Page 95 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“Eyes,” Oliver demands.

I shift my attention to his face.

“You walked away from him.”

Yes, I did.

“He’s not going to do the same.”

What?

He moves away from me, circling Bear and stopping next to the emcee. There’s no brief introduction, no cheering. No one seems to know what to do with this, because the huge hockey player—who towers over Oliver, for the record—seems to already be on the cusp of a knockout.

This is the sort of public humiliation I wouldn’t have dreamed up in my worst nightmares.

The emcee leaves.

Oliver attacks.

It’s a bloodbath that Bear can’t escape. He dodges, raises his arms, but no matter what he does, Oliver targets somewhere else. Compared to the giant, Oliver is quick. He uses bursts of speed to get out of range when Bear tries to strike back, then darts in and delivers two, three powerful blows.

I watch through my fingers. The marks around my throat seem to pulse with every hit delivered to Bear. Maddy’s arm is pressed tight to mine, and she seems to wince with every connection, too.

The last blow comes when Bear staggers toward him, yelling incoherent gibberish. A final hail Mary to end it, maybe.

Oliver steps aside and kicks out. His foot connects with the side of his knee, and there’s a sickening crack that goes straight through me.

Bear screams, falling and clutching at his leg. The sound just goes on and on and on, and no one fucking moves.

He doesn’t tap out.

Oliver leans over him, that analytical expression on his face belying nothing. His attention sweeps lower, to the knee that’s bent at an awkward angle. Bear holds it with both hands, quickly dissolving into a blubbering mess.

“Get up or tap out,” Oliver says.

I have no idea how Bear hears him, or even registers that he’s giving him an order. Maybe it’s just ingrained after a year and a half of playing hockey together. But he manages to get on his good knee and then hop up.

His injured leg holds none of his weight. He stares at Oliver, his lips still moving. The words have stopped, though. He could be praying.

The final hit comes fast, finally putting him out of his misery. A blow to the temple that he doesn’t even attempt to block.

When he falls, I feel nothing.

And I’m pretty sure it just confirms I’m more broken than I originally thought.

twenty-eight

penn

Someone follows Sydney.

Someone who breaks into her house the same way I do, who rifles through her belongings—particularly her underwear drawer. Someone who counted the cash she took from me but left it exactly where it was.

It’s easy to be obsessed with her.

Oliver told me about the break-in and the girl with the strange, silver eyes, and I couldn’t grasp how someone from SJU could be so bold and so fucking stupid. But then, later, he finds her at a party. He sees her full face. He learns her name.

Sydney, sure. But Windsor.