Page 116 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“I’ll see you later,” he promises. “I’ll pick up your pieces after they break you.”

I shiver. I have no idea what he’s talking about, and I can’t mask the ripple of excited fear that slips down my spine. It pebbles my already sensitive nipples. Goosebumps rise all over.

“This should be fun,” Penn says, stopping beside me.

“What is it?”

“A little experiment.” He crouches and traces one of my ribs. “Oliver goes to extremes for you, you know? But he thinks because you wear my necklace and sweatshirt and kiss me in public that he can’t have you. Even though we’ve both tasted you. Right?”

My body trembles for a whole new reason. “Is he…?”

“On his way over? Yes. Not great on the timing. I was hoping Carter and I would get to play with you.”

“Didn’t think the goaltender would be the one trying to share.” I tug at my wrists again. “Didn’t you say you were going to make me pick?”

A shadow crosses his expression. “Of course. We’re endgame, you and me. But that doesn’t mean I want you to question if someone would’ve been better.”

“What are you going to do about the person who left me like this for you?”

“Kiss him on the mouth?” Penn’s eyes narrow. “Or put him six feet under. We’ll see.”

We’ll see.

“Oh, one more thing.” He pulls out a strip of fabric and covers my eyes. He ties it gently around my head, running his fingers through my hair. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll leave the door open for Ollie. Maybe he’ll put you out of your misery.”

A second later, noise canceling headphones slide over my ears, and the world outside myself fades away.

thirty-three

oliver

Penn

You remember where Syd lives?

?

Get there asap.

By ‘ASAP’ I assumed he meant an emergency. As soon as possible. 9-1-1. But I jog up to her brownstone, and the lights on her third-floor apartment are off.

And my teammate is sitting on the steps out front.

He tosses me something, clicking his tongue.

I catch the keys.

Sydney’s keys. God knows she’s fumbled with them enough in front of me. I stare passively at Penn, waiting for the punchline.

The last time I saw her was in the locker room, after the gut-wrenching kiss that made me question how I ever kissed any girl before her. Ever. I’ve had a low opinion of kissing since high school—too wet, too eager, too much tongue—and no one had been able to dissuade me from that line of thinking. No one but her.

Because god-fucking-damn, her lips are perfect. The first time I saw her, it was her silver eyes that burned into my brain. It made recognizing her at that SJU party too easy. But now her lips are the first thing that come to mind when I think of her.

Eyes are a close second.

Body follows.

“Three B,” Penn says. “Better hurry.”