Page 151 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Earlier, I decided on three.

The third is the deepest and highest. It bleeds the most, and I unroll a handful of paper towels to put beneath my leg.

I can breathe again.

I’d hate myself if I didn’t desperately need oxygen.

Eventually, I blot at the cuts and put a thicker bandage over them. I pull the cuff of my leggings down, then add socks.

Easy.

I leave the knife on my dresser and grab my bag. I force a smile a few times just to prove that I can, although none touch my eyes. I try one more time, my grin wide enough to split my face, then let out a sigh.

It doesn’t matter, does it?

At noon, I meet Perri outside. I hoist my suitcase into her trunk, and we drive the twenty minutes to the airport. The rest is a blur: going through security, getting a coffee and water bottle—both for her, although she gets me one of each, too—and finding our gate. We sit off to the side, facing the huge windows.

She reads on her phone while I watch the planes.

“Sydney?”

I glance at her.

“I’m not sure what triggered this,” she says carefully. “But if you need to talk through anything, I’d gladly listen.”

“Thanks.”

That doesn’t seem to appease her. She continues, “If I’m too close—or, I don’t know, if being your stepmom makes things weird—then we can find a therapist.”

I nod. “I… I don’t know what I’d say.”

She considers that. “Maybe it’s not what you would say, but what they would ask.”

“Oh.” I hesitate.

Spilling secrets to a stranger is something my mother always warned against. But I’m pretty sure every negative thought about my dad and how he would act after he married Perri—a gold-digging whore, according to Mom—was wrong.

Which means maybe she was wrong against talking to someone about mental health.

Of course, she didn’t call it that. She called them “issues” and expected people to be able to sort out their shit without help.

“Yeah,” I finally say. “I’ll try it.”

She reaches over and gently squeezes my arm. “I’ll find someone. And if they’re not good, we’ll try someone else. Until we meet someone you like.”

That in and of itself sounds daunting, but I make a noise of assent anyway. I don’t want to disappoint her so quickly after agreeing, although I can just picture my energy being sucked down out of my feet.

She glances at her phone. “Oh good, your father’s here.”

“What?”

“Your father,” she repeats. “They just got through security.”

No.

No, no, no.

My breath comes short and fast, and I bolt to my feet. Why did I think I could come with them and not see the team?