Page 161 of Like a Power Play
Cleo helped me see that.
“Why’d you leave so fast?” I frown. “You have a 4.3. Which, honestly, I didn’t know was even possible.”
She lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah… I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d feel something reading that brochure, but…” Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug.
It takes more effort than I’d like to lift my arm, but I do it anyway, resting my purple gloved hand lightly on her shoulder. “That’s okay.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Am I crazy?” she asks, thick brows drawing together. “For suddenly changing my entire career path junior year?
“No,” I reply reflexively. “People change careers all the time, evenaftergraduating. If anything, I think you’re smart.” I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly, like the next part doesn’t mirror my exact dilemma. “You never know what’ll happen. And if you already know you don’t want to be a surgeon, then—” I shrug, “why keep pouring time into something that isn’t what you really want?”
She smiles as we step up to the next booth. “Thanks, D.”
Cleo has never called me “D” before. I don’t know if I’m particularly a fan, but the way she said it, so casually, thoughtlessly, like she’s called me it forever, makes my chest warm.
We trail through a plumbing exhibit, skim a study abroad program, and duck past the preying military recruiters in the corner. Eventually, we end up at a table draped in a paw-print patterned tablecloth. Cleo’s eyes catch on a little ceramic dog propped beside a QR code, and she lights up.
“That looks like Mr. Bubbles,” a voice behind me chimes.
It’s smooth. Familiar. I’d recognize it even if it weren’t wrapped in that soft, powdery lavender scent.
I turn, facing Peyton.
Damn.
Something they don’t tell you about being a lesbian: it’s confusing ashell. Sometimes when you see a pretty girl, you can’t tell if you want tobeher orkissher.
Don’t get me wrong, aside from the swollen knees, crooked fingers, and occasional rash, I’m a damn sight to behold. But Peyton?
It’s like all the wonders of the world live within her.
She’s got canyons in her cheeks when she smiles and molten honey in her eyes. Her shoulders are boulders, and her arms ripple with a river of muscles, only half-hidden beneath the oversized tee she’s swimming in.
There’s a stereotype for hockey players: strong, scruffy, hot.
I hate to admit it, but she doesn’t just meet expectations, she exceeds them. Far,farexceeds them.
“What are you doing here?”
The words blurt out faster and louder than I intend. I don’t even know I’m saying them until they’re already echoing. It startles even me. My head jerks up like someone pulled a string in my spine. Like I’m Woody the Cowboy and suddenly, there’s a snake in my boot.
“Darcy!” Cleo hisses, shooting me a look like I’ve just kicked a puppy. Which, I guess, isn’t too far off.
I raise both hands in surrender. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just…” I suck in a breath. Why is it shaky? “I just wasn’t expecting to see you. I’m confused.”
Peyton’s gaze flicks between me and Cleo, and the corners of her lips tug into a sly smile. “Yeah, I decided to trade in my hockey career for veterinary science,” she deadpans.
I let out an awkward laugh, probably half a second too late.
“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes in an attempt to regain control of myself. I turn back to Cleo, but she’s already deep in conversation with the woman behind the table, enthusiastically talking about Socks.
That demon.
“I’m actually here for the physics club,” Peyton clarifies, stepping what feels impossibly closer. “Indie’s doing a presentation at five, and I promised I’d show up.”
I pretend to glance around the giant room to disguise the smile tugging at my lips.
This is the third time this month she’s mentioned some obscure campus event she’s “promised” to attend. A couple weeks ago, I accidentally liked a picture of her sitting on a football player’s shoulders after their win. I unliked it immediately, then blocked her for three hours hoping the notification would disappear. She hasn’t said anything, so I’m assuming she never saw it.
