Page 34 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
“Sydney.” He says it like he’s never said my name before.
“Oliver.”
“You and your friends are formally invited to our next party.”
Dylan chokes.
“I’ve been to parties, and they don’t tend to come with formal invitations attached.” I scowl. “Why would I want to be surrounded by people who hate me anyway?”
He shrugs. His hazel eyes are more green than brown today. “It would go a long way to convincing your dad you’re okay. Since Bear can’t keep his mouth shut, and it’s only a matter of time before something about the snitch slips out.”
“It seems unlikely that he doesn’t already hear rumors. Is that why he brought me into the locker room? To try and sway you guys?”
“Such a straightlaced guy, your father.” He leans in. “An honest man. Makes me wonder about the other genes his daughter possesses to turn out so different?”
Every muscle in my body goes tight at his insinuation about my mother. My absent mother, who I haven’t given a thought to since last week.
“Okay,” Brandon interjects. “We’re trying to work here. You’re welcome to do a case study on nature versus nurture if you’re so inclined… as long as you’re not in our space.”
He smiles. “Sure thing, Moore. Just remember—once someone has a history of lying, you can’t trust a damn thing they say.”
He strolls back to his table, and I can’t help but turn and watch him go. He, along with most hockey players, Carter and Penn included, has a fantastic ass. Even in dark-wash jeans.
I meet Penn’s darkening gaze at their table and quickly swivel back around.
“I, um, have to go.” I grab my bag. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up with sugar. I’ll see you guys later.”
In reality, though, the library is the exact place I need to be. I ask the student at the front desk for past yearbooks—I shoot for nineteen to twenty-three years ago, because I can’t quite remember when Mom graduated—and take the stack upstairs. There’s just a narrow strip of two-person desks up here, arranged along a railing that overlooks the first floor.
The fact that my mother attended FSU continually shocks me. The more I think on it, the more I am convinced she never mentioned it.
She knew of the rivalry and didn’t stop me from going to SJU. Never said a word about it even when I was enrolled at St. James. And Dad works here. I’d bet they met here, although I never asked. All signs should’ve pointed to me attending FSU from the beginning.
Once I have a table, conveniently with a line of sight on the hockey table and my friends, I dig in.
My first find comes in the second yearbook. Not from the individual portraits, but one of the clubs that are listed first. It’s her face that snags my attention, and then her name in a short list at the bottom confirms it.
I suddenly can’t get in enough air.
The thing is, I have a picture of my mom in my head. It’s been shaped by growing up with her, loving her, and trauma in fair portions. Living with her over the summer revealed traits that I had either been blind to or ignorant of, and that kind of eye-opening is hard.
But what’s worse is seeing this completely different version of her. One that’s smiling easily, with her hair loose around her shoulders and her hand on a guy’s arm. This one doesn’t have to wear layers of makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes. This one didn’t scrounge enough money together for months just to buy a nice shirt and skirt for her job.
Happiness seems foreign on her.
The mother I knew was stressed and tired. She would sometimes disappear on me for a day or two, especially once I was old enough to use the microwave. It was up to me to get myself to school, to brush my hair and teeth, to put on clean clothes and pack my bag with all my homework.
But she always came back, delirious, sometimes caught in fits of giggles that seemed to seep out of her cracks. Even when, as I got older, her absences grew longer.
Her return was usually accompanied by cash. New food, the electricity bill paid. The heat turned on, if we were lucky.
New outfits.
And within a week or two of epic, sometimes nausea-inducing mania, we were back to square one.
I shake it off, until my gaze snags on the bracelet she’s wearing.
My body goes clammy.