Page 127 of Like a Power Play
Peyton shrugs. “Everyone. The tabloids, the recruiters, the team, my dad.” She pauses.“You.”
My heart trips over itself, and the next words leave my mouth before I even choose them.
“Do it.”
Peyton studies me, confused. “What?”
“Do it. Let me down. Crash and burn and miss every shot, because it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re on the ice because you love it. Not to prove something. Not to keep a stupid family legacy alive. Not to rewrite the headlines. But because there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.”
My hand brushes over her cheek, ignoring the hot flutter that transpires in my gut. “Let them write whatever they want. The only way you’ll let us down is if you get on the ice and try to be someone you’re not. Play for you, that’s all anyone wants. If we make it to the finals and the Sabertooths are there, we’ll deal with it then. You can only play one game at a time. Okay?”
Peyton nods, a soft smile tugging at her lips. Her body relaxes, and those warm, round, honey eyes look up at me. “Okay,” she says.
I thought seeing Brenna would wreck me. That it would bring up all that heartbroken nostalgia and turn me right back into the mess I was when everything fell apart.
But it hasn’t.
In fact, the hardest part of seeing her again is not yelling at her for the absolutegarbagecalls she’s been making for the past two-and-a-half periods. And I’m not the only one.
“That wasn’t a trip,ref!” my mom shouts, emphasizing the word like it’s an insult as Bailey slams into the penalty box, frustrated.
Brenna just skates backwards toward the faceoff circle, cool and clinical.
I know she saw me when the game started. Her eyes locked on mine. But there was nothing behind them. No reaction. No nod, no hello, no acknowledgment at all.
And somehow, that feels like a win.
Because the old me would’ve needed it. The apology, the excuse, the closure. But I don’t. Not anymore. My mom, however, is less content.
“That whistle only work one way?” she shouts, arms crossed, clearly done being professional.
I elbow her lightly, ignoring the creak in my joint as it collides with her ribcage. “Mom,” I warn.
She shrugs, eyes glued to the rink. “What? It’s her job to protect both teams. If she’s not going to do it, then I will.”
Caydence leans toward us. “Okay, I thought it was just me. She’s like… getting in the way! I almost tripped over her earlier.”
“It’s not just you,” Mom replies, shaking her head. “This ref’s useless.”
She’s not wrong—but even with Brenna working against us, we’re still up by three. Unless the Hornets score three times in the next four minutes, we’ve got this.
My eyes flick back to the ice. Lena looks tired, her strides starting to wobble.
“Brady needs out,” I say.
Mom doesn’t hesitate. “Wright!” she calls, already turning to Caydence. “Get in there.”
Caydence hops the boards without hesitation, her skates hitting the ice with athud.She’s already in motion before Brady even finishes dragging herself off.
She drops beside me with a breathless huff, sweat trailing the side of her face. Her chest heaves rapidly as she leans forward, the low bun at the nape of her neck—woven from long, tiny braids—peeking from beneath her helmet.
“You good?” I ask, pulling her water bottle from the shelf and handing it to her. She takes it gratefully.
“Yeah,” she pants. “Just gassed.”
I shift forward, elbows planted on my knees, gaze locked back on the ice.
The refrigerated buzz of the rink dissolves beneath the roar of the crowd as the power play plays out. I scan the ice, searchinguntil I finally spot her. Peyton’s moving fast. So fast it’s almost hard to track her.
