Page 13 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Everything is totally fine. The house—the metaphorical one—is not on fire. The sky isn’t falling anymore. I can deal with whatever else comes.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him again.

I do not like apologizing, but I can’t seem to stop when it comes to my father.

He waves me off. “You know, your mother and I met here.”

I tilt my head. “Here, where? Like… you both went to school here?”

“We were in the same year.” His expression turns sad. “If you’re missing her terribly, you could check the yearbook archive in the library. She was in quite a few clubs.”

“Wow.” I should’ve known that. I think I might’ve, even, in the back of my head.

“Come to dinner with Perri and me tonight,” he continues, effectively changing the subject.

I chew on that. It’s not like I’m going to any parties, even if the idea of more bonding time with Dad is a bit… uncomfortable.

St. James, the university I once considered home, simultaneously feels close enough to touch and a universe away. As soon as my dad swooped in, and word started spreading that I was transferring to FSU, my classmates turned on me.

There should be a case study on such a rivalry.

I might be the most hated person in the county.

And when I consider that…

I nod along. Perri is nice enough. She took me shopping for furniture when Dad had to work, and while it was awkward enough that I wanted to scream, it was also kind of… fine. She let me pick out a couch after sitting on half a dozen with me, brought along a little measuring tape to ensure everything would fit in my rooms and through the doorways, even took me out for a fancy cup of coffee afterward.

There was something in the back of my mind that knew my mother and I were dirt-poor while my father was the opposite. Mom used to mutter about old money. A trust-fund baby.

Him, not me.

Obviously.

Dad and I make it to his truck without incident, and he drops me off at my new apartment. I thank him gruffly and close the truck door, booking it up to the second floor. It’s a rather small apartment building, just eight apartments in the brownstone. Two on each floor. I’m three B.

As soon as I lock myself inside, I shed my sweatshirt and slump into a chair at the kitchen table.

I am rubbed raw. Emotionally. I just can’t seem to calm myself down enough to breathe, let alone digest what I’m doing. Tomorrow, when classes start, I anticipate the tensions around me to only get worse.

If I can get through the day without something being spilled on me, or gum in my hair, I’ll count myself lucky.

My phone chimes. I groan, but it goes off again almost immediately.

Then again.

And again, so fast the sound cuts itself off to begin again.

What the…?

I check the notifications, my brows furrowing. Text after text from different unknown numbers. I get to the bottom, and my heart stops. I’ve been tagged in a video… of myself. Today. I have to do a double take, confirming I’m wearing the same clothes as right this very moment.

It’s of me walking across campus, although it’s cropped in a way that hides my father, who must’ve been beside me. It’s very obvious where I am, though.

And the caption announces it, too:

We have a snitch amongst us, Vipers… how about we give her a warm welcome? You can reach her at 617-555-4399 or [email protected].

The page that posted it is an FSU gossip and hot-takes page. I scroll, scanning other posts. They seem intent on dragging down whoever steps out of line, spotlighting embarrassing moments and the occasional achievement from the sports teams. There are multiple posts about Oliver Ruiz’s greatness, unfortunately.