Page 173 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Not until I catch Ollie’s guilty expression.

We go again, and I aim to end up beside my best friend.

“What’s this about?”

He grunts. “Messing with Sydney.”

“Like messing with her, or messing with her?”

“Is there a dif?—”

Whistle.

My muscles are slowly turning to jelly, and my stomach clenches as soon as we cross the goal line. I swallow a few times, sharply, to keep from joining the pansies who’ve already thrown up.

My captain seems in worse shape than me, his elbows on his knees. Sweat drips off his nose, and he spits.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” I ask, forcing cheer into my tone.

He glares at me. “He warned me that I had my whole life ahead of me to date girls. But not that one.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re not dating her.”

“Coach thought we were.”

It’s my turn to glower at him. “Fuck off.”

Whistle.

I push off, my legs screaming. My lungs need to catch a break, too. Too much talking and not enough deep breathing. Oliver skates out ahead of me, his movements quick despite his exhaustion. He leads the pack, and that’s what makes him a good captain.

And yet, I have a feeling we’re not stopping until he collapses.

Twenty minutes later, even I’ve puked twice.

Oliver stands straight and tall on the line, his chest heaving.

“Coach,” someone calls. “You’re killing us.”

“Your captain will tell you when to quit,” he replies.

The first words he’s spoken since he put us on the line. An hour ago? Two?

“Sir,” Oliver says. “I?—”

Whistle.

“Fuck,” I groan.

Our lap is pitiful.

“I won’t go near her," Oliver gasps. “You made your point.”

Coach hops over the boards and strides across the cut-up ice.

“I made my point?” He laughs. “No, I don’t think I made my point. Because while you all have been living in the land of the fucking delusional, you’ve allowed my daughter to become a mockery of this school.”

Silence.