The Pucking Coach’s Daughter

1. Sydney

one

sydney

I’m not a stalker.

Yes, I’m outside of his house. And yes, I’m wearing all black, so close to the bushes of his across-the-street neighbor’s that I’m practically in them.

But that’s because of necessity, not obsession .

He has something of mine.

Okay… it’s not mine. It should be mine, which is why I’m outside his house. The fact that he lives in an actual house in a fine neighborhood and not some shitty apartment with three other guys is appalling and unfair, although I try not to dwell on that. The listing online shows a different name, which means he splurges on what is probably rent every single month to live alone.

We’re three blocks from campus. If I strain my listening, the distant music floats on the air from parties taking place closer to campus. The guy who lives in the house left—hopefully for those parties—an hour ago.

Now I’m just being paranoid.

But it’s now or never, and the longer I wait, the more chance I have of him coming back and discovering me. Worst-case scenario, he’s the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Best-case scenario, second to not getting caught at all, is that he doesn’t believe in violence.

Which… well, let’s just say that’s fucking doubtful.

I look around and step out of the bushes, pulling my black scarf up over my nose and mouth. I don’t run to the door, or around the side. I stroll up with my hands in my pockets like I belong there.

The fake rock with the spare key is easy enough to find, even in the dark. I saw him crouched in this spot just two nights ago, weaving a little in some drunken stupor, and hold up the key like it was cherished treasure.

I’ll tell you what’s cherished—the object I came to take back.

The rock houses a plain silver key, which I use to unlock the door. There are no alarms or security system, luckily. I close myself in and pause, standing in the front hallway.

Immediately in front of me are stairs leading to the second floor and a hallway that goes alongside it on its left. Another hallway to my right would take me into the living room, I’d guess. A large doorway on my right reveals a front sitting room.

The idea of a bachelor having a sitting room, hosting parties or whatever there, has me second-guessing my whole idea of this guy. For all intents and purposes, the house is neat . At least, from here. There’s no clutter, no coats or shoes kicked off right by the door like in my house.

Even the sitting room seems proper, with the brief glance around that I give it.

Shuddering at the monstrosity of money , I start upstairs.

There are just two bedrooms and a bathroom between them up there. One bedroom is on the smaller side, with a daybed covered in pillows, a desk facing the front window, and a closet closed up tight.

The other bedroom finally has a hint of being lived in. There’s a single pair of jeans crumpled on the floor beside the hamper, the closet doors are open, the bed is made but not well.

I hum and go to the dresser. There’s a box on top, like a men’s jewelry box sort of thing. I flip it open and click on my flashlight, examining the contents.

Cuff links, a necklace chain, another one with a pendant on it, a few bracelets—but not the one I need.

Great .

I close it and take stock of the room, making a beeline for the nightstands. The first one reveals packets of condoms, lube, freaking lotion. I gag and push past it, but besides a crinkled magazine, that’s it. On the other side of the bed, I have worse luck.

It’s empty.

Sighing, I go back to the desk in the other bedroom. I rifle through the drawers, open the guy’s laptop—it’s password protected, of course, but his name is right above the blinking cursor. Confirming that I am in the right house, at the very least.

Voices outside catch my attention. I rush to the window, turning off my flashlight, and watch as the guy comes up the sidewalk with another guy and two girls.

Fuck me.

At the last second, my gaze lands on the binder on the edge of the desk.

It’s familiar. Not like, that exact one is familiar. But the binder style?—

Whatever. I grab it and flip it open, and my breathing stops. Without thinking, I take pictures of every fucking page.

And then my time runs out because the front door opens.

I close the binder and place it exactly where I found it, backing away from the desk. It was the only thing I truly messed with, but hopefully no one will notice.

They turn on lights as they go, heading thankfully toward the back of the house. I wait a moment, their laughter drifting toward me in waves and ebbs. They don’t sound particularly drunk, but I can’t risk them taking their gathering to the bedrooms.

I creep down the stairs, peering over the banister. My scarf is in place, as is my black cap. My hair is tucked up into it. I don’t see them from where I stand, and after waiting another long moment, I make a run for it.

