Page 78 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

She throws her arms around my neck and smothers my face in kisses.

“We saw your game,” she says, touching the bruise on my cheek. “Do you have to fight?”

I extract myself. “It’s part of the sport.”

She sighs. “You getting hurt hurts me, Ollie.”

“I know, Mama.” I kiss the top of her head. “I have to ask you something.”

“So this isn’t a visit just to see us?” Her eyes always have a twinkle in them. Some all-knowing, amused sparkling.

I used to think that was normal. That most women—especially mothers—were always happy. Not only that, but joyful. But I think it’s just her. She sees the positive in absolutely everything.

“That bracelet I gave you for your birthday…”

She grins and pushes up the sleeve of her sweater. “I wear it every day.”

I knew it would be exactly as Sydney described, but… “Can I see the engraving on the underside?”

She unclasps it and passes it to me.

In faint cursive, worn away by time, is the quote: It’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.

I don’t know if I wanted it to be something completely different or not, but my gut twists. I hand it back to her and kiss her cheek.

“Everything all right?” she asks, a line forming between her brows.

I nod and head to the table to greet my father. We’ll sit and talk, and my abuela will tell me all the ways Sydney isn’t right to join the family. Maybe it was stupid bringing her to Ruiz Rage, but she had a look in her eye. I get that look, too, when I’m so mad I can barely breathe.

I’m lucky, though. I have hockey. The sport is brutal even without the fighting.

Voicing any of that will get me nowhere. So I lie.

“Everything is perfect.”

twenty-three

sydney

The last time I went skating was with my father.

Seems fitting that the first time I go skating since then would be with him, too. I’m not sure what spurs it, but he called me early on a Saturday and asked if I was free. I looked down at myself, my sports bra damp with sweat and the little hairs on my neck stuck to my skin.

The run was invigorating, but something is off with me.

I didn’t care about the pain. And it probably doesn’t have anything to do with the bruises that showed up on my throat, wrapping all the way around my neck like a collar.

It certainly doesn’t have to do with the nightmares or emptiness that has bloomed in the wake of zero emotional support.

L. never texted me, Oliver seemed to pull a disappearing act this week. Penn skipped all three of our classes. And Carter… out of sight, out of mind? I don’t know if Penn scared him off or what. But I haven’t talked to him.

My phone and bag were both waiting for me on my bed when I got home from my adventure with Oliver. There was a bottle of cold water and ibuprofen on my nightstand, which was considerate of him. At least I know Penn can break into my apartment like he threatened.

Dylan’s first volleyball game is in two weeks. She made sure to let us know that Brandon, Maddy, and I are all expected to be there under penalty of death. But that just translates to longer, harder practices.

Maddy’s presentation is coming up.

Brandon has been working more.