Page 8 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I find Lettie and the girls. But by the time I glance back over my shoulder for Ruiz, scanning the crowd for him, he’s gone.

He called me a slut, and he thinks I nicked nothing from his house.

Above all, he underestimated me.

I reach down into my left boot, where I stashed my phone. I scroll through the photos, zooming in on the plays. The little handwritten notes scrawled along the margins. Formations, patterns, lineups that have been tweaked for the playoffs. There’s a handwritten date in the top corner of one of the pages from only a week ago.

“Syd?” Lettie’s eyelids are drooped, her smile drunk.

My gaze moves up and over her shoulder to Carter. He’s drinking and laughing with his teammates, gathered around the fucking keg while one of them goes heels over head above it.

Without thinking, I slip past her and slam to a halt in front of him. “When are you playing them?”

He slow-blinks at me.

My father is a college hockey coach.

And, like St. James University, his team is going to the playoffs.

“Who?”

“The Vipers,” I spit. Framingham State University. “Obviously.”

His gaze softens. “Is this about your dad? I’m sorry for poking a sore spot, Syd— What are you doing?”

I shake my head slightly, selecting the images and adding it to the message.

They’ll never know it was me. It isn’t about my father, not really. I wasn’t going to send the playbook to anyone. But Oliver Ruiz pushed the right buttons. He called me a slut, and for what? Because he thinks I’m Carter’s puppet? That I was sent, the whole thing was orchestrated?—

I hit send.

I’d rather St. James win than Ruiz get one chance at scoring on the ice.

Carter pulls out his phone and scans the text. It takes him a minute to register what he’s looking at, but once he does, his eyes grow big. He scrolls through the photos, zooming in and covering his mouth to hide his laugh.

Finally, he lowers his phone and stares at me. Hard.

But he doesn’t ask how I got the photos.

Just like I figured.

“Keep my name out of this,” I warn him.

He extends his hand.

I’m fuming, shaking with adrenaline, but sliding my hand into his is easy. His fingers wrap around mine, and he squeezes, then drags me closer.

His lips touch mine, sealing our dirty deal with a kiss.

three

sydney

Game time.

I am buzzing with nerves and anticipation, mainly because I have no idea what’s going to happen. That’s why I’m not really a sports person—there’s so much fucking uncertainty. We could be the best team in the league and still lose in a shootout.

Or a tie, which seems even worse.