Page 117 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“This isn’t an emergency you can help with?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. She was asking for you.”

I huff. He moves past me, heading for his car. I was at a party earlier tonight for like half a second, but it was lame. It was too superficial, with girls in the skimpiest costumes, twirling their hair or sticking out their assets. Some of my teammates soak that shit up. Others avoid the ragers.

While sometimes I go in search of a warm cunt to sink into, most times it’s a waste. I don’t want a drunk girl who can barely stand. I want…

Something else.

Something worse.

My cravings scare me sometimes. I’ve caught myself looking up proper ways to subdue a woman, to tie them in intricate knots that give them pleasure as much as it restricts them. I even went to a fucking class three towns over using a fake name.

It was interesting.

I definitely banked some knowledge and mental imagery to get me through the lonely weeks of summer when Framingham all but empties of college students.

One more year. Only one semester left, really. And then, against all the fucking odds, I’ll head to the NHL. Being drafted out of high school was a dream come true. Choosing to attend FSU for two years—mainly because of Walker and Coach Windsor—was one of the best decisions I could’ve made.

In that time, I’ve packed on muscle and learned to play against a higher caliber of teams. Another step that shapes the way I attack the game. And Coach, well, I’m not sure how I’d ever repay him for all he’s taught me.

Finally on the third floor, I push open the door to three B.

“Sydney?” I call.

It’s dark. I drop her keys on the counter and continue in, scanning the apartment. She doesn’t answer, and my concern spikes. I head straight for her bedroom, my phone already in my hand.

I don’t expect to find her naked.

Tied.

My heart stops.

Her heels slide against her sheets. The blankets are in a heap on the floor, kicked off by her or torn off by someone else. She’s writhing, seeming to not hear or see me. There’s a tie over her eyes, headphones on her ears. I’m not sure if it’s playing music or just canceling out the noise.

She’s trying to get friction, I think. She twists, rolling onto her stomach. Her hips move, her muscles flexing as she humps her bed. She seems desperate with it—and then the little spark of something extra between her ass cheeks catches my attention.

Fuck.

Who the fuck put a plug?—

There’s writing on her ass.

And more.

I go back to the door and flip on the light switch, and she flinches. Guess the light makes its way under the tie blindfold.

“Hello?” Her voice is breathy.

I don’t answer. She shifts onto her side, keeping her ass to the wall, and brings her legs up to her stomach. Like she’s suddenly shy, even though she knows it’s me.

Now’s not the time to hide.

Do I touch her? Does she actually know it’s me? Or is this some sick prank by Penn? I swear to God, if she says his name?—

“I know you’re there.”

Her arms are stretched out above her and connected to the headboard. I start there, running my finger just under it along the underside of her wrist. Where her skin is probably most sensitive, judging by how she keeps intermittently pulling and releasing.