A quiet run, but it doesn’t really work. The floorboards creak; my breathing sounds loud in my ears.

“Hey!” a voice shouts.

I glance over my shoulder, meeting the gaze of the owner of the house.

His hazel eyes burn into me, somewhere between confused and pissed . He fills the hallway, my adrenaline and fear making him seem bigger than life.

He’s just a guy. A regular douchebag.

When he steps toward me, I burst into motion again. I sprint out and away from that fucking house, although I will most likely return when he’s not expecting it.

He has it, I just need to find it.

I look back more than once, but the street stays empty. The asshole decided I wasn’t worth the time. Or he saw that I wasn’t carrying anything…

My car is parked three blocks away. I jump in it like I’m still being chased—like I was being chased at all—and make a quick U-turn. I speed away, laughing at myself. At my stupidity.

What the fuck was that?

Why did he come back so early?

Ten minutes later, I’m back in the safety of my own town. I peel off the scarf and cap, tossing them both in my backseat, and head straight to my apartment one block up from my school’s campus.

Except when I get there, my best friend and roommate is standing in the doorway waiting for me. Her hand is behind her, and she’s wearing a tight, short dress. She eyes me up and down and reveals what she’s holding: a matching dress.

“We’re not going out,” I groan.

“We are,” Lettie argues. “We’re going to the biggest bash of the year.”

Biggest might be an exaggeration. The biggest is usually at the beginning of the year to kick off hockey season. This one is to celebrate the start of our hockey team’s playoff run. Because here, hockey is absolutely everything.

If it doesn’t have to do with hockey, it doesn’t exist.

I sigh and hold out my hand for the glittery blue dress. She squeals in reply and kisses my cheek, ushering me to get ready faster. I forget about my unsuccessful break-in and do my makeup and hair, and within the hour we’re arm in arm, strolling up to the huge house party.

Lettie, aka Scarlett Blake, comes from old money. She and I were put together freshmen year. She wasn’t getting an apartment off campus immediately because she wanted to, in her words, slum it like a real college freshman . Like me.

I was so poor, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. I lived off of the meal plan, used the class textbooks the library had, did all my online work in the computer room, and went out if there was free liquor.

It was a miracle I had made it to college at all, but I digress.

Lettie and I got along okay at first, better once she understood I wasn’t being purposefully cheap.

Now we’re sophomores, about to be juniors, and that so-called slumming it phase is officially over. Lettie didn’t give me a choice in the matter. I think she secretly covers more of the rent than I do, simply because she wanted something out of my budget.

And it’s still tight.

But that’s fine. I’d rather live with Lettie and scrape together rent each month than have to figure out how to navigate living with someone else.

Even if she drags me out to parties when I just want to crawl into bed and cry. It’s my way of paying her back, in a way.

She takes the lead inside the house. It’s packed, the music so loud I’m not sure how anyone can hear each other.

People love her, and by extension, me. It seems like we can’t go more than a few steps before someone else is rushing toward us, throwing their arms first around her, then me. Their chatter is too animated, the music overwhelming.

My gaze drifts around the room. In the corner of the living room, the dance girls. They’re the popular ones, like high school cheerleaders on steroids. They hold court over there. Lettie would fit in with them, and I’m not really sure why she hasn’t joined them.

She dances. She showed me videos of her dance competitions, and they blew whatever these girls do out of the water.

Then there’s the dance floor. It’s just a space in the living room that’s been shoved clear of furniture, filled with gyrating couples. I don’t like looking at that kind of thing. It seems too sexual, all for the sake of an audience. I prefer to keep my affection not on public display.

Finally, I spot the jocks.

Hockey players rule this whole freaking county, with football coming in close second. But football season is over, our soccer team sucks, and the hockey team is going to the playoffs. It’s not really surprising to see some of the team surrounded by girls.

I squeeze Lettie’s arm and mumble an excuse, although I know she can’t hear me until I shout in her ear. She lets me slip away.

