Page 175 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

My eyebrows hike. I wait, but he doesn’t continue. “You’re sorry? For what?”

“The mean text without asking if you’re okay.” He gulps. “I was caught up in Dylan’s emotions, you know? She was mad, and I was focused on that instead of worrying about you.”

Right.

“Thanks.” I leave it at that. I don’t know what else to say, other than… fuck off? I shake my head and turn my back on him. I just want to go home. Returning to campus has been exhausting, leaving me with no capacity for anything else. And it’s only Tuesday.

“Sydney, wait—” He grabs my shoulder.

Immediately, he yelps.

I whirl around.

Oliver has his wrist at a funny angle, looming over Brandon. My friend’s expression is pinched, clearly in pain?—

“Oliver.” I grab his arm. “Let go!”

His jaw clenches, but he finally does. One finger at a time, peeling off Brandon’s wrist until he can snatch it back.

“Go,” Oliver snaps at him.

Brandon’s eyes round, but he doesn’t waste any time. He scurries past, giving us both a wide berth.

I glare at Oliver. “What is your problem?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I got carried away.”

“Oh, really?” I force a laugh. “That’s a change.”

He winces.

“What are you doing up here?” This is the English wing, and I’m pretty sure most of the hockey guys avoid the writing-intensive classes on purpose.

“I came to see if I could walk you home.” His expression is sheepish.

“No.”

His eyebrows hike. “No?”

“Yeah.” I shake my head and resume my trek to the exit. “You’re capable of respecting a no, right?”

“Well…”

I pause.

“I’m sorry, Sydney, I’m going to follow you home either way. Just to make sure you’re safe.”

Great.

He’s just doing this because he feels guilty.

The rest of the week follows a surprising monotony comprised solely of Oliver Ruiz. He seems to have taken over protection detail—minus sneaking in through my window and curling up beside me. Carter and Penn seem to have divided that responsibility up between them.

Which is what it’s beginning to feel like: responsibility.

Carter confiscated the knife he gave me. I saw him pocket it one night, and my stomach twisted. He told me it would just be until I’m through this self-harm phase.

It’s not like I can tell them I’m over it—they have no qualms with stripping me and checking.