Page 33 of Like a Power Play
“No.”Liar.
“Terrified,” she answers. “You told me you were terrified.”
“Yeah, well, flying in a hunk of metal 30,000 feet in the air will do that to you,” I chide, scanning the rink to avoid her eyes. I know where this is going, but I’m not biting. My mom’s a coach, not some philosophical artist, and this isn’t the picture she thinks it is. Peyton’s not some terrified player weighed down by fear. She’s someone with nothing to lose.
Or so she thinks.
“If she was so terrified,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes, “she wouldn’t be showing up hungover or arguing with the coach.”
Mom raises a brow, lips twitching with a knowing smirk. “Oh, so you never argued with your coaches? Interesting. Because Idistinctly remember—”
I raise my hand, cutting her off. “Don’t. Even.”
She chuckles. I keep my focus on the rink.
“You two should talk, you know,” she suggests casually.
I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that doesn’t exactly seem to work out too well.”
She just smiles, unfazed. “I think once you’re on the same page, you might learn a lot from each other.”
There’s a lot I want to say, but instead, I just nod, keeping my eyes on the ice, watching 11 dance across it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be on the same page as Peyton when we’re not even reading the same damn book.
As practice winds down, my mom’s words repeat in my mind. The last few drills fizzle out, and I’m left staring at the ice, tracing the blur of Peyton’s jersey. She moves across the rink like it’s her world. Like nothing exists beyond the boards, and the chipped ice beneath her feet. It doesn’t help that I can’t look away, can’t stop watching how she holds the game in her palm, molding it to her will. I try to ignore it, but it’s impossible when she makes it all look so easy.
It’snoteasy. I of all people know that. But she’s got this flow about her, something that creeps beneath the violent strides and heavy hand, that makes me wonder if she’s always glided through life as if she’s floating, or if it’s the gift of her father’s influence.
I shift in my seat, my grip on the clipboard tight enough to leave scallops on my fingertips. When the whistle blows, signaling the end of practice, I push myself off the bench. No matter how hard I tried to talk myself out of it, I don’t want to be stuck in this stupid dispute all season.
Peyton steps off the ice, sweat-soaked hair clinging to her flushed cheeks, strands escaping the messy bun at the nape of her neck. Her bright amber eyes dart toward the ground as she drops onto the bench, muscles rippling under the sleeves of her jersey. There’s a sheen to her skin, a bead of sweat slipping down the curve of her temple, catching against the dark lashes framing her eyes. My pace quickens, fumbling a bit as I approach, my pulse ticking up for no reason at all.
“Peyton, can we talk for a sec?” I call out, trying my hardest to sound innocuous.
Tugging at her skate’s chartreuse laces, Peyton’s head tips back to meet my gaze, hooded eyes squinting.
“Do I have a choice?” Her tone is playful, but that full-lipped grin sewn into her cheeks gives it away.Mocking.
“… Yes?” I reply.
She shrugs, glancing away and grabbing her water bottle, squirting a stream of water into her mouth. I shouldn’t notice the way her neck tenses as she swallows. In fact, I don’t.
“Pass, then.”
My expression curdles, stepping in front of her and crossing my arms. This endsnow. “Okay, I lied.No.”
She shrugs the worn strap of her duffel bag over her shoulder, pushing herself to her feet.
“Well, that’s deceptive,” she says, that cocksure grin deepening. “If this is about the ‘no fun’ rule, I think I got the message.” She lifts a hand to her brow in a mock salute. “Copy that, Kim Possible.”
A curt, annoyed chuckle slips out of me as I step closer, shoving my hands in my pockets. My gloves make it a tight squeeze, and I’m pretty sure I’m cutting off circulation to my fingers, but at this point, what’s a little more discomfort?
“I—” I start, but she cuts me off. Her brows weave, button nose scrunching to form rosy rays on the bridge. A short, pointed finger jabs against my sternum.
“What is that?” she asks.
I glance down, just a millisecond too late to realize what an idiot I am. Before I can spare myself the embarrassment, her finger draws up, hitting me square on the nose. An arrogant grin breaks over her face, and without another word, she spins and heads toward the locker room.
I want to lose it. Demand an ounce of professionalism. Remind her who’s the coach and who’s the player. But if I’m going to get on her good side, or at the very least, get off her hit list, I need to keep my focus on resolving this. On making peace.