My first stop is the kitchen, where the bar is set up. There’s a freshman football player behind a folding table, an array of booze at his back. He perks up when I enter and motions behind him.

“Um…” I shrug. “Vodka. Orange juice.”

“Coming right up,” he replies with a shout.

He fills a cup with ice and then a heavy pour of alcohol. I wince when he tops it off with barely a splash of juice.

“Here—”

A hand intercepts the red cup.

I meet the gaze of Carter Masters and immediately scowl.

We dated for a few seconds last year, and it ended poorly. He’s unfortunately attractive, with chocolate-brown hair cut short, blue eyes, a sharp jaw, and lips that… well, I don’t really need to imagine how they feel.

“Try the opposite ratio,” he tells the amateur bartender. “Syd doesn’t like to get wasted on her first drink.”

I snort.

He takes a sip, his gaze locked on my face. I studiously ignore it— him —and watch the new drink be made. A shot’s worth of vodka, more OJ.

“Thanks,” I tell the guy.

Carter hands him a twenty.

I frown.

“What? They’re not free. We’re raising money for the playoffs.”

“Uh-huh.” I narrow my eyes.

He shrugs. “Okay, maybe it’s going to the guys’ drinking fund when this whole thing is over.”

“That’s more believable.” I shift and sip my drink. It’s a lot better than the monstrosity Carter’s drinking.

“You look good.” His gaze rakes down my body and back up, ending at my face. “More than good.”

Not for the first time, I allow myself to swallow the dose of regret at ending things between us. It wasn’t bad—kind of the opposite, actually. Which is why we both decided to stop.

Hard and fast as freshmen in college? No way . Not with the knowledge that my mother barely finished college, nine months pregnant and waddling across the stage with a hand on her rounded belly. It’s a miracle she graduated at all.

I’m not going to be her. Two more years, and I’ll walk away from here with my bachelor’s degree. So many more doors will be open for me because of it. A piece of paper that defines my worth. I won’t be pregnant. I won’t be caught in the web of a guy who is in constant danger of losing his teeth.

Hockey players are not for me.

“Thanks.” I roll my eyes at his antics. Always flirting. Always staring too long at me.

Always watching.

I start to push past him, but he catches my wrist.

“Seriously,” he says.

Carter Masters is hot enough—and unfortunately, skilled enough at hockey—that literally every girl has a crush on him. They can’t help it. He’s an asshole on the ice and charming off of it. The perfect combination.

“How have you been?” He tips his head in a motion toward the door.

Against my better judgment, I follow him outside. We lean against the porch railing facing each other.

I shrug. “I’m fine. Surviving.”

He nods slowly. “And your mom?”

My stomach twists. “She’s just being her normal self.”

She’s destroying both of us from afar, running through the money I saved up working through high school like there’s an infinite amount. She struggles to hold a job at the best of times. But…

“I think she has a boyfriend,” I tell him. The words just slip out. “She’s been flakier lately, so, I guess that’s not a bad thing.”

It is, though.

She never brought guys home. But she left me alone plenty growing up to spend nights or weekends with her latest infatuation.

“And your dad?”

I narrow my eyes. “What about him?”

He’s off-limits.

Carter lifts one shoulder. “He lives here, doesn’t he? Does he know you’re attending St. James?”

“Probably.” I kick at the floor. One thing I didn’t budge on was wearing my black ankle boots. There’s no way Lettie was getting me in heels. “I mean, how could he not? He had to fill out that scholarship form.”

Because he’s the only parent with a full-time job. Because, even though I was on the cusp of eighteen, it didn’t mean shit to the financial aid office.

But knowing that he’s only a ten-minute drive away, if that , and he hasn’t reached out… it sets my teeth on edge. He must have my phone number.

Would it really be so hard to have a relationship with me?

“Hey!” someone yells. “Cops are coming! Meet us at the beach!”

A chorus of half-cheers, half-screams travel through the house. There’s a mad rush of people, and, in the distance, a wail of sirens.

I take a sip of my drink and immediately shake my head. Carