Page 211 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

We stare at him.

“What?” He picks up the gun and does some mojo on it, sliding back the top and then clicking in a magazine from the bottom of the handle. “Every summer since I was old enough to walk, I’d be out hunting with my family. Gun knowledge is essential.”

“Obeying the law, not so much.” Oliver exhales. “How illegal is this?”

Carter shifts. “Let’s just try not to shoot anybody.”

“Great.” I wipe my hand down my face. “Okay, clock’s ticking. You keep the gun?—”

I take a knife. It’s not a folding one, like what Carter usually carries on him. This is a weapon. The blade itself is five, maybe six inches long, with a wicked curve at the top to a gleaming, sharp point.

“Here.” Carter pushes a leather sheath into my chest. “So you don’t cut your hand off. And hold it like this.” He takes the knife from my hand and flips it the other way, so the blade isn’t near my thumb, but my pinky.

“Great.” I nod, then sheath it. I tuck it into the waistband of my jeans and shake out my limbs. “Ollie?”

Oliver moves slower, taking the last knife. He holds it as Carter instructed, seeming more comfortable with it than me. Maybe he spent time as a kid… carving?

Funny. Probably not, though.

As a trio, we head toward the warehouse. There’s a car parked outside, the trunk open and empty. My blood chills, but I force myself to keep moving.

The zone I drop into is no different than when I step in front of the net. Clear head, focused. It’s what Sydney needs.

We enter through a side door. This place was owned by Oliver’s mom’s uncle. He passed away a few years ago, but nothing with his estate—including this building—has been settled. Because of all the claims on it, it’s been caught up in the courts ever since.

Which made it the perfect spot to use when we needed to get out of the public eye.

Now, I’m kind of regretting it. Definitely regretting ever bringing Bear.

I remember trying weed in here for the first time, the last hockey game of the season finished and a circle of my teammates on the floor. Playing a stupid game of pass the joint while we waited for girls to join us.

Bear was with us.

I remember hiding from my parents here, when my dad was on a rampage about something or another. I think it was when I crashed his car… Not on purpose, of course. It was an accident, but he took it to be intentional.

Carter lets me take the lead, sandwiching Oliver between us. I remove my knife slowly, holding it like he demonstrated.

The warehouse is split up into two main sections: the mechanic bay, where there are huge garage doors and car lifts, even abandoned toolboxes like Oliver’s great-uncle’s employees just suddenly walked out one day, and no one came back. Then there’s the warehouse. It’s all open, in a way, but the majority of the open space is there. What was once filling that space—pallets of supplies, parts, tires—all got pushed against the walls.

Then, of course, there’s the old offices and storage room for more delicate things. Oliver once said his uncle liked to be able to lock away the more expensive parts, the stuff that might be jacked more easily or whatever.

We used to play seven minutes in heaven in that storage room.

I inch along the raised lift of the mechanic’s bay, using it to shield me.

Something in the distance clanks. Faintly, like chains.

“Oliver?” Sydney’s voice floats out from a far corner of the warehouse.

I glance over my shoulder.

Oliver’s eyebrows are raised. He’s in a half-crouched position, his knife also out.

“Oliver?” she calls again.

“What do we do?” I ask Carter under my breath. “She sounds…”

“She sounds afraid,” Oliver interjects. “She’s calling for me?—”