Page 158 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
He answers on the first ring. “Sydney?”
“Oliver is outside my room,” I say in a rush. “Trying to get in.”
“Shit.”
“He looks drunk, Penn.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You have two minutes, and then I’m calling my father.”
“Stay on the line with me. I’m on my way up from the lobby.”
A door crashes on his side of the line. I stand in the doorway of the bathroom, just in case Oliver tries to… I don’t know, use the peephole in reverse. If that’s even a thing. So I stick to the shadows and clutch the phone to my ear, counting down the seconds.
“Almost there.” Penn’s voice has a slightly echoing quality to it. “I’m in the stairwell.”
They won their game tonight. I went for the first period, but I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t keep watching Oliver on the ice—he made sure of that. I begged off. The arena and hotel are connected by a skywalk, so I didn’t even have to go outside.
I got upstairs and ordered room service. Dad and Perri stopped by to check on me, both a bit worried but also, impossibly, willing to give me space. They filled me in on the game, then they bid me goodnight and retired to their room down the hall.
“Oliver.” Penn’s voice comes both from my phone and outside the door. “What are you doing, man?”
“She won’t open the door.” Another thump.
“Yeah, well, you should take a hint. She doesn’t want to see you. She doesn’t want you sitting behind her. She doesn’t want you lurking and scaring her even more.”
“I—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Penn snaps. “What is this? No wonder you’re up here. You get fucked on tequila.”
Oliver mutters something I can’t make out.
“Fuck off,” Penn answers. “Let’s go.”
“No.”
“No? Okay, fine. Sydney, you may as well call your dad now. Oliver will get kicked off the team for underage drinking, probably, and his career will be ruined. Which is not your fault but his, because he’s the stupid bag of dicks who decided to drink tequila from the bottle.”
I shake my head. I know neither of them can see me, and I… I should want to call my dad. But a part of me, deep down, knows that was a hollow threat.
“She’s calling,” he tells Oliver.
I look through the peephole just in time to see Oliver shove off the door. He staggers away under Penn’s watchful gaze. Then, like Penn knows I’m at the door, he glances my way.
“Goodnight, princess.”
The next knock comes way too early. I stumble out of bed and shove open the heavy drapes, shocked when sunlight streams in.
When no more angry knocks follow, I hurry back to the door. It had better be my father, because I’ve had enough adrenaline for one lifetime.
Instead, I find Carter and Penn.
I open the door without thinking.
Carter’s smile falls.
I look down at myself, then back at him. Long-sleeve shirt, leggings. For once, I’m appropriately dressed to answer the door. Minus a bra, because no one in their right mind sleeps in those.
Penn prods him forward.
I step back to let them in, glancing quickly down the hall for a second. There’s no sign of Oliver. And no sign of my father either. So I close and latch the door, slowly facing them.