Page 134 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I reach the end of a section and rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time, then three. At the top, I risk a quick glance behind me.

He’s coming, but not as fast. Like he’s content to terrify me first.

My chest is so tight, I can’t get in a good inhale. My lungs burn. I nearly fall as soon as my feet touch the polished floors outside the ramp to the section. All the concession stands are dark, their metal grates pulled down across the fronts. It leaves me nowhere to hide.

I sprint.

A laugh floats after me, and fear slides down my spine. I reach the exit doors. There are three sets of double doors, all metal, and I slam into the first one, compressing the metal bar. My whole body rattles with the impact as the door doesn’t even budge.

“No, no, no.” I go to the next with the same result. The third set is the same. That’s not even fucking legal.

Which means it’s a setup.

Footsteps squeak on the linoleum, and I spin around.

He’s coming at me almost lazily, his hands in his pockets. There’s no part of his skin that’s visible, but my mind can’t seem to comprehend anything other than the mask.

I know what it feels like close up. The hot breath that comes out of that smile.

I keep running, this time looking for the door back down to the locker rooms. But the glass doors that go down there are locked, too. I only spend a minute trying to get them open before I move on.

Run faster.

I push myself and fly around a corner, coming up on the main entrance. There’s no way these doors are locked.

I slam into someone.

Hands grab at me, and I look up into the fucking bloody clown mask.

I scream and launch myself backward, falling on my ass. I scuttle away and hop back to my feet. Tears burn the backs of my eyes at how stupid this is. That I can’t seem to find my way out of a paper bag, that everything has been set like a perfect trap to close me in.

Footsteps again, following me at a steady pace that grinds in my ears. It’s a message. I’m the prey, and there’s no way out.

My capture is inevitable.

I veer up a section’s ramp and take the stairs down, darting through a row and stopping.

At least here, I can see. My stomach rolls, threatening to heave, and I force myself to take long, slow breaths. I brush my hair out of my face.

He appears at the top of my section and comes down the steps.

Those tears that were burning before prick at my eyes. My vision blurs, and I furiously blink them away. I turn to run and fucking slip.

I go down hard, my forearms catching me before my face slams into the concrete steps. My shoelace is undone. I roll on my back and grip the seat, but it’s too late.

He’s on me.

I scream when he grabs my ankle. He drags me into him, kneeling and pinning my leg between the back of a seat—the next row down’s seat—and forces my other up. I’m wearing leggings. Comfortable leggings that suddenly seem like a terrible idea, because there’s nothing. No protection, no dulling of sensation.

I’m on my period. I want to yell it at him, but I can’t.

Every touch, his fingers digging into my legs, the way he positions me and bats away my hands with his gloved ones, sends spikes of terror through me.

My voice doesn’t work.

The last time I pleaded, he wrapped a rope around my neck and laughed as I barely clung to consciousness. I push at his hands, try to slap and strike him, but he doesn’t even react besides to dodge the ones that could hurt him. He lets the blows to his arms and legs mean nothing, but when I sit up and reach for his mask, he grips my throat with surprising speed.

He shoves me flat, leaning over me.