Page 92 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
There’s a bloody handprint over my breast.
I scowl, but I can’t even stay mad.
I can think of two guys who might be pissed the next time they see me…
“How is this so easy?” I ask him.
He flicks my gold necklace. The gift from Penn.
“Nothing about this is easy. Doesn’t mean I’m going to give up on it, though.” He lifts his chin. “Game time. No doubt you’ll be missed if you’re not there for the puck drop.”
My chest tightens.
But he’s right. I just hate that I’m being pulled in two different directions.
twenty-seven
sydney
We lose.
The FSU fans file out of the arena with a weird energy. Some are dejected, but others seem restless.
Home game loss.
Fight night.
The game started at three, but it’s nearly eight o’clock by the time we get back to Brandon’s car. I take the front seat this time, flipping the music to a pop channel that’s all static while we’re underground. My ass has been burning through the whole game, the cuts refusing to be quiet. Reminding me of Carter, even as I watched Penn and Oliver.
“So… anyone want a taste of more violence?” I glance first at Brandon, then Dylan and Maddy in the back.
Brandon shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”
“Is this a tonight thing? Because I have an early morning run scheduled with some of my teammates,” Dylan says.
My lips flatten. I have no idea how long these fights would go.
“I’m in,” Maddy says. “If you’re good with just us going.”
I smile at her.
“Bran, can you drop us off at my car, please?” she asks.
“You got it.”
Ten minutes later, Maddy and I are on our way to the warehouse. I’m not entirely thrilled about going back to the place I was almost-raped and nearly asphyxiated. But with Maddy at my side, and the guys probably going, it should be fine.
Right?
Right.
One notable thing about the game—Bear didn’t play. He wasn’t even on the bench. His absence wasn’t commented on by anyone who would know, so I brushed it off. Maybe he’s sick. Or Oliver told him to miss the next game.
Either way, I didn’t have to look at him across the arena. For that, I’m grateful.
We’re not the only car on our way from Framingham. We follow a small line of cars that bump along the gravel, pothole-ridden road and park behind the warehouse. We climb out, and I shake out my hair and pull it up. It’s getting a little out of hand with how long it is, but I’d rather have this than short hair.
Penn