Page 19 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
Come back.
I’m just trying to formulate a reply to that…
Some sort of defense? An excuse?
I knew you were too nice.
I think you just don’t want to take responsibility for it.
Ha. I’ve done nothing but pay for it.
The hockey fans at these schools have long memories.
Sounds ominous.
I thought I was supposed to be praying for someone to fuck around with the football team?
I spoke too soon. Their season has already gone to shit anyway.
Okay, well, thanks a lot.
Dylan and Brandon become my allies. Friends, maybe. I don’t know if I can call them that. But after a few more shared meals, they seem to make a pact to stay close to me.
Almost as soon as I reach campus, one of them is there.
It helps that I’ve got two classes with Brandon—the writing class and a crime fiction class—and one with Dyl. It’s her who joins me on our walk from the coffee cart up to the second floor in the student center, which has a short row of classrooms behind the school bookstore.
“Have you talked to your dad lately?”
I wince. After he helped register for classes, and then took me out to dinner with his new wife, I’ve been avoiding him. He sent me several messages that were easy to lose in the onslaught of spam.
Eventually, he’s going to intercept me here or wait for me outside my apartment, and I’ll have to deal with it.
Him.
“And your SJU friend, Lettie?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, no.”
It’s funny how things change. Her text thread is at the bottom of my messages, but I can’t make myself delete it. Even when my phone prompts me to deal with the storage issue. But why would I get rid of her messages and keep the hate texts?
For every text I delete, another three come in. Although I’ve started noticing that some double or triple text, hoping to pull something out of me. Or trying new angles. Poking at different spots hoping to find a bruise.
My ending with Lettie wasn’t vitriolic. Just… abrupt.
I put Lettie through too much trouble. She was a casualty in the war against Sydney Windsor, and she decided it was best to cut ties than try to weather the storm with me. I’m not mad about it—it’s just the kind of friend she is.
Was.
The worst part is, I keep expecting Dyl and Brandon to abandon me, too. I wouldn’t even blame them for leaving.
“Uh-oh,” Dylan says under her breath.
I follow her line of sight.
Oliver Ruiz and two others, both in FSU Hockey sweatshirts, are strolling our way. Dark hair, sun-kissed tan skin, hazel eyes, perfect fucking face. I want to punch him.
One of the others, a guy with dark-blond hair that flops in his face, has a black eye. His green eyes bore into mine from this distance, and I automatically shiver as goosebumps rise along the backs of my arms.