Page 197 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“Girlfriend, huh?”

“Yep.” I kiss her again before she can argue.

The door opens, but I hold up my finger. The wait-a-goddamn-second finger. Because when I stop kissing her, she’ll go in and explain to them what’s going on with her mom. It’s going to be a big fucking downer, and I just want?—

I don’t know. To kiss her without that for another moment.

They can be downers, and then I’ll inform them that Sydney RSVP’d yes to my game tonight. Since they’re not playing, it’s fucking perfect. And this is the last home game St. James will have for a few weeks, at least.

May as well make it a good one.

sixty

sydney

Penn and Oliver don’t put up much of a fuss about going to Carter’s game. In their words: “It’s an excuse to scope out our rivals.”

Which doesn’t really strike me as any better than what I did last year…

Whatever.

Oliver is without a phone. One of the concussion protocols is to avoid screens with blue light… so I guess the movie wasn’t in his best interests last night. Either way, he turned it off and shoved it in his pocket for emergencies only.

He sits in the front, while Penn drives and Carter and I take the back.

Our first stop is Carter’s apartment. Not his stalker apartment across the street from mine, but his real one. He assures us it should be empty, which it most certainly is not. His roommate, a d-man on his team, comes out of his room with barely any clothing on. As in, boxers only.

I can imagine what he’s thinking: Vipers in a Seawolves apartment?

Laughable.

Penn covers my eyes before I can see anything else, and I shove him away with a roll of my eyes.

Carter slaps the boxers-only guy on the back and makes up some excuse about them losing a bet, but I don’t know if his teammate buys it. He watches us, a mix of wary and skeptical, until Carter returns from his own bedroom with SJU sweatshirts for the guys and a long-sleeve shirt for me. It has Carter’s last name and his jersey number—eight—on the back, and St. James Hockey on the front.

After a brief internal debate, I put it on.

Carter’s smile alone is worth it.

Oliver and Penn both grumble. Oliver’s is a zip-up, which helps with the sore ribs. I ease it over his shoulders, then slip in front of him and take over the zipper.

Completely unnecessary, but I like the way his eyes on me heat my skin.

This is all one major distraction from the shit going on in the back of my head. It seems like I’ve traded one trauma for another. But focusing on hockey lets me ignore the fact that my mother is dead.

Caleb Asher’s parting words were that the medical examiner hasn’t ruled anything conclusive yet. If it comes back to be a suicide or accidental death, then I have nothing to worry about.

Which is as shameful as it is relieving.

I hope she wasn’t murdered. That would add more mystery onto my plate, more trauma that I don’t want to handle.

Anyway. We pile back in the car, now fully clad in St. James attire, and head to the arena. Carter goes in the players’ entrance. We’ve got another half hour or so before the doors will open for students.

I pull my legs up and rest my chin on my knee. “Truth or dare?”

Penn twists around. “Dare.”

I smirk. “I dare you to post a picture of your outfit.”