Page 51 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

That’s more than I ever thought he’d get from me.

Oliver and an SJU d-man slam into the boards. The glass in the corner warps with the impact, and the people at the glass seem to grow more animated. They battle the puck out of their defensive zone and fly toward the Seawolves goalie.

One of the huge, burly guys—Bear, I’m ninety percent sure—muscles the puck away from the other winger on Carter’s line. He sends it up the boards to Oliver, who takes it into the offensive zone on the far side.

A few passes later, everyone seeming to shuffle and grapple for position and screening, and Oliver delivers a wicked slap shot toward the goal. His teammate lifts his stick slightly and deflects it right past the goalie’s glove.

I look up at the scoreboard.

Fifty-six seconds into the first period. 1-0.

A remarkable difference from their last game, that’s for sure.

By the end of the first period, it’s 2-0 and SJU seems pissed. Their playing is getting increasingly aggressive, and it’s probably good that the horn blows before the players drop their gloves and go at it.

Unlike the last game, I stay in my seat until the second period starts. In fact, I’m not fucking moving until the game is over.

SJU comes out swinging.

I wince when Carter and Oliver collide on open ice. They both end up sprawled, the puck that they were chasing long gone. And then St. James scores.

The maroon-clad crowd erupts.

I watch Carter’s celebration, zooming to join his teammates in the far corner. They leave the ice, switching out for a shift, and I lean forward.

The next few minutes are slow.

But when the FSU first line comes back out, the SJU fourth line joins them.

I grit my teeth. The tension ramps up, winding everyone in the arena tighter and tighter. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone was collectively holding their breath.

An SJU forward intercepts a pass and breaks away, streaking down the far side toward the FSU goal. Penn is ready for him, skating to the top of his crease. The forward tries to fake him out, but Penn doesn’t fall for it—and the trick shot meant to sail into an empty net lands right in Penn’s glove.

The whistle to stop play is blown.

I cheer before I can stop myself.

My lack of control only lasts a moment, and then I quickly sit back down.

“How long have you two been dating?” the girl beside me asks. “I didn’t think he was the settling down type.”

Huh?

Her gaze moves pointedly to my sweatshirt.

So, yeah, he’s going to kill me.

I’m going to kill me.

“Oh, uh…”

“I would’ve thought you’d want it to be more public,” she continues. “Immediately, I mean. But with the rumors about the St. James captain, I guess I understand wanting to wait.” She gives me a sympathetic knee pat. “Must be nice to have so many hockey players falling over you.”

I snort. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

I only met Carter because of Scarlett. I only dated him for what feels like a brief a moment in time. And then we stopped because it was… scary in its intensity.

Stones drop into my belly.