Page 124 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“Get the light on your way out,” I say. Loud enough for them to hear that my tone is normal and I am perfectly fine.

The light goes out.

Footsteps walk away.

My throat closes, and the backs of my eyes burn. It doesn’t matter that I shut them as tight as I can—a tear slips loose anyway. It rolls down my temple.

I can’t think of a time when intimacy hasn’t ended right after sex. And as much as I hoped that it would be different with these two… they’re going to walk out of my room any second. The loneliness strikes hard, crackling in my chest.

The bed leans as new weight is added. Cool air brushes my naked legs, the blankets lifted, and a body slots in behind mine.

“Fuck ultimatums,” Oliver whispers in my ear. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like that.”

The tears don’t stop. My breath comes in ragged inhales. He doesn’t say anything, just loops his arm over my hips and pulls me snug into his body. He buries his face in my neck, kissing it softly.

My mind is fucked. He seems to sense that, because he stays still and solid behind me, his breathing even while I work through the mess in my head.

So much for not processing until I’m alone.

thirty-five

sydney

“We have to go to dinner.”

I stare blankly at Oliver. My mind has not been with it. I woke up and he was gone, but there was a note on my desk from him about needing to meet teammates for a morning skate.

Acceptable…ish.

But staying in my apartment just reminded me of all the things I didn’t want to think about, so I washed my hair, scrubbed my body, picked at the scabs on Carter’s name, and finally ventured out to the library.

I brought my journal and charcoal with me, and I have the writing project deadline looming over my head. Otherwise, I also have a law paper, a crime fiction paper, and an econ presentation. Those have taken priority, as their due dates are coming up fast, too.

He drops into the chair across from me. “Your dad invited both of us to dinner.”

“Right. I remembered.”

He texted me, too, although the message is still unread on my phone. He invited us both when I skated with him on Thursday, and then he kind of walked in on us kissing. It’s unclear if he saw anything concrete, but he did warn be about funny business in his arena.

So basically, this is going to be an awkward fucking dinner.

“When?” I ask.

He glances at his watch, then me. “Um, like now.”

“Oops.”

My table is chaotic. I jump to my feet and flip notebooks closed, piling them together. I’ve got two books to return to the librarian. Plus my computer and a thousand pens.

Why the fuck do I have so many pens?

I spot my journal and charcoal case at the same time as Oliver, who started stacking textbooks for me. My fingers graze the spine just as he lifts the two, and I lunge.

“Whoa.” He dances back. “What’s this? Some super-secret diary?”

I scowl. “No.”

Penn already looked through it. I don’t need another hockey asshole doing the same. I open my mouth to tell him just that, but then he opens it, and the words die. He flips the pages to get to the last one, scanning the drawing and the words.