’t help but feel sorry for the kid.

She hardly said three words at camp, and it isn’t her fault that Coach pitted her against us.

Honestly, I was shocked to see her at the party last night, but it was quickly cured when she left shortly after exchanging class notes with Will.

I flash her a smile before spinning back to Harlowe and putting her in her place.