Page 142 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“Saw her?” Carter repeats. “I fucking tried to put her back together after what you did to her.”

I grit my teeth. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” He steps into my space and shoves me with one hand. “Yeah?”

I go backward. I’m sure as fuck not going to protest or object to this treatment. I deserve it. I know that—and he does, too.

“I’d say sorry, but I don’t owe you that.” I grimace. “Is she okay?”

Carter lifts his chin. “No.”

I nod. “I should go to her?—”

“You think that’s smart?” He rolls his eyes. “Give me one reason not to beat you black and blue and drag you to her apartment.”

I straighten. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Carter snorts. “Fuck off. You’re not getting any extra, undeserved sympathy from her.”

Fair.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Then I’m going to hear her out. She should be listened to. I already fucked that up.”

“I’m going to be waiting outside the apartment,” Carter warns. “And if she so much as yelps, I’ll come in and make good on my threat.”

I extend my hand. “Fine.”

He points to the necklace dangling from my fingers. “And you don’t give that back to her. Not now.”

My stomach flips. He thinks I shouldn’t give it back to her? I was planning on connecting it around her throat without giving her a choice… but that seems to be my problem. Oliver’s, too. We didn’t give her an option.

I roughly nod, then push past him. I leave the necklace in my room and meet him at the front door.

“Should we talk about Oliver?” he asks.

I sigh. “One thing at a time.”

First, I’ve got to beg for forgiveness.

forty

sydney

My window slides open.

I lie still and keep my breathing regular, but on the inside I’m fuming.

Carter and I conveniently missed the hockey game. FSU, much to our surprise, lost. Dylan texted me about it. Apparently the volleyball team all went as a bonding trip. But she said that Oliver wasn’t on his game, and Penn let in too many pucks. He was swapped out for the other goalie halfway through the second period.

He didn’t want to leave me. Carter, that is. But at the notification of the loss, a new fear kicked up that they’d be stupid enough to go to the warehouse and fight again.

We watched a movie and fooled around, and then he presented me with a gift. Something he’d had for a while but wasn’t sure how open I’d be.

A knife of my own.

It’s a slim folding knife, half the size of his.

He spent time showing me how to open it one-handed, which is a useful skill for a variety of reasons. And then he showed me—in great detail—everywhere I could keep it.