Page 76 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
“You were an ass,” I say, louder. “That night on the beach? I don’t know why I took pictures of the playbook, but I did. I wasn’t going to share them, though, until you suggested Carter used me for them. ‘Sending sluts to distract us is a tired trick.’”
He turns back to the small pot on the stove, turning off the burner.
“You could’ve just left it alone,” I continue, “and those photos would’ve rotted on my phone.”
He sets the playbook aside and lifts the pot from the stove. “You can tell yourself that.”
“What?”
“You say that’s what you’re going to do. But what if something else happened? What if Masters sweet talked you, or kissed you, or you remembered that you have more loyalty?—”
“You took care of any loyalty issues,” I shoot back.
“Did I?”
He pours the hot chocolate into two mugs and stirs while I stand here like a fucking idiot. My face flames, and I can’t…
I don’t know what to say to that. Didn’t I just prove myself to him? In the face of torture or whatever they were threatening. Violence. Pain. I said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
He brings the mugs to the table and sits across from my chosen seat.
I slowly inch back into the kitchen and join him. I wrap my hands around the warm, dark-green mug. He does the same to his baby blue one.
“Why were you in my house, then?” He eyes me. “I caught you. There aren’t many excuses?—”
“It’s because you have a family heirloom of mine,” I blurt out. I press my lips together and turn away. I shouldn’t have fucking said that. I didn’t mean to say it. “Not that I expect you to do anything about it now, but I was searching for it that night.”
Admitting to him why I was here seems foolhardy. He can use this against me in any way he sees fit.
“Sydney, look at me.”
I cannot and will not subject myself to that.
He waits.
Finally, I glance his way.
“Explain.”
“No.”
His gaze hardens. “Then I’ll just have to assume it’s some elaborate lie.”
I plant my hands on the table, suddenly mad again. So much for being numb.
“Okay, fine,” I snap. “Cards on the table. If you use this against me, I will make sure you never play professional hockey.”
He inclines his chin.
“It’s a vintage gold bracelet inset with engravings and pearls. On the inside it has a quote.”
“And how did I end up with it?”
“My mother likes money more than family history.” That hurts to admit. “I got out of her where she sold it and went to the pawnshop. I pleaded with the owner until he gave me your name.”
“My name. She sold it here?”