Page 66 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

He points.

Their masks are not cool like those neon stitch ones, or even the Scream mask. These are grotesque, more like something you’d find at Fright Night or going through a haunted house. The driver’s is a bloody, smiling skull. The other’s is a creepy clown mask.

They’re both wearing nondescript clothing. Black sweatshirts and pants, black boots. The masks completely hide their heads, too.

I stare at the black mesh where the driver’s eyes would be. I fucking hate masks, and the fact that they both seem to be watching me with a keen gaze—all in my head, since I can’t confirm—does nothing to calm me. If I lose control over my even breathing, I’d quickly fall into hyperventilation.

All I need to do is hide the trembling and convince them I’m not afraid.

Easy.

“Don’t suppose you have a school affiliation,” I ask in a low voice. “Is there a point you’re trying to make here?”

He points again. More insistently.

I move past him and sit in the metal folding chair, brushing off my thighs. Isn’t there something about not showing fear to bad men? I feel like Mom told me that once upon a time… a lesson in walking through the trailer park where we lived, when I had to do it alone at night.

A whispered, Don’t show fear, honey. A kiss on the top of my head when I made it back, trembling, after someone spooked me bad enough to sprint home.

This is just like that.

My phone digs into my abdomen, but I ignore it. When my fingers shake, I squeeze my thighs.

Neither of them move.

I raise my eyebrows at them, like, Now what?

My phone is on silent, even the vibration turned off. I don’t know if texting L. was the right idea. Maybe I should’ve called my dad? Or the freaking police?

Snitch.

The word rings in my ears.

The guy in charge presses a button on his phone. “You have what we want.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” I lift my chin. “My grandma’s lasagna recipe, perhaps?”

They exchange a glance, although how they can interpret a nonverbal look with masks on is anyone’s guess.

He types something, and it plays a second later. “You’re close to the FSU goalie. We want to know what you know.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Liar.”

“What, do you think I sleep with him and then flip through his playbook in the middle of the night? Why the fuck would I do that after everything that happened?”

Silence.

I glare at the one speaking. “You want me to give up secrets about FSU?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s too fucking bad, because I don’t have any.”

A low buzz punctuates my words. Not my phone—the driver’s?

“She’s not scared enough.” The driver tips his head to the other guy. His phone is still going off in his hand, but he swipes and it falls silent.