Page 4 of Like a Power Play
My ankles feel like someone took their anger out on them with a Razor scooter. It’s a deep ache that thrums in sync with my heartbeat, tempting me to stop, but I don’t. Stopping is for the weak, and weakness is not a luxury I can afford. Every part of me is begging,pleadingfor a break, but I know better. I know the Sabertooths wouldn’t stop. My dad wouldn’t either.
So I won’t.
Despite the burn in my thighs, and the pulse pounding in my eardrums, I push off the ice and start again. The mid-October air bites at my skin as my blades carve through the rink, weaving around the cones, my stick following the puck like a shadow.
I’d be at the indoor rink if my access card worked at this hour, but it only grants entry during regular school hours, which unfortunately doesn’t begin at four a.m. The outdoor rink’s not so bad, though. Some think it’s haunted, because it’s eerie when the sun is still down, but I like it. The overhead lights illuminate nothing but the ice below my feet, making the rest of theuniversity, the rest of the world even, disappear. But even here, alone on the ice, I can’t escape my biggest competitor.
Myself.
I crank up the volume, some self-help audiobook blasting in my ears, but no matter how loud I turn it up, my internal voice demands to be heard.
Sharper turn there,she says. So I start again, pushing harder, faster, as though out-skating the voice might make her disappear.
It never works.
The crunch beneath my skates is familiar, each dent and crevice in the ice a testament to my repetitive failures from this morning’s solo practice. As I near the goal, my gaze locks onto the right corner of the net—the one the Glacier Giants’ starting goalie always seems to neglect. My grip tightens around my stick, fingers sinking into the worn tape as I draw it back to shoot.
But just before my blade makes contact, a loud thud echoes through the rink, and something in my peripheral vision barrels toward me, driven by a vendetta.
I spin around, eyes locked on the rogue puck as it glides across the ice, coming to a stop right in front of my feet.
Shit. Is it possessed? Why is Bailey always right?
My grip on my stick tightens, just in case I have to start fending off spirits, but as my eyes scan the arena, the only thing they land on is a woman, who, despite her pale, freckled cheeks, seems to be very much alive.
She stands by the short gate into the rink, auburn hair loosely tucked in the fold of her black turtleneck sweater. Her lips part, as if calling something to me, but the monotonous voice in my ears swallows it up. Normally, I don’t halt a practice for anything. Not the weather, not the fact that the rink istechnicallyclosed, and certainly not for a girl who was rudeenough to toss a puck at me. But when her lips quirk into a smile, one like I’ve never seen, my stomach flips.
I should know this smile. I should know thiswoman.
Despite its mathematical improbability, I know just about everyone at Greenrock University. Or—knowof. The ice skaters, the theater stoners, the psychology baristas, the biology gamers, the frat boys who hoard the gym but never seem to actually lift. I make it a point to be at almost every event, to weave into every corner of campus life, so that everyone has at least one person cheering them on.
But this woman? She hasn’t fallen into any of those categories. I would’ve seen her at a game, or a concert, or some random late-night study session. If she’d been there, I’d remember.
I’d remember that smile. Those red strands of hair catching the light as she peeks out from the shadowed stadium seats. I’d remember those freckles, and when she tilts her head, I’m certain I’d have remembered that too.
So, despite my better judgment, I find myself gliding in her direction.
The low hum of the rink floods my ears as I pull the earbuds free, strands of sweat-soaked hair sticking to my cheeks. I drift toward her, the sound of my skates cutting through the ice now oddly magnified.
“What did you say?” I call out, feeling a slight tug at my lips.
The pretty woman leans forward, as if what she’s about to say is so substantial, it demands the force of her entire body to hurl it across the ice. “I said,” she starts, her voice clear as that bright grin deepens. “You’reovercompensating.”
What the fuck?
Paralyzed by disbelief, my body still drifts toward her, helpless against the slick of the ice. Did she just say what I think she said?
It’s not the words that unsettle me. It’s the way she says them. The ease in her tone, as if we’ve shared a thousand inside jokes, as if we’ve exchanged the same worn-out band tee, as if she’s earned the right to say them with that kind of blunt familiarity.
I have no idea who this woman is and yet, she’s speaking to me like we’re already monumental parts of each other’s histories. Normally, I wouldn’t mind it, but like I said, I don’t usually stop practice for anything. And now I’ve halted it just to be insulted.
I don’t even know how to respond.
So I don’t.
Instead, I cross my arms, my posture stiffening. “You threw apuckat me?”
She shrugs, and a strand of strawberry hair slips free from the confines of her turtleneck. It tumbles down her chest, a fiery cascade that could set the world alight in its path. “I was trying to get your attention. You know, I don’t think you’re supposed to be here this early. Most people aren’t even awake at this hour.”
