Page 233 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
As passenger and partial navigator—I’m not really doing anything, since it’s on the screen in the middle of the dash—but I happily take the role of DJ. I scroll through his playlists and pick something we can sing along to, and it reminds me of before.
When things between us were light and fun.
My chest aches, and I find myself touching the bracelet. Grounding myself while I take a deep breath, then another, until my muscles loosen.
“You ever think about publishing your short stories?” Carter asks suddenly. “The girl with wings?”
I stare at him, but his gaze is fastened on the road. “Huh?”
“I mean, I kind of understood it was a connection to Icarus. At least, you were going along that same path. And the drawings…”
“Carter, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His brows furrow. “Um, the journal you write and draw in. I snooped, I’ll admit it, but then I got sucked in. Even if your handwriting was shit. I brought it with me.”
“You—”
“Didn’t think you’d notice,” he says on a laugh. “And you didn’t.”
“I don’t remember…” Well, that’s not quite true. I have vague memories of writing in bed, furious scribbling to try and distract myself. Honest feelings in a fictional world.
But whether it’s any good or not is up for debate.
He taps the center console, and I practically fall on it. I yank it open and withdraw my neglected journal.
I haven’t opened it in six months, minimum. I run my hand over the cover, then flip it open. There’s the one about being in love, there’s the one about monsters and fragile things. I get to the last filled page and wince. The handwriting is rough.
I drew a girl with wings in the corner, practically sitting on the top line of words, her arms around her legs and feathered wings curled around her. I remember feeling like that.
She’s on the next page, too, holding her stomach. Bleeding.
“I don’t want to think about it right now,” I murmur. My fingers have picked up remnants of charcoal. The cover of the journal, if not black, would probably show dark finger smudges. There are only about twenty pages left in the whole notebook.
“Okay,” Carter agrees. “But I did type it up and submit some to an agent.”
My jaw drops.
He shrugs. “You never know.”
Great.
I mull that over. Carter leans forward and turns up the music—which is good, because I don’t know what to think about his revelation.
Music in the club pulses through my body, urging me to move. I lean back on Penn, whose hands have been drifting since he stepped up behind me. His hips frame mine, and I allow a small smile.
Goalies have moves. I’m feeling warm, my body buzzing.
Oliver is surrounded by his teammates, but he’s not far. They’re celebrating a well-deserved win. They’re champions this year.
Carter returns with drinks, a bottle of beer for Penn and him, a vodka and orange juice for me. Someone gave Penn a cardboard crown, like the kind the fast-food place would give out. Carter leans in and kisses me, and the vibration of Penn’s groan in his chest travels through my back.
“We should get out of here,” I breathe.
Carter’s eyes light up, and he glances at Penn.
“Take our celebration more private?” Penn asks, his lips at my ear.
I nod.