Page 85 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

sydney

My alarm goes off bright and early Sunday.

I smack at it, cursing the light behind my closed blinds. It takes me a second to pull back into reality. I stayed up late last night, curled in bed with my eye on the window that opens onto the fire escape. With the blinds… open.

Because that must be how Penn got in to return my backpack, right?

But he didn’t come, and I eventually fell asleep.

My back cracks when I stretch, and there’s a new ache in my muscles.

The figure skating, obviously. My arm is sore, too, but that’s probably from the birth control shot. I shuffle out of bed and straight to the bathroom. But on the toilet, I pause.

There’s a thick white substance on my panties.

I wipe, collecting more from between my legs. It’s not normal by any means. I don’t like to actively think about it, but ovulation discharge is a thing… except not that much. Not for me anyway. My brows furrowed, I brush it off. Bodies change, right?

I shed my clothes to shower. There’s a game this afternoon, which I may as well go to. I seem to be in good standing with the hockey team.

I eventually took a break from skating yesterday to sit with my dad and sip hot chocolate. We didn’t talk about anything super important, but it was really nice. Some hints of the old him came out. The gruffness in his voice when he mentions things that matter to him. The way he sees a lot. Not just in me, but everything around him.

The intercom buzzer goes off when I’m nearly dressed. I finish hopping into my jeans and head for the door.

“Who is it?” I ask.

I hit the button to hear them.

“Your favorite hockey player,” comes the reply.

Well, that solves nothing. So I unlock the door for him and wait.

It’s Carter. He looks around the apartment and frowns.

Then does a double take.

I belatedly realize my neck is bare, and I haven’t had a chance to explain… I raise my hand, but he beats me to it and bats it away.

“What’s this?”

“Um…” I swallow. “Just a little misunderstanding.”

His scowl deepens. “Do I need to beat the shit out of Ruiz? Someone else?”

I shrug lightly and step out of his reach. “I’m pretty sure Ruiz did the beating. It’s fine. Why are you here?”

He glowers at me. “Really?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that you should lock your windows,” he says. “Anyone could break in and hurt you, Sydney.”

I stare at him, but this change of subject makes no sense. If anything, I thought I’d be getting a lecture about carrying pepper spray or something.

“What do you know?”

He shakes his head, but he goes straight for my bedroom and flips the two locks on the windows with the fire escape. Again.

“Carter.”