Page 5 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

He nods along with my lie.

The sirens are getting louder, and more people are pouring out onto the back steps. In their arms are bottles of booze, cups.

“Let’s go, then.” Carter grabs my hand and drags me along with him, down the steps and out into the yard. Then farther, until we’re swallowed by the trees at the back of the property.

two

sydney

There’s a narrow footpath through the woods to the beach, and we race along with everyone else. By the time my feet sink into the sand at the edge of the trees, I’m laughing. I somehow managed to hold on to both my original drink, which only sloshed like half of it out, and Carter’s hand. He lost more than half of his drink, although he doesn’t seem to mind.

The inky water comes into view. We head farther away from the house, sticking to the shadows. The police don’t really give a fuck if we party on the beach—they just don’t want the neighborhood to complain about the noise.

The music starts back up, and someone lights a bonfire. I chug the remainder of my drink, crumpling the plastic cup in my hand. The vodka warms me from the inside out, and it takes a minute to hit.

I crane around, searching for my best friend. She’s standing with some other girls and hockey players—Carter’s teammates—a little ways from the fire.

“You okay?” Carter nudges me.

“I’m great.” The vodka is getting to me, bleeding through my bones and melting my muscles. “I want to dance.”

He laughs. “Okay.”

“And I want another drink.”

“Done.”

I nod.

He nods.

“You’re really okay?” he asks again.

“Shut up, Carter. Can’t you go back to being an asshole?”

“Only if I can get you drunk enough to let me kiss you,” he counters.

“Pretty sure I don’t need to be drunk for that.”

He goes for it, and I palm his face. I burst into laughter at his darkening expression. I trail my fingers down his cheek, jaw, throat. I grip the front of his sweatshirt and sway toward him.

Bad idea, Sydney.

“Maybe I should walk away,” I murmur.

It’s one of those moments that I’m not exactly sure if I want to… and the longer I look into his ocean eyes, the more I want to lean forward just a bit more…

“Maybe,” he agrees.

I do.

Kissing him is not a good move.

I turn on my heel and stride right for Lettie, who won’t let me make out with my ex. Maybe another hockey player—no, Carter would run interference there—or someone else. When she sees me, she loops her arm around my shoulders and pulls me into the conversation.

“Oh, Marcy!” She points. “You grabbed the vodka?”

The other girl, a year older than us, nods. She offers it, and I take it without thinking. I don’t like the taste of alcohol, but I swig a huge gulp straight from the bottle and hand it back.