Page 23 of Like a Power Play
I wonder if any of them know how lucky they are. How many of them lace up their skates and think about how easily this could all be taken from them. It’s clear Peyton doesn’t. But then, neither did I. Not until it was already gone.
It’s hypocritical, really. How easily I took it all for granted. I was no different than them once. But now, here I am, bitterlypretending it doesn’t sting. Pretending I wasn’t just like Peyton, stupid enough to think it would last forever.
Jealousy is a green-eyed monster, and her name is Darcy Cole.
The whistle blows again, the drill falling apart. My mom shakes her head, shouting out to them.
“Youhavetoseeitthrough!” she says firmly, gesturing with her hands through the movement of the play. She skates over to them, her voice fading as the team pools around her.
I should just let her coach. We’ve made it nearly to the end of practice without me needing to say anything. Wednesday, I had the excuse of paperwork to keep me busy. I’m not stupid enough to think I’ll glide under the radar forever, but I’m going to stay out of it as long as I can.
Everyone looks at me like I shouldn’t be here.
They’re right. They’re just right for the wrong reasons.
I was adamant with my mom that nobody find out about Minnesota. If they find out about Minnesota, they might find out about my RA. And then, I won’t be the spoiled coach’s daughter anymore, like Peyton said. Instead, I’ll be fragile. The pitied ex-player who lost it all. And that’s so much worse.
“Darcy, you got anything to add?”
Shit.
I glance up at my mom, only to find over twenty pairs of eyes trained on me. The most intense of them all? Peyton’s, naturally. Her golden irises glow even from the stands. Bright, almost jarring. I hate how they burn right through me, like a magnifying glass in the sun. Like any second, ribbons of smoke will lift from my body, and the layers of my already scorching skin will wear away until everyone around me sees who I really am.
I shake my head, but my mom catches my gaze with a warning look, a reminder that she’s not just my mother, she’s myboss. So, I get up and head toward the bench. A sharp pain flares in my chest, the rhythm of my heart pulsing faster, harder.
A deep breath expands in my lungs, and I square my shoulders. It doesn’t matter what they think. I know my stuff. So I lift my chin and say it.
“Cunn—Hammieshould switch spots with Clarke,” I say, surprisingly steady, even after stumbling over Bailey’s name. “If Clarke’s in the slot, and Hammie’s net-front, she can slide over and take a pass from…” I squint at Lena’s jersey. “Brady.Then Clarke’s got a clean one-timer off Hammie’s pass.”
My mom’s mouth twitches in amusement, but she doesn’t say anything. Neither does anyone else. They all just stare at me, blinking like I’ve descended from space.
That is, until someone breaks the silence.
“That’s pretty risky, don’t you think?”
My eyes snap to Peyton. She’s tugging off her helmet, damp hair plastered to her forehead as she shakes it free. Her gaze locks onto mine, waiting. Feeling those eyes bore into me? It makes my heart crawl into my throat.
“Not a risk taker?” I ask, lifting a brow.
If there’s anything I know about Peyton, it’s that “risky” is her middle name.
Well, actually, according to a Reddit thread speculating about her potential PWHL debut, it’sBauer—which really had me rolling my eyes.
She shrugs. “Just shocked you are.” Her eyes flick briefly to my mom, like she’d forgotten she was here, then back to me. She clears her throat. “You’re really gonna bank the whole play on whether or not I can hit a one-timer?”
I cross my arms. “Can you?”
She forces a laugh. “Of course I can. I’m just not sure it’s the right move. I mean, why swap me with Hammie when her timing’s just as good as mine?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because I figured that Peyton would take any chance to score. To prove to me how good she is. She didn’t hesitate the other morning.
But something about the way she’s moving today feels different. Rougher. Clunkier. None of the smooth, choreographed precision she had skating alone.
Still, I push the thought aside, put my heart back where it belongs, and answer.
“Because she’s a lefty,” I point out. “She’ll have better control down low.”
Bailey grins, clearly impressed by my knowledge, but my eyes snap back to Peyton. She’s watching me intently, one dark, sculpted brow arched.
