Page 133 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
“Yes, sir.” Oliver skates to me and picks me up without warning. Not cradling, not kind—he tosses me over his shoulder like a bag of grain.
“You’re in so much fucking trouble,” he says under his breath.
That should worry me, but it turns me on instead. And that worries me.
He sets me on my feet at the door we stormed through, touching my chin. Lifting my face so I have to look at him. For only a second. A quick check that he’s not bleeding—he’s not, although his jaw is red—and then my gaze slides away again.
“You’re going to go into the stands and sit there until we’re done,” he says in a soft voice. “Alone. I want to feel your eyes on me the whole time, do you understand me?”
Chills break out across my body. I nod.
“Aloud.”
“I understand.”
“Good girl.” His hand drops, and he skates backward. “Go.”
Carter and my father are still in an intense discussion on the ice, although I have no idea what they could be saying. Either way, I don’t want to find out. I take the stairs up to the main level and pick a row with a good view of the whole rink. By the time I’m there, the doors are closed and Carter is gone.
I sit and glance toward Penn, who’s staring at me with his helmet off, a water bottle in his hand.
I wave.
He shakes his head, seeming to fight off a smile, and shoves his helmet back on. Dad and Oliver are now speaking by the bench, and Oliver seems pissed. Even from here. After a long moment, Dad makes a shooing motion. He blows his whistle and gathers the team, briefing them on whatever they’ll be doing next.
They break in half, going toward Penn in one goal and the second goalie in the other.
Oliver is on Penn’s side. My side. Which is good, because I want to keep an eye on both of them. Even though I have strict instructions otherwise. I sit there and watch, and it’s almost as bad as squirming with a butt plug.
Almost.
The anticipation climbs through me, and eventually… eventually, their practice ends. Dad skates out first, and I get the sense I’m going to have to deal with a phone call from him.
I wait and wait and wait. The lights go out, only the emergency lighting remaining. I’m shroud in semi-darkness, and it takes a long moment for my eyes to adjust.
Movement in my peripheral catches my attention, and I track it.
Someone stops at the end of my row, a mere ten feet away, if that. Wearing all black, it’s no wonder I didn’t immediately spot them. Their hood is pulled up over their head, but it’s the face that peeks out from the shadows that startles me.
They’re wearing the bloody clown mask.
thirty-seven
sydney
I don’t think—I just run.
I’m so glad I shed my jacket while watching them play, because it would just slow me down. Same with my bag, left on the seat beside me. It can be found later, if at all. If I’m still breathing.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters is moving faster. I scramble up and over one of the rows, then another, putting some distance between me and the masked man.
Bear took his mask with him.
Bear knows how to get in here.
Of course Oliver would put me in this position. He told me to wait, but he’s probably showering or taking his sweet time getting dressed. If Bear was watching any of us, he would’ve seen me enter.