Page 168 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

His attention returns to my leg. The cuts are more like gashes now, and one still seeps blood. He lifts my ankle and inspects them, running his finger just above the top one.

When his gaze hits mine, his expression is devastated.

“You did this to yourself?”

“I—” I stop myself and swallow. “Don’t tell anyone.”

He laughs, almost to himself, and turns away. He paces the bathroom, his hands going to his hair. He yanks at the strands, then leaves his hands on the back of his neck. When he faces me again, he has a new expression.

Determination.

“Where else?” he asks.

My mouth dries. “What?”

“Where else are there cuts?”

I must hold on to my secrets. I shake my head at him, saying nothing.

He pulls his phone and types, then shoves it back in his pocket. He doesn’t reply, just seems to be waiting for something. I desperately want to curl in on myself, but I don’t move.

His behavior sets my teeth on edge. The unpredictability of Carter Masters, a trait that was once alluring, now gives me pause.

Almost five minutes later, a knock comes. He goes and opens the door, and Penn walks in.

Oliver follows.

“No. No, no, no?—”

“He’s part of this,” Carter says. “You fix it with him or not at all.”

Carter grabs Oliver and drags him into the bathroom with me. I curl up, too aware of my nakedness. Their gazes both drop to the floor, and I peek over the edge, too.

Blood droplets.

I bury my face in my knees.

“I’m fine,” I lie to them. “I’m so fine.”

“You skipped all your classes this week,” Penn says.

I hadn’t realized he came in, too. Fingers touch my leg. Something cold covers the cuts.

“You and you—talk,” Carter orders. “While Penn and I search every inch of this place for things she can hurt herself with.”

I jerk my head up.

It’s not Penn standing in front of me but Oliver. He doesn’t meet my eyes, and the other two leave us alone.

“I went too far.” His voice is dark and gritty, and it scratches some part of my soul that I don’t want to remember. “I knew I was crossing a line and I did it anyway.”

“Why did you even have those masks?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

He wets a washcloth, coming closer and pressing it to my ankle.

“Before we grabbed you, Bear and I bought matching ones. But then I thought it might be better to be different—I don’t know, it was fucking dumb. But we had both bought the same clown mask.” His other hand touches my knee.

It’s to steady my leg, I know, but a shiver rushes down my spine all the same. I just don’t know if it’s a good or bad one, and my brain is too muddled to figure it out.