Page 25 of Like a Power Play
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, waiting for me to look up. I know no good can come from it, but I pry my gaze from my clipboard anyway. If arrogance and recklessness weren’t oozing from every pore, she’d be… well,breathtaking.
Even through the cage attached to her helmet, those amber eyes shine. The way her lips curve, that cocky little smirk, the creases around them deceptively sweet. Sweat gathers at her neck, just beneath her helmet, and I can’t help but follow the trail of it, journeying down to her broad shoulders, tracing the curve of her chest.
“You shouldn’t smile like that. It’s false advertising,” she chides.
My gaze snaps up, my expression instantly scowling.God, she’s infuriating.My lips press into a tight line as I narrow my eyes.
Her smirk only deepens.
“Attagirl.” She winks, pushing off and skating away.
Yeah, shewouldbe breathtaking. But I’m breathing just fine.
Just. Fine.
Six
Peyton
I know most people hate it, but I love living on the third floor. The view is better, a snow-dusted Mount Rainier creeping above the skyline like a Seattle postcard. It’s quieter too, mostly becausewe’rethe noisy neighbors up top, and most thieves aren’t motivated enough for heavy cardio, so the likelihood of getting robbed is slim.
It has its downsides, though. When Bailey, Harlowe, and I first moved in, we had to drag this ancient sectional up three flights of stairs, to find out that it didn’t fit through the doorway. Thankfully, Bailey had found it on the side of the road, so the loss was mostly time. It gets hot too, in the summer at least, and the window AC unit breeds mold at a rate that would impress rabbits. But the worst part about living on the third floor?
Mr. Bubbles.
Mr. Bubbles is the tawny English Mastiff that we found last winter, tied up outside a bar we tried—and failed—to sneak into. He was young, skinny, trembling in the snow while his humansat inside, sipping cheap beer by the warmth of the bar’s heater. We sat with him for at least thirty minutes, trying to comfort him the best we could, and Harlowe even wrapped her coat around him to shield him from the cold. But after another three minutes, we realized we couldn’t leave him there. So we slipped the collar over his head and booked it.
I’d say he has a pretty good life now. Ever since he started therapy dog training, the school lets him come to practices—and sometimes games—as our unofficial team companion, which makes our social media manager’s life pretty easy. He eats better than we do, wears drool bibs on the daily, and even has an entire wardrobe for different occasions, including pajamas that Bailey swears he likes.
There are only two things Mr. Bubbles can’t stand:
1) Green beans
and
2) The sound of footsteps up the stairs
So a couple mornings a week, I have to sneak back in without setting him off. It’s a game to him. He knows my routine by heart, even walks me to the door when I leave. But when I come back? The slightest creak of the floor, the softest whisper of a footstep, and he’s belting out a symphony of low, husky barks.
The front door cracks open, the old hinges threatening to squeak, but I slip through before they have the chance. A slow exhale tumbles from my lips as the heat of the apartment envelops me, the start of the pink sunrise peering through the window. My weight shifts onto the tips of my toes as I latch the door behind me and step onto the plush carpet, my feet sinking into it like sand.
Listening for the low grumbles of Mr. Bubbles, I pause, but the only sound is the fan from Harlowe’s room, buzzing quietly.I take another step. Nothing. Then another. And just as I reach out for the doorknob to my room, a thundering roar cuts through the apartment.
Shit.
“Bubbles!” I hiss, whipping around to look at him. The one-hundred-and-thirty-pound puppy curls his smooshy, drooly lips, and barks once more to spite me. I snap my fingers, pointing at him with a serious look, which was a mistake, because like I said, this is a game, and I’ve lost it. He billows again, this time sitting at my feet and howling like a tattling toddler.
“Mister!” Harlowe calls, her voice dragging a bit on the “s”.
Oh fuck.
Her stomping footsteps approach quickly, and I have no time to throw myself into my room before she swings open her door, greeting me with furrowed brows, pouty downturned lips, and flared nostrils.
Like Mr. Bubbles, there are two things that piss Harlowe off:
1) Missing a save on the ice
and
