Page 96 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Frank Windsor has been in our lives for years. Since Ollie was first learning how to skate, anyway, and then when I came along a few years later.

Even thinking back, though, I couldn’t remember him having a daughter. I have vague memories of a young girl on the ice with us, but she always did her own thing. And at that age, ten or eleven, girls were gross.

Hockey was cool.

Her father is who put me in the crease for the very first time. Goaltending isn’t for the faint-hearted, and my father did everything he could to discourage my interest in the position. I still remember how he planted me in the net and sent the puck at me as hard as he could.

It didn’t dissuade me. In fact, I stopped more than half of his shots.

And when I got to practice the next day, I was fired up and Coach was ready to direct my energy.

Moral of the story: I owe him. It’s why I chose FSU, why I worked my ass off in high school to excel and get a scholarship. I don’t really care about professional hockey, but I do want to find kids like me and help them excel.

All that to say, Sydney Windsor should’ve been off-limits. And in a way, she definitely is. If Coach were to find out the extent of my interest in her…

And Oliver’s, I allow. The asshole doesn’t want to admit it, but he finds her every bit as fascinating as I do.

But most recent nights, when I slip into her apartment and find things rearranged, I’m concerned. I put things back the way they should be, closing her drawer and straightening things that just feel off. I don’t want her to worry.

I’ll handle worrying.

I climb the fire escape, and the feeling of being watched hits me. Ironic, since I like to be the watcher. I pause in the shadows and scan the road below me.

Empty.

After the fight, and our final show with Bear, she left with Maddy. She didn’t seem particularly intent on talking to either of us, and I can’t really say I blame her.

I didn’t want to see her either.

She smelled like sex. Her hair had been messed with. Her glorious, thick, dark hair. Even after sitting through a hockey game and traveling to the warehouse, the scent clung to her like perfume.

I have a suspect in mind.

The window slides open easily. I thought it might be locked, but there’s a little paper taped to the sill. It flutters as the breeze catches the edge of it, and I use my phone’s screen light to make out her loopy handwriting.

Does he visit?

I smirk at that, because I do visit.

I have been visiting.

My feet touch down on her carpet noiselessly, and I slowly lower the window behind me. It’s cold outside. The chill might wake her up, even if fucking her doesn’t.

She’s buried under blankets, her hair fanned out on her pillow. I toe off my shoes and cross the bedroom to her. It’s lit by the moon and a streetlight that shines in a warm yellow light, although the blinds on the window closest to the road are mostly shut.

My dick wakes up at the sight of her. I peel the blankets off her slowly, careful not to disturb her. She sleeps in panties and an oversized shirt most nights, and today is no different.

I’m obsessed with her.

I can’t get enough of her.

It almost doesn’t matter that Oliver saw her first.

I leave my jeans in a pile at the edge of the bed and climb over her. I want to touch her, so I fucking touch her. I push her shirt up to get a look at her full breasts. She’s got some curves—more than some, less than a lot—but I love the feel of her.

The bruising stands out in sharp relief, and it makes me sick all over again.

The extent of the trauma didn’t become clear until I arrived at the warehouse. They wanted to lock me out. Oliver came to confront me, to get me to leave.