Page 2 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
It’s familiar. Not like, that exact one is familiar. But the binder style?—
Whatever. I grab it and flip it open, and my breathing stops. Without thinking, I take pictures of every fucking page.
And then my time runs out because the front door opens.
I close the binder and place it exactly where I found it, backing away from the desk. It was the only thing I truly messed with, but hopefully no one will notice.
They turn on lights as they go, heading thankfully toward the back of the house. I wait a moment, their laughter drifting toward me in waves and ebbs. They don’t sound particularly drunk, but I can’t risk them taking their gathering to the bedrooms.
I creep down the stairs, peering over the banister. My scarf is in place, as is my black cap. My hair is tucked up into it. I don’t see them from where I stand, and after waiting another long moment, I make a run for it.
A quiet run, but it doesn’t really work. The floorboards creak; my breathing sounds loud in my ears.
“Hey!” a voice shouts.
I glance over my shoulder, meeting the gaze of the owner of the house.
His hazel eyes burn into me, somewhere between confused and pissed. He fills the hallway, my adrenaline and fear making him seem bigger than life.
He’s just a guy. A regular douchebag.
When he steps toward me, I burst into motion again. I sprint out and away from that fucking house, although I will most likely return when he’s not expecting it.
He has it, I just need to find it.
I look back more than once, but the street stays empty. The asshole decided I wasn’t worth the time. Or he saw that I wasn’t carrying anything…
My car is parked three blocks away. I jump in it like I’m still being chased—like I was being chased at all—and make a quick U-turn. I speed away, laughing at myself. At my stupidity.
What the fuck was that?
Why did he come back so early?
Ten minutes later, I’m back in the safety of my own town. I peel off the scarf and cap, tossing them both in my backseat, and head straight to my apartment one block up from my school’s campus.
Except when I get there, my best friend and roommate is standing in the doorway waiting for me. Her hand is behind her, and she’s wearing a tight, short dress. She eyes me up and down and reveals what she’s holding: a matching dress.
“We’re not going out,” I groan.
“We are,” Lettie argues. “We’re going to the biggest bash of the year.”
Biggest might be an exaggeration. The biggest is usually at the beginning of the year to kick off hockey season. This one is to celebrate the start of our hockey team’s playoff run. Because here, hockey is absolutely everything.
If it doesn’t have to do with hockey, it doesn’t exist.
I sigh and hold out my hand for the glittery blue dress. She squeals in reply and kisses my cheek, ushering me to get ready faster. I forget about my unsuccessful break-in and do my makeup and hair, and within the hour we’re arm in arm, strolling up to the huge house party.
Lettie, aka Scarlett Blake, comes from old money. She and I were put together freshmen year. She wasn’t getting an apartment off campus immediately because she wanted to, in her words, slum it like a real college freshman. Like me.
I was so poor, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. I lived off of the meal plan, used the class textbooks the library had, did all my online work in the computer room, and went out if there was free liquor.
It was a miracle I had made it to college at all, but I digress.
Lettie and I got along okay at first, better once she understood I wasn’t being purposefully cheap.
Now we’re sophomores, about to be juniors, and that so-called slumming it phase is officially over. Lettie didn’t give me a choice in the matter. I think she secretly covers more of the rent than I do, simply because she wanted something out of my budget.
And it’s still tight.