Page 3 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
But that’s fine. I’d rather live with Lettie and scrape together rent each month than have to figure out how to navigate living with someone else.
Even if she drags me out to parties when I just want to crawl into bed and cry. It’s my way of paying her back, in a way.
She takes the lead inside the house. It’s packed, the music so loud I’m not sure how anyone can hear each other.
People love her, and by extension, me. It seems like we can’t go more than a few steps before someone else is rushing toward us, throwing their arms first around her, then me. Their chatter is too animated, the music overwhelming.
My gaze drifts around the room. In the corner of the living room, the dance girls. They’re the popular ones, like high school cheerleaders on steroids. They hold court over there. Lettie would fit in with them, and I’m not really sure why she hasn’t joined them.
She dances. She showed me videos of her dance competitions, and they blew whatever these girls do out of the water.
Then there’s the dance floor. It’s just a space in the living room that’s been shoved clear of furniture, filled with gyrating couples. I don’t like looking at that kind of thing. It seems too sexual, all for the sake of an audience. I prefer to keep my affection not on public display.
Finally, I spot the jocks.
Hockey players rule this whole freaking county, with football coming in close second. But football season is over, our soccer team sucks, and the hockey team is going to the playoffs. It’s not really surprising to see some of the team surrounded by girls.
I squeeze Lettie’s arm and mumble an excuse, although I know she can’t hear me until I shout in her ear. She lets me slip away.
My first stop is the kitchen, where the bar is set up. There’s a freshman football player behind a folding table, an array of booze at his back. He perks up when I enter and motions behind him.
“Um…” I shrug. “Vodka. Orange juice.”
“Coming right up,” he replies with a shout.
He fills a cup with ice and then a heavy pour of alcohol. I wince when he tops it off with barely a splash of juice.
“Here—”
A hand intercepts the red cup.
I meet the gaze of Carter Masters and immediately scowl.
We dated for a few seconds last year, and it ended poorly. He’s unfortunately attractive, with chocolate-brown hair cut short, blue eyes, a sharp jaw, and lips that… well, I don’t really need to imagine how they feel.
“Try the opposite ratio,” he tells the amateur bartender. “Syd doesn’t like to get wasted on her first drink.”
I snort.
He takes a sip, his gaze locked on my face. I studiously ignore it—him—and watch the new drink be made. A shot’s worth of vodka, more OJ.
“Thanks,” I tell the guy.
Carter hands him a twenty.
I frown.
“What? They’re not free. We’re raising money for the playoffs.”
“Uh-huh.” I narrow my eyes.
He shrugs. “Okay, maybe it’s going to the guys’ drinking fund when this whole thing is over.”
“That’s more believable.” I shift and sip my drink. It’s a lot better than the monstrosity Carter’s drinking.
“You look good.” His gaze rakes down my body and back up, ending at my face. “More than good.”
Not for the first time, I allow myself to swallow the dose of regret at ending things between us. It wasn’t bad—kind of the opposite, actually. Which is why we both decided to stop.