Page 50 of Like a Power Play
I smile, a little more than I mean to.“Exactly.”
Uncertainty pools in her eyes, taking root, preparing to infest her whole body. I continue before she has the chance to let it.
“But that’s good,” I add quickly. “That’s exactly what we want them to think. Let them underestimate you. When they least expect it,that’swhen you unleash hell. Got it?”
She nods sharply, her posture loosening a bit. Her smile is still nervous, but it’s there, and I’ll take it.
“Got it.”
When the whistle blows, I slip into position for the faceoff. The puck drops between Clay and I, and everything suddenly feels heavier: the stick in my hands, the skates on my feet, the weight of my dad’s eyes through the television screen. I can almost hear him in my head, repeating those words.
You’ve got the Clarke name on your back.
Clay’s fast. Faster than I remembered. For a second, their stick catches the puck, and my stomach drops. But before they can get away, I lunge, a loudcrackechoing through the air as my stick collides with theirs. The second my blade touches the puck, I swipe it, pushing off, every muscle driving me toward the goal.
I weave through a sea of sleek black jerseys: a flash of green to my left, Lena, and to my right, Indie. Lena’s eyes catch mine, a silent signal for me to pass, but when I look ahead at the goal, the top right corner is free, just as I had practiced. As I close in, the noise of the crowd swells, and all I can think about is the journalists in the stands, waiting to see which headline they’ll run:
Harrison Clarke’s Legacy Lives On
or
Even NHL Blood Can’t Touch Men’s Stats
Either way, I’ll never be enough. My successes will always be owed to my dad, and my failures will always serve as proof that not even nepotism can make women’s sports worth watching. Still, I know he’s there—hands clasped behind his head, eyes glued to the flatscreen. Waiting for me to prove them wrong.
I have to do this. I have to score.For him.
I slip past one defender, then another. As I wind up to shoot, everything slows. My labored breath clouds in the cold air, synchronizing with the violent thud of my heart. Behind me, bodies, but it’s like they’re paralyzed. Frozen in time. Or maybe I am.
With a quick shift of my shoulders, the lift of my left foot, the puck connects with my blade. A buzzing tremor climbs the shaft, slipping through the thick gloves, flooding my hands with a numb, electrifying tingle. The puck arcs in the air, the Giants’ goalie lunging a millisecond too late. The net ripples as the rubber disc sinks in, and the blast of the whistle breaks the haze, everything stirring back to life.
The roar of the crowd, the glowing orange1on our side of the scoreboard, Lena slapping the back of my helmet as my teammates swarm me, passing me around like a trophy. It should feel like a victory.
But as I skate toward the bench, catching my breath, the truth settles back in. The outcome’s still the same. I’ll never have my own name.
Coach fist-bumps me as I hurl myself over the boards, but I don’t get a chance to acknowledge Darcy—or the slight downturn of her lips—before Bailey climbs in behind me and yanks me onto the bench.
“Nice shot, Pey!” She grins, her porcelain cheeks burning red.
I pant, adjusting my cage. “Thanks, Hammie.”
I glance back at Darcy. She’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the game. My gaze shifts between the play unfoldingand the intensity in her expression, the two in perfect sync, like she’s the one controlling it. Cause and effect, conductor and symphony, stick and puck. But disapproval still clings to her lips. I know what she’s thinking. That I should’ve passed to Lena.
And she’s right.
I should have.
But sometimes, I find myself chasing the proof. Putting myself above the people who count on me, because I need to be the one to silence the doubt. The funny part is, it never works. Every time I choose to put my image first, that voice inside me gets louder.
I’m a selfish captain. I don’t know why they gave me this role.
When Caydence scores and the glowing 1 flips to 2, I jump back on the ice, those words replaying in my head.
I’m a selfish captain.
I’m a selfish captain.
I’m a selfish captain.
