Page 147 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I raise my eyebrows. “You can’t get her door open?” I mock his tone.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s just stuck.”

“Uh-huh.”

He tries again, then goes to his knee and fiddles with it at eye level. I put my hands on my hips and wait him out, although he sure seems to be taking his time for someone who should know what they’re doing.

But underneath it is the horrible feeling that something’s going wrong. That Sydney is barricading herself in there to do something drastic.

“This isn’t good,” I say to him. “She changed her locks? Made it so I couldn’t get in through the window?”

I reach around him and knock.

Carter shoves my arm away. “It’s midnight, you asshole.”

“And what if she’s suffering?” I counter.

My mind goes straight to a friend in high school who was secretly dealing with too much. How many messages have I left Sydney? How many did I leave that friend—only for their parents to find them with slit wrists in the bathtub?

“She probably wants some distance from you,” Carter reasons. “But we’ll call her dad in the morning, okay?”

Coach would know what to do. He’s helped us out of jams—of the emotional or mental distress variety, in some cases—and we’ve all come out better on the other side.

Plus, this is his daughter.

I finally nod, accepting Carter’s proposition. Because it’s either that or break down her door, and he’s right. We can’t violate her space—or her trust—any further.

Carter eyes me on the way out. “How’s Ruiz behaving?”

I grunt. “Like an idiot.”

“How’s that?”

“He doesn’t yet realize how traumatic that day was for her. I smashed my mask to shit, but I think he held on to his.”

“Fucker.”

We reach the street.

I glance across, toward the brownstone I pegged as one he’d choose to stay in to spy on her. “You actually living there, or are you paying rent in two places for the hell of it?”

He snorts. “My other place has roommates. I stay with them when I have to, but otherwise I try to be here.”

“You could’ve just said yes to having two freaking apartments,” I mutter. “Mr. Moneybags.”

“First of all, the one with roommates? My parents pay for that. Part of our agreement that I go to college before I go out for the NHL draft. So…” He shrugs. “They don’t technically know about the second one. I paid for the semester in cash.”

Jesus.

It’s not like we’re poor… I just don’t think I’d ever be so frivolous.

“Well?” I raise my eyebrows. “Do you keep it stocked with beer?”

He pauses, then grins. “Obviously. Come on.”

Maybe we can test out some of his spying equipment while we’re at it. And then, when the sun rises, we’ll call Sydney’s dad.

forty-four