Page 157 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I wait, gaze on the doors I’ll soon be going through. Doors I stormed through with Sydney, on my way to punch Oliver in the face. Teammates are arriving, everyone dressed in their game day attire.

It’s my fucking fault he traumatized her. If I had held in my anger better, he wouldn’t have retaliated against her. Not me. He didn’t even so much as hit me, although from the look in his eye, I was absolutely expecting it.

Instead, he just sneered. Fucking asshole.

I adjust my collar in the mirror.

“Okay,” he finally says. “I stepped out into the hall.”

“Okay,” I repeat. “And?”

“I don’t think she’s laughed since…” His end of his sentence hangs in the air.

Since before.

“Oh. I was just insulting you,” I tell him.

He snorts. “Great. Let me know when you get here.”

“About that.” I hesitate. “I’ve got an idea that I don’t think she’ll go for.”

“Something to do with punishment?”

I make a face. “Yeah. Punishment and helplessness.”

When I lay out my idea, he makes a choking noise.

“Too much?”

“Maybe.” He seems to be considering. “Bring the stuff. We’ll let her decide.”

“After, though.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He hangs up without saying goodbye. Or anything at all. One minute he’s there, the next, the line goes dead.

But that’s okay. I’ve got a course of action and a plan to go along with it. Time to shelve all those details and focus on the game.

Once that’s done, I can get back to worrying about my girl.

forty-eight

sydney

I am in bed, awake for some reason, when he comes.

It starts with an easy knock. A one-two-three tap that has me setting my book aside and sitting up straighter. When I don’t move, the knock comes again. Harder.

My throat tightens. I creep out of bed—as if the door is transparent—and inch toward it. The knocking stops, and I exhale. I look through the peephole, only to find Oliver standing right there.

I jump back, and he pounds on the door. The sound seems to vibrate in my chest. He can’t get in, though. I have the safety lock on the door plus the deadbolt under the handle. I check again. He has a bottle of something in his hand. He drags his hand through his hair, leaning a forearm on the door.

“Open up…” he calls. He tries the handle. It jiggles but doesn’t turn. “Come on, Sydney, open the door.”

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

I rush back to my bag and search for my phone. I power it up, staring at the logo that glows on the dark screen. It takes precious seconds while Oliver’s knocking gets more intense. Carter wanted me to turn it on for him, but I couldn’t.

As soon as the home screen comes alive, I unlock it and dial Penn’s number.