Page 135 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

The eyes on the mask are black and soulless. I can’t look at them. This mask has had a starring role in my nightmares, and I’m petrified into sudden stillness.

He undoes his pants with one hand.

I can’t watch. My gaze floats to the ceiling.

He didn’t get this far last time.

No words will come out. It’s like he stole my voice, and as much as I try to scream or speak—there’s nothing but a vague whistling exhale.

My throat aches from the inside out, reminding me of the trauma. At the bruises that are finally fading, leaving just a few easy-to-hide splotches behind.

Will I fight him after?

When his guard drops?

I miss him pull a knife.

There’s a bite of pain at the inside of my thigh, and I cry out. The rip that follows?—

Oh God, he didn’t even try to pull the leggings down. He just made himself an entrance. Something cold and sharp touches my pussy. I flinch, but he doesn’t rip the crotch of my panties. No—he tugs at the string of my tampon, though. He huffs when it slides out, dropping it beside his knee.

He knows. He knows and he doesn’t care.

My eyes won’t fucking close, but I refuse to look at him. I refuse to give him that satisfaction. Instead, I count the pipes twisting along the ceiling, the wires that go to the screens over the ice.

He puts himself at my entrance, his fingers spreading my lips. He grunts again when he lines up, and his fingers on my throat tighten.

When he leans over me, blocking my view of the ceiling, I focus on the underside of the chairs. At my hand next to my face, which doesn’t even twitch. My fingers aren’t curled into a fist. They’re limp.

Am I already dead?

He drags his mask along my jaw, and it may as well be a dagger flaying me open.

I sink down into myself, willing myself to make a quick retreat. To pull back the feeling between my legs, to ball my emotions up in a tight ball. I used to do this while afraid and alone, crying in the dead of night for my mother to return. When I knew that there was no way I could go to school with a puffy, tearstained face and bloodshot eyes.

He moves. Sinks a little into me. Just as he calls, “Where’d your fight go, doll?”

My concentration breaks, thrusting me right back into the present. My skin erupts in chills at the name. And the voice. And the fucking recognition.

Oliver.

His name releases some of the fear. I reach for his mask again, but his fingers tighten around my throat. I hadn’t even realized he was still holding it. But with my breath cut off, my eyes go wide.

His cock withdraws, then slides back in.

The period blood makes it easier.

His dark chuckle rumbles through his chest, and his fingers tighten more. I forget reaching for the mask and grip his wrist with both hands.

He has his other braced on the floor next to my head. All leverage. He pulls out and slams into me. My groan is cut off at my throat. I’m desperate for air, but he seems content to fuck me like this. His hips move, slapping against mine with every quick punch.

The lack of air becomes too much.

My eyes roll back.

Immediately, his fingers loosen. I surge back into awareness, and he rolls his hips.

He made me think I was going to get raped.