Page 49 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Which means I’m going to fucking run all the way home, again, and pray that no one encounters me.

My bag is still in Penn’s car.

I make it outside without incident, shockingly, and glance around. I pause on the sidewalk, the cold air biting at my bare skin. Do I go for his car? The odds of getting all the way home without someone seeing seems impossibly low.

Once a thief, always a thief?

I debate it. I don’t know anything about cars, but I do know that Penn Walker is every bit as arrogant as he is good at goaltending. So when I find his car, I’m not really surprised that it’s unlocked.

I sit in it, debating, then pop the hood. His school bag is there, along with his FSU sweatshirt. His name and his number, twenty, are stitched on the right sleeve in purple. Well, maybe this is my safe passage. I pull it on and go back to the driver’s seat, pulling down the visor to examine my reflection.

Hair—a mess, but manageable. I rake my fingers through it. It’s my ruined mascara that really cements the mental image of a slut. Once that’s fixed, as in, wiped away with a few licked fingers and scrubbing under my eyes with the sleeve of the sweatshirt, I lean back.

The real question is, does he keep his wallet on him or in the glove box?

I flick it open and laugh.

There’s a banded wad of cash.

What a college kid does with that much cash is beyond me. Drug dealing, maybe? Running an illegal gambling ring? Planning on crashing a strip club after the games?

Either way.

I count all of it, my eyes widening every time I get through another hundred.

Two thousand dollars in low-denomination bills.

I take all of it, scrawling a note on the back of a forgotten receipt and leaving it in the money’s place.

You want to treat me like a whore, you better pay me like one.

Okay. Too much time spent here. I put everything back the way it was, minus the money, and hurry away from the vehicle with my bag over my shoulder. I go to the box office and get the ticket my father has held for me, go through security, and splurge on a bucket of popcorn. And a soda. And maybe, later, I’ll get something else.

Just because I can.

And if this is the worst they’ve got for me, I may as well actually enjoy the game.

The guys are on the ice warming up. Penn off to the side in his thick goalie gear, Oliver somewhere in the mess of swarming FSU players. The Seawolves are in their away colors, mostly white with black and maroon accents. It doesn’t take me long at all to find Carter.

Which should be a problem, right?

Because he’s just a guy I used to know, and now we’re on opposite sides of a rivalry.

I take my seat, crossing my legs and leaning back. I’m getting new looks now, but less so with loathing—which I’m actually expecting—but… confusion?

Someone takes the seat next to me, sees Penn’s name on the sweatshirt’s upper arm, and does a double take.

“You’re wearing his sweatshirt?” she asks, her eyebrows nearly in her hairline.

I just smile.

She turns to the girl beside her, and I catch a few snippets of words. Sydney Windsor, Penn, sweatshirt. Naturally, it spreads like fucking wildfire after that.

But no one throws a drink on me. No one touches me, or bumps into me when we stand to let more people into the row, or coughs out ugly names under their breath.

I pull out my phone, and shoot a text to Dylan.

Me