Page 108 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I want to wear it.

I met his abuela, and now his family has a piece of mine’s history.

My grandmother died when I was eight. She got terribly sick and spent almost four months in and out of the hospital, then with home aid. Her husband had died before I was born. At that point, Mom already had the bracelet. Although I have no idea if she wore it at that time. Maybe she took it off when she got pregnant. Or only after her mom passed.

But Grandma used to tell me stories as I perched at the foot of the hospital bed in her living room, about her fantastic love story. Her grandmother’s bracelet broke only a week after she died, and it was the one thing she passed along to her only granddaughter. The others were boys, they didn’t care about jewelry.

Devastated, she took it to a jeweler to have it repaired.

And she ended up with a date. A date that turned into several over the course of a week, and before she knew it, they were madly in love.

“I want love like that,” I used to say, my hand on my chin.

She smiled at me and patted my leg. There were no words of comfort or reassurance. Her smile said she knew something I didn’t. Something I wouldn’t figure out until I was much older.

I rub my wrist.

I never wore it before I lost it.

In the back of my mind, it occurs to me that it should’ve been mine. From grandmother to granddaughter, isn’t that how it went?

Selfish thought. Selfish to take that piece of our family history away from my mother.

And selfish of her to sell it like it meant nothing.

Oliver follows me into the locker room, where I sit at Penn’s cubby and unlace my skates. Oliver sits directly next to me and mirrors my actions, his movements faster and more practiced than mine. He finishes first and puts on his street shoes. When he’s done, he leans back, watching my profile.

What are you going to do about it?

“Why are you here?” I question. “Why can’t you just be honest with me?”

His brow lowers. “Honest? You want honesty, Sydney?”

“Yes,” I hiss.

“You’re an intrigue that never should’ve caught my attention.” He rises.

I stand, too, vulnerable in just my socked feet. Not that he’s childish enough to stomp on my toes. Maybe.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He inches closer.

“Good,” I whisper. This feels like the opposite of the rage room, but I give him the same ‘come on’ motion. “More.”

“You’re so fucking bright.” His eyes glitter. “It’s like you suck up the sunshine and emit it from your skin, even in the dark, and I’ve just been stumbling around blind without you.”

I inhale sharply.

He lifts his hand, his fingers grazing my neck. I’m a professional with the concealer by this point, although the bruising is healing nicely. It’ll be gone in another week and a half. He doesn’t stop at where the bruises are, though. His fingers ghost backward, into my hair, and he draws me forward.

I go.

“I’d like to think I’m Penn’s competition.” His lips are so close to mine, his breath feathers across my mouth.

“You are.” One of them anyway.

Lord help me. I want him to kiss me. I want to burn in his gaze until I combust.

When his lips touch mine, electric zaps flood through me. I may as well be holding a hot wire or hit with a taser. I can’t help but compare his kiss to Carter and Penn. Penn is an inferno. He stokes a fire inside me, and his kiss consumes me like flames do. Carter walks the razor’s edge between pain and comfort. Sweet and controlling.