Page 32 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
Tell me a lie, then.
I was tied up in the women’s restroom during the hockey game tonight.
The photo doesn’t appear online. Not on Sunday anyway. And I don’t get any more disgruntled looks than usual when I head to meet Dylan before Calculus Monday morning, which makes me think the gossip hasn’t fully ramped up.
Maybe since yesterday was a recovery day for the campus, following what I’m assuming was a party-filled night after FSU’s win. I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.
But Calculus also gives Dylan her first glimpse of the bruise on my cheek that I tried to cover up. An attempt that apparently completely failed.
She touches my chin and turns my head to the side, mouth open.
“Who—what—when—where?”
“But not why?”
She touches my cheekbone, and I wince.
“The why is obvious.” She passes me the coffee she bought before I arrived.
I really need a job. I don’t like to think about how fucking poor I feel all the time. It only creeps up on me for the little things, like buying my own coffee. If Dad didn’t secure me essentially a free ride to FSU, fund my textbooks and school supplies, and cover the basics, like my meal plan, housing, groceries, and utilities, I’d be shit out of luck. The coffee place uses those flex dollars attached to my meal plan, but coffee is expensive. I’d burn through those too fast if I wanted coffee every damn morning.
As it is, my bank account is down to a single digit.
When I asked Dad for help, I didn’t expect everything. The unfortunate truth of the matter is that he made me comfortable… and that made me complacent.
“Do you know anywhere that’s hiring?” I ask Dylan as we walk to class.
She hums. “I don’t, but you could check with Brandon. He’s got that bartending job at Briar, maybe they need more help. Have you waitressed?”
I straighten. “Yeah, I did in high school.”
“The good thing is, FSU has a shit ton of bars around it because we’re all alcoholics.” She snorts. “I can’t vouch for how well college assholes tip, but I’m pretty sure they all shifted to paying fair wages. Talk to Brandon.”
“Good idea.”
She nudges me. “So, what, where, when, who…?”
I shake my head and brush her off.
Halfway through Calculus is when it happens. There seems to be a rolling tide of attention shifting in my direction, so much so that even the professor stops teaching. Students have their phones out, some vibrating or going off silently with alerts.
Even Dylan’s goes off, and she turns to show me the screen.
A photo of me from Saturday night, with the security guard’s arm around my shoulders.
The caption reads, Once a snitch, always a snitch.
Fuck.
“Settle,” the professor calls. “Now, once you’ve solved…”
It was posted by the FSU gossip page, the one that gave out my information. My concentration is fucked. My mind keeps wandering back to Saturday. And it sucks because Sunday in my apartment actually felt somewhat good. I didn’t think about anything other than the show I decided to binge. I stayed in bed and hid from the world.
But now this?
It’s not like it’s paired with the photo Andi took, because at least that would explain why I was with security. But, no. There are already replies to the main content, people taking the photo and warping it, editing horns into my hair or making my eyes red, my brows bushy and overexaggerated.
“Class is over.” Dylan closes my notebook for me. “Let’s get out of here.”