Page 9 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

“Oh, shut it Harlowe. If Coach was interrogating you, you would’ve rolled like a dog.”

Bailey barks twice, and I don’t hesitate to jump on her either. “Oh that’s funny? Your groaning was probably the reason we got called out in the first place.”

“Either that, or your bladder,” Harlowe fires back, and everyone, including Indie, breaks into laughter.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” I snipe, tossing my sweaty towel at her. She shrieks, gagging as she rips it off, and throws it onto the ground.

“Jesus, Pey! Wash the thing, weekly at least. ”

I chuckle, but when I catch a whiff of it, I have a visceral reaction.

Tongue-tensing, gag-reflexing, nose-scrunching reaction. A stream of air blows through my puffed cheeks as I lift it up, everyone in the room groaning and pulling their shirts over their noses.

“That’s like, a biohazard,” Bailey says. Then, she chokes. “Seriously, get it out of here!”

I fish in my pocket, pulling out my keys and tossing them to Harlowe. “Can you get the car warmed up?” She nods, jingling them between her fingers, and I toss my head in Indie’s direction. “And take her with you.”

“Me?”

I spin around, catching her eye. Her finger is pressed to her chest, hazel eyes blinking in innocent surprise. I shrug.

“You hungry?” I ask. She nods. “Then get dressed, Rose . We’re not reenacting the Titanic.”

A smile breaks across Indie’s face, cheeks flushing as she scrambles in her locker to gather her clothes.

I hold the towel out at arm’s distance, like I didn’t just use it to absorb my own bodily fluids.

All my teammates step aside, creating a path lined with disgusted expressions.

Some of them even pinch their noses as I walk past, and I start to wonder how long it’s actually been since I’ve washed it.

I step outside, the cool fall air enveloping me as I stroll over to the dumpster.

The satisfying weight of the towel sinks into the trash, but as I turn to head back, I hit something.

My head bounces off the warm body, and I stumble back, blinking quickly, trying to steady myself.

My lips part to speak, to apologize for not watching where I was going, but when my gaze flicks up, I freeze.

Deep green eyes stare back at me, down at me, even, as Darcy pulls her dark red hair over one shoulder.

There it is. That knot in my stomach. God, I feel stupid for how I snapped earlier. Even though she’d been rude, even though she’s clearly got some sort of vendetta, it’s not like me to escalate things. To be that person. To make it worse.

I blink, my mind scrambling for words. Any words.

Something that might make this right. Part of it’s guilt, truly.

But if I’m being completely honest, another part of me is panicking.

If Coach finds out what I said, I might as well kiss my Captain label goodbye.

Hell, the way she looked at me earlier when she found out we were at that party?

I’ll be lucky to keep any spot on this team.

But if we don’t handle this—if we don’t squash this stupid dispute now—I’m as good as gone.

And I can’t lose this.

I search those eyes, and I blame the absence of words coming to my mind on the fact that I seem to be getting lost in them. Darcy simply raises a brow, her thin, freckled lips parting.

“Tired?” she questions, her tone baiting.

She’s clearly looking for a reaction, and I can’t help but wonder how our stupid bickering yesterday was enough to constitute her enjoyment of my suffering.

I cross my arms, shifting my weight to my right leg, because my left feels like it’s going to fall off.

Don’t bite, Peyton. Don’t . Bite.

“No,” I lie.

Something flickers in her eyes, but I can’t quite pin it.

Maybe amusement at my transparent fib, or maybe irritation that her dig didn’t land quite like she wanted.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Even though what I said in the locker room was the truth, that stupid knot in my stomach refuses to loosen until I apologize.

Until I can do my part in wiping the slate clean.

I open my mouth to speak, but before I can get a word out, she cuts in again.

“You know, you seemed really serious about hockey the other morning. Practicing really hard.”

Was that—did she just… compliment me? For a brief moment, I think maybe I’m not completely dead. Maybe, this was all just a misunderstanding. Maybe I got a little sensitive. Maybe—

“Turns out I was wrong. Showing up hungover? This sport isn’t a joke, Captain . Start leading like it matters.”

Then, before I can even process her words, or the antagonistic way she used my position, Darcy plants her heel into the ground and spins around on it, her soft strands of hair brushing against my nose as she moves past me.

Her almond-cherry scent lingers just long enough to make me dizzy, and she strolls away, pace unhurried, as if I were just another dumpster she’d walked around.

And maybe I am. I don’t know if I’m supposed to intimidated or offended, but I do know this:

I’m not letting some failed player, coach’s daughter, push me around.