Page 72 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“Okay, it’s the first time you’ve said it without looking like you’re chewing glass.”

He snickers, but it only lasts a few seconds. “Get on.”

I carefully swing my leg over. I don’t want to touch him. But he glances back and shakes his head. He grips my legs, fingers catching the backs of my knees, and drags me forward. I collide with his back, my helmet bouncing off his.

But he’s not done rearranging me. He points to where I should put my feet, then takes my wrists and wraps them around him.

Yeah, not exactly the best idea.

I clench my jaw.

His whole body moves when he kick-starts the bike, the engine roaring beneath us.

I admit; I momentarily forget who’s in front of me and squeeze him, alarm shooting up my spine. I feel more than hear his laugh, and everything in me tenses when we bolt forward.

The first five minutes are pure terror. My eyes are screwed shut, my fingers immediately go numb from the cold air whipping at us. He leans with each turn, forcing me to either lean with him or separate.

“Open your eyes,” he calls.

I do.

We’re heading for the bridge. It’s ahead of us, lit in warm lights. The dark water sparkles on either side of the road. His body radiates heat, which is directly at odds with the wind chill.

Fifteen minutes later, and a whole county over from Framingham, and Oliver turns down a quaint main street strip. The buildings that line it are close enough to touch. Cafés, clothing shops, a pet supply store. Three-quarters down, we slow to a coast and park in front of a blacked-out storefront.

The sign above it says: Ruiz Rage.

My brows furrow.

Oliver taps my thigh, and I climb off. My legs wobble, knees weak, and I stumble away from the evil bike—and the devil who rides it. I fumble with the clasp on the helmet. He undoes his and watches me for a moment. He seems to decide that a moment is all it’s worth, because he approaches and knocks away my hands.

He undoes the helmet’s buckle and lifts it off my head. I shake out my hair, finger-combing through the snarls.

Since Penn isn’t here, I pull it over my shoulder and braid it.

While Oliver just… stares.

“Maybe you should take a picture,” I say. “It’ll last longer.”

He smiles. “I have a picture.”

My expression drops.

“Let’s go.” He heads for the building.

We enter, a bell above the door announcing our entrance. We’re in a waiting room of sorts. It seems warm and cozy, the walls a rustic orange and covered in framed photos, the rug patterned in oranges, reds, and bright blues. There’s a counter straight ahead, and the door off to the left of it opens.

An older woman comes out.

“Gabriel!” she exclaims. “Hace tanto tiempo que no te veo, mi niño.”

When she cups his face, he bends for her to kiss both cheeks.

“Hi, Abuelita. This is my friend, Sydney.” He glances at me, and there’s a very clear warning there. “Sydney, this is my abuela, Juana Ruiz.”

Her black hair has streaks of gray in it, but her face is nearly wrinkle-free. Except when she smiles—she smiles with her whole face. Unfortunately, she doesn’t smile at me. Her gaze turns more to worry.

“You’re bringing a girl here, Gabriel? This isn’t date material.” Her Spanish accent is very thick, and she eyes me like I might attack her. But I don’t even know what we’re doing, so I keep my mouth shut.