Page 1 of Like a Power Play
One
Darcy
People with anxiety disorders make the best coffee, and the Grizzly Grind at Greenrock University is proof. It’s never too sweet, never too milky, and I’m convinced all the panicking baristas are psychology majors, because their bizarre concoctions of syrups and rich espresso have a way of grounding me rather than revving me up.
Usually.
I used to think coffee turned me into a sledgehammer—blunt, swinging down with reckless force, intent on destruction. Turns out, that’s just who I am, and coffee simply gives me the energy to act on it.
And right now, I have more than enough reason to swing.
You know that saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”? I’d like to propose an upgrade:
Hell hath no fury like adaughterscorned.
And the yellow slip clenched in my gloved hands might as well be stamped with “SCORNED” in bold red letters.
I slam it onto the table in front of my mother, sliding it across to her like a bomb ready to detonate.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, folding my arms, a poor attempt at guarding myself from what I already know is coming. My mother frowns, adjusting her glasses, flipping the paper over to read it. Only, by the time I’ve made it from the dean’s office to this coffee shop, I’ve read it at least twenty-two times. So, instead of letting her answer, I do what any scorned daughter would do: I cut her off.
“You asked the board to make me astudent assistant coach?”
Paula Cole has a few titles under her belt: NCAA Coaching Champion, Patty Kazmaier Award Winner, and #1 Mom (courtesy of the mug I gave her in second grade). But her most impressive, most defining achievement of all?
Gold in Meddling.
She leans back in her chair, arms folded over her chest like the sheer presence of her sitting there will somehow convince me this is all for my own good. It’s what makes her the best coach on the west side. She’s got a talent for making everything she says feel like an undeniable truth. It makes it nearly impossible not to believe her, not to play along. But I’m not playing her damn game. Though, let’s be real: when I do, has sheeverlet me win?
She picks up the slip of paper and holds it between us like a peace offering, but even if I wanted to take that olive branch, I’m sure it would give me splinters. Thin, sharp irritants, digging into my skin, festering until I ripped them out with blood-stained tweezers. Worse, I think, would be if they stayed there too long. If my skin grew over them and every time I pressed down, I’d wince, knowing in this exact moment I could’ve said no but didn’t.
She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to say more, and I stop myself from rolling my eyes. Because no matter how infuriating my mom can be, I will never love anyone more. Which is the only reason I’m still sitting here, having this conversation, because honestly I’d rather drag my nails down a chalkboard until my teeth shatter than ever,ever, step foot near an ice rink again.
“Darcy, you’re getting course credit for it,” she presses gently. It’s how she coaches, too. She’s firm but sweet, wearing you down without you even realizing it, until you’re completely drained but somehow still smiling. “This could be good for you. Just getting close to the ice again, seeing how it feels. You don’t have to getinthe rink, sweetheart. Just…observe.Give a few pointers.”
I scoff, and despite the intoxicating cocktail of honey and lavender syrup wafting in the air, nothing is quite sweet enough to counter the bitterness seizing my throat. It rises quickly, fast enough to spill out over my tongue.
“Observing isworse.”
My eyes fall to the paper again. As much as I hate looking at it, I can’t meet my mother’s eyes without seeing my own reflected back at me, and somehow, disappointing myself feels worse than lettingherdown. My stomach churns, either from the conversation or the fact that I forgot to ask for almond milk instead of whole milk, and can already feel the clock ticking down to my inevitable sprint to the bathroom.
Unfortunately, my eyes are not the only thing I inherited from my mom. Neither is my lactose intolerance. Because if I’m a sledgehammer, then she’s a bulldozer in a fleece-lined windbreaker, and if I don’t put up a fight, she’ll flatten me.
“You know,” she says, her tone deceptively light. “You can’t stay away from the ice forever. It’s part of you. You’re strong, you’ll figure it out.”
Strong.
I fucking hate that word. I hate that people think a diagnosis comes with armor. That strength is some automatic response to pain.
I’m not strong. I’m just tired.
Bone-deep exhausted from pretending that the emptiness inside of me doesn’t expand with each reminder. The sound of skates on ice, the photos my old teammates post like nothing’s changed, my jersey hanging in the closet, sleeves peeking out as if it’s still waiting for me to slip it on.
The worst part of losing the thing that made you is that the only thing you can do is marinate in its absence.
“Mom, I don’t want to be near the ice,” I snap, harder than I mean to, as I stand up. I’m pacing now, right in the middle of the coffee shop, knees pulsing and scraping, clutching this steaming cup of laxative that would be burning me if I weren’t wearing gloves. I should put it down, stop drinking it altogether, but my fingers refuse to let go. If I don’t have something sweet to tame the sour taste in my mouth, I’m going to say something to my mom I can’t take back. “You think it’sjustabout being near the ice? It’s about losing something I thought I’d have forever. Losing my entirelife.And now you want me to just—go back? Just like that?”
My heart pounds in my chest, each beat another threat to shatter my ribcage, to amplify that sharp, stinging sensation that spreads over my body, twisting, tightening, ready to snap.
