Page 33 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
Agreed.
I shove my stuff in my bag and follow her to the library. We find a table in the far back, half hidden by the stacks. She shoots Brandon a text, then dumps everything from her bag onto the table.
Not school supplies.
Food…?
Granola bars, candy bars, a rather large bag of pretzels, one of those squeeze tubes of peanut butter. Her notebook from Calculus comes sliding out, too.
“Why…?”
“I have diabetes, so I’m always prepared. I need sugar if my levels drop too low.” She lifts her shirt slightly, revealing the pod stuck to her stomach a few inches above the waistband of her leggings. She taps the compact black case amongst the snacks. “This has my extra insulin and supplies in case I spike, but this device usually keeps track and gives me insulin as needed.”
“I had no idea.”
She shrugs. “I don’t advertise it. It doesn’t stop me from living my life, I just have to make some adjustments.”
“Okay, good.”
“Trust me, I have more at my apartment. Take whatever you want.”
I’m still deciding when Brandon arrives, breathless and wet-haired.
“Did you run here?” Dylan asks.
“I was on my way out anyway.” He makes a face at her.
“With wet hair? Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”
“Shut it.” He focuses on me. “I saw the post. I’m sorry, Sydney, I don’t know why they keep targeting you.”
I sigh. “Yeah, well…”
The real problem is Oliver Ruiz. He seems intent on keeping my past fresh in people’s minds by any means necessary.
“This story is going to require more than snacks,” I finish.
Something behind me catches Dylan’s attention. And Brandon’s.
“Oh, shit.” She grabs my hand. “Don’t turn around. They probably don’t see you.”
“Who?”
“Ruiz, Walker, and some others.”
I close my eyes.
“We’re tucked pretty far out of the way,” she offers.
“I found you pretty easily,” Brandon mumbles. “But—I knew you were here.”
“And you don’t think they look around when they get into the library?” I shake my head. “I need to get out of here. Or, I don’t know?—”
“Too late,” Brandon interrupts.
Someone drags out the empty chair beside me and drops into it. I glance over at Oliver Ruiz. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and he raises a thick eyebrow at whatever expression is on my face.
Probably irritation.