Page 53 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Exactly a minute later, SJU scores. It’s a filthy goal, and the player who made the shot ends up slammed into the glass. He falls to the ice, and suddenly, it’s like everyone just lets go of their control.

I jump up when Carter and Oliver collide. They shed their helmets and gloves, toss their sticks. Doesn’t matter that they really haven’t had anything to do with this most recent goal, it seems like the captains are just taking matters into their own hands.

“I can’t watch this.” I cover my face and peek through my fingers.

They trade blows until they both go down in a heap—but it’s Oliver who ends up on top. And the crowd around me goes fucking bananas.

“He can scrap with the best of them,” the girl beside me yells. “God, he’s so hot.”

And he was inside me only a few hours ago.

The refs give both players five-minute majors for fighting.

I don’t really need to see any more. In the end, it won’t matter who wins.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

fifteen

sydney

The buzzing from the front door’s intercom drags me out of a dream. I wake up gasping, clutching at my breast, before I register that I’m awake.

Sunlight streams in through the windows, and I flop back down.

The buzzer goes off again, and I groan into my pillow. But only for a moment.

The intercom is by the door, and I press the button to talk. “Who is it?”

There’s another button to listen.

“Penn,” comes the gravely reply.

I pause, my finger still on the button to listen.

“Come on, Sydney. I could figure out another way up, but this is easier. Don’t you think?”

His tone begs me to argue with him just for the challenge of it. But it would result in something worse for me, and I’m too damn tired.

I buzz him up.

He arrives at my apartment door a few minutes later, running his fingers through his blond hair. He appraises me, and I belatedly cover my chest.

“Did I wake you?”

I hum, stepping aside to let him in. He strolls in like he owns the place, his gaze skating over my things. While he does that, I rush to put on something to cover myself.

“You took something from me.”

He follows me into my bedroom, all the way across to my dresser. He pushes my hand down, stopping me from putting on the sweater. His gaze seems glued to my nipples, which are tight little pebbles in the cool air and are visible through my shirt.

“Did I?”

He tips his head to the side. “Either that, or everyone is lying about you showing up to the game wearing my sweatshirt.”

I pretend to suddenly remember, my mouth parting. “Oh, that! Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

I point. It’s slung over the corner of my bed, haphazardly tossed there when I peeled it off and climbed straight into bed last night.