Page 24 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
“Attention,” Oliver yells as soon as he sees us.
The room goes quiet. It’s a large, open space with cubbies around the outer wall. They’re labeled with engraved black plaques, the guys’ first initials and last names. Most are shirtless or in various states of dress.
“This is our only scrimmage before our season starts,” Dad says when all eyes are on him. “There’s a good turn out of students, but I will tell you right now: brush off how last season ended.”
Grumbles.
“I understand being mad, but holding grudges will not be tolerated. And that includes against my daughter.”
Twenty pairs of eyes swing in my direction.
I think I’d rather die. What the hell is my father thinking?
Putting me on display and saying, BE NICE TO HER! to a bunch of guys is absolutely not going to work. I have no doubt these guys respect their coach, but me? And what goes on behind his back? It’s a little laughable.
I cross my arms across my chest and shift my weight, but I say nothing. Their expressions might be mild, but it’s just a show. I remind myself of that when one stands and heads toward me. He towers over me, but he sticks out his hand into the air between us.
“No hard feelings,” he says.
Dad smiles.
I shake his hand, and he squeezes hard enough to grind my bones together. I clench my jaw and refuse to show the pain, although his wicked, secret smile is enough to tell me he knows the power of his grip strength.
“Thank you,” Dad says to the player. He checks his watch and claps. “Okay, finish getting ready, we’ve got warm-ups in fifteen. Let’s put on a good show for FSU, yeah?”
He leads me out to a chorus of cheers and whoops. We go back down the hall the way we came, then past the exit and to the staircase he mentioned go up to the seats. From his pocket, he produces a paper ticket. “Here. Perri will take you home after, okay?”
“Thanks,” I tell him.
But really… I might mean the opposite. Depending on how this goes.
The Vipers are playing a team from the next state over. They’re in the same conference, which means they’ll be facing off quite a bit this season. It’s not a real game, in that the season hasn’t started. But they take it seriously enough.
It also means tonight will set the tone for their next game.
Perri finds me and drops into the seat beside me. We’re toward the back of the section, luckily. I’m not checking over my shoulder as much as I would be if most of the crowd was behind me.
It’s kind of weird to be in this arena and not be at an SJU game. The crowd—mostly students—around us are decked out in purple. When the FSU Vipers skate out onto the ice, they’re wearing all-purple sweaters with white stripes and lettering.
The snake logo is in black and white.
My gaze flicks from Penn Walker, one of the two goalies, to Oliver Ruiz. He skates like he was born on blades, and I add that to my mental list of things that irritate me about him. Also: the way he stares, the way he scowls, the way his lips form a perfect pout?—
“You okay?”
Yikes.
“Just thinking,” I say to Perri. “Do you like hockey?”
She wrinkles her nose. She’s always properly made up, and today is no exception. Her dark hair is in a perfect bun at the base of her neck, her makeup subtle and yet seems to accent and highlight all of her good features. Not that she has any bad features.
“I come to support the boys,” she allows. “But the violence turns my stomach.”
I smile. “The fights are the best part.”
“Interesting.”
I spend the rest of the first period hoping and wishing for a fight. Mainly because hockey can be a little boring if it’s a low-scoring game, or if they spend more time passing than shooting. And I can’t think of a single FSU player who doesn’t deserve to have their face pummeled in.