Page 62 of Like a Power Play
I shake my head, looking back at Darcy. She’s in some heated argument with Coach, and I can’t make out all the words but I think I hear “phone died” and “that arrogant bitch” somewhere in the mix. My eyes catch on that number again.
Stupid number. It doesn’t even look right on her. I mean, Darcy doesn’t have a number but if she did, itdefinitelywouldn’t be forty. And the way the sleeves consume her hands, I mean, really, how does she plan to get anything done? Half my wardrobe is baggy clothes, but evenIknow when you’reworking, you need something that fits right. A little tight, even. Something where the sleeves won’t get in the way.
Red strands flow as Darcy feathers a hand through her hair, letting out what appears to be a frustrated breath. She nods at whatever Coach says, then they both begin walking toward me.
I quickly avert my eyes, suddenly very interested in…this cool leaf on the ground in front of me. I bend down to pick it up, studying it for the sole purpose of looking busy.
It actuallyisa cool leaf. It’s got these orange lines, bleeding into the—
“Clarke, take those off,” Coach calls out, tossing her eyes toward my feet. My head tips down to look at my skates, then back up to meet her gaze. I’m about to ask why, when she flashes me a look that tells me my life would be a hell of a lot easier if I just listened. So I collapse onto the bench and untie them.
“We’re doing some trust exercises,” she explains, flipping through her clipboard to look for something. Whatever it is, she doesn’t seem to find it, because she just drops it back down to her side. “Given certain circumstances, you two will be doing a different exercise, here in the stands.”
My gaze flashes to Darcy, who quickly looks away from me, absolutely swimming in that damn sweatshirt. She didn’t need to borrow Harlowe’s. I’d have given her mine, if she’d asked. But of course, that would require conversation, which seems to be off the table.
“What’s the circumstance?” I ask, looking back to Coach. I’m about to follow it with a snarky remark questioning if Darcy can evenbalancein a pair of skates anymore, but Coach flashes me another look, and I decide against it. “Never mind. What’s the exercise?”
“Then two—no—threepeople are by the blue line, one of them is like… closer—” I drone, gesturing my hand around in a circle, as if that helps my absolutely useless explanation, “—and then the other two are kinda by the face-off spots.” I raise a finger, pointing it down. Then mirror it with the other, punctuating it with a “doop”.
Darcy just stares at me, like she’s praying I’m done. And thank Jesus, I am.
This is a completely pointless exercise, and she isn’t making it any more productive. I don’t see what audibly describing game strategies has to do with trust, but whatever flipped psychology this is supposed to do, isn’t working. You see, in order to give feedback on the descriptions of the drills like Coach instructed us to, you have to actuallytalk, and Darcy’s hardly budged.
Frankly, it’s rude. When it’s her turn, I actually give her solid critique. Though to be honest, she’s a hell of a lot better at explaining it than me. When it’s my turn?
She calls out the name of the strategy, pretends to listen, and then justnods.
Just bobs that pretty freckled face and keeps her mouth closed. It’s maddening. And I loathe to admit it, I really,reallydo, but I miss when she wouldn’t shut up. When she kept calling out unsolicited advice, kept telling me what to do.
I crave it, even.
I crave her attention like skates crave the ice. I crave the razor-sharp edge in her voice when she warned me about something I was already acutely aware of. I crave that triumphant smirk curling at the corners of her lips when I’m finally forced to heed her.
It’s absurd.
But her suggestions weren’t just bossy commands anymore. They made me feel like what I did on the ice mattered. Like the moves I made were significant enough to command her attention.
I’m used to the spotlight, accustomed to the weight of eyes on me. But there was something different about having someone who cared enough to tell me when I was wrong. Someone who didn’t just pat me on the back or offer empty praise, but who challenged me to be more. Someone who tossed my name aside like it was insignificant, and dug beneath my surface, demanding I become better.
Throughout my life, my coaches have always told me how great I was. How I’m just like my dad.
I’d love to be like my dad.
But more than that, I’d love to be better.
I want someone to look at me and see more than just a daughter. To see untapped potential and not assume I’m already at the top simply because he was.
Darcy did that.
And yeah, I know, I pushed her away and ignored her, and argued with her, but I realize now, how I looked forward to it. The truth is, I’d take the attitude, the pompousness, those cocky little smirks,anything,if only she would look at me.
It’s like I’m stuck, stranded in the sin bin, waiting on a timer that might never end.
“Do you have any feedback?” I ask. Darcy just shrugs.
“Not really.”
“Oh, come on,” I roll my eyes, scooting an inch closer. She scoots two inches back. “That was awful. My communication sucks; you’ve said it yourself. Come on.” I beckon with my hands. “Give it to me.”
