Like a Power Play

by Elle Sprinkle

For those whose bodies forced them to let go of what they loved. It's still yours. You just might have to learn how to hold it in a different way.

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.

The worst part of losing the thing that made you is that the only thing you can do is marinate in its absence.

It’s easier to suffer alone than it is to know that the misery is shared by someone you care about. You don’t want to be understood. You just want to survive it.

She’s practically an over-caffeinated hamster, running circles on a wheel that never stops. I’m more of a tortoise, at least these days.

Because when I finally look her in the eyes, words evaporate. The dictionary? A distant memory.

“That coach’s daughters are entitled brats.”

“Says the daughter of the retired NHL legend.”

Her gaze locks onto mine, waiting. Feeling those eyes bore into me? It makes my heart crawl into my throat.

Yeah, she would be breathtaking. But I’m breathing just fine. Just. Fine.

She’s in that same black turtleneck, the one that hugs her chest and dips at her waist. Bailey calls it the "slutty-villain effect." Like when an anime guy has that perfect little waist, and you just know he's pure evil.

I know that isolating yourself, especially after losing something huge, is the worst thing you can do. But once you’re comfortable in your own silence, the noise of other people can feel deafening. Threatening, even.

It’s a different kind of smile. One that makes you feel something. One that leaves you breathless. Not smug and triumphant, but like the first time I saw it at practice. Like watching the sun break over snow-capped mountains.

Making eye contact with someone you can’t stand is supposed to make you uncomfortable. Make you irritated, make your skin crawl. So why is this the calmest I’ve felt all night?

there’s something about seeing her in my hoodie, my number on her arm, that makes my chest do that unwarranted, unexplainable tightening thing again.

I realize that maybe Peyton is breathtaking, even in spite of her arrogance.

She doesn’t intimidate me. She just… distracts me. Bothers me, even.

I never knew fire to be green until I look into her eyes and see the flame.

It’s strange how often that happens. How time and time again, our bodies seem to remember each other, responding in tandem.

She grips the front of my jacket, fingers clutching the fabric desperately. And I know—I know I should step back. Create space. Remind myself of the reality of the situation. She’s my player. I’m her coach.

But her lips brush mine, and my heart stutters so violently I’d lose my balance if I weren’t pinned against a locker. Everything inside me goes up in flames, starting in my chest, spilling downward, an insistent flaring ache only cured briefly by the contracting of my thighs. My gaze flicks from her eyes, to her full, round lips, watching her tongue slip across them. I want to touch them. I want to touch all of her.

“Room 207. Clarke, Cole—” I freeze, looking at Peyton, whose eyes snap to mine like she’s been electrocuted. Mom clears her throat. “Darcy Cole, Room 208.”

Stupid number. It doesn’t even look right on her.

“You’re staring at me,” she says flatly. “I am,” I respond. “Why?” Because I like looking at you.

Her eyes snap to mine, and I should feel bad for upsetting her. But all I can think about is how that glaze over her eyes evaporates. It’s replaced by a flickering flame, but I like the smell of smoke.

“If it breathes any longer, some politician is gonna try to give it rights.”

you need to dance it out.”

I fall silent, just studying her. The slope of her button nose, the shade of her eyes. I fear that for someone who can’t stand her, I know a little too much about her every perfect detail.

That damn smirk creeps onto her face, making my chest tighten in a way I refuse to acknowledge. “What? Cold-hearted bitches don’t get a happily-ever-after?” My grin widens. “I guess you’ll let me know.”

She laughs, shaking her head. I like the little rays that form around her eyes when she does that.

Instead, I turn and head toward Darcy. I’ve left her alone for most of this hike. Time to annoy her a little.

"Whatcha doin'?" I ask, watching that little crease form at the center of her brows. It's my favorite thing about bothering Darcy—how that crease deepens every time. Sure, I love the pouty lips and her sarcastic comebacks, but that divot, the freckle that vanishes into it? God, it's hypnotic.

“Don’t manifest failure.”

“Peyton Clarke, I can’t fucking stand you!” I grin. “Darcy Cole,” I quip. “I think I can live with that.”

I was always the girl who lived for Valentine’s Day parties at school. The one who went to homecoming with my friends, secretly hoping my crush would ask me to dance (she didn’t).

“And I hate that in the cabin, when you made me dance with you—” My gaze locks with hers, and suddenly I’m in the center of the rink, the ice gleaming beneath me like a vast, white sea. “I hate that you didn’t kiss me.”

Peyton’s breath, warm and ragged, ghosts across my lips. Her amber eyes are like sunlight shining up at me, heating my skin everywhere they look.

I can’t think of anything I’d want to do more than kiss Peyton Clarke right here on the ice.

The moment my lips touched hers, I knew I was done for. It didn’t feel easy. It felt like the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. It felt like a challenge, one I’m not quite sure I won. And it felt… good. Too good. And now, I have no fucking clue what to do.

I kissed Darcy Cole. And I liked it.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I am Icarus. And she’s the sun. And oh, fuck—I’m going to burn to death.

"Darcy, I think you’re the prettiest demon I have ever laid eyes on."

“This is never happening again,” she says directly, as her fingers tug at the waistband of my pants.

I want to devour every curve of her body with my eyes, memorize every freckle, fall in love with every color.

“Do you like that, Pretty Girl?” “Oh fuck!”

“Didn’t take you for a pillow princess though. Huh.”

“Please. You think I want anyone to know I fucked the team captain?” “Better than the spawn of Satan.” “Hey that’s mean.” She grins. “I prefer the devil herself.”

Every inch of that body is a dream. Even if Peyton is a nightmare.

Because from the moment I first saw her, I haven’t wanted to look at anything else.

“But if you cross me, Icarus,” she says, her brows lifting as she points a finger. “I will end you.” I don’t tell Darcy that being killed by her would be my life’s greatest honor. Instead, I raise my hand to my brow, saluting. “Copy that, Kimmy.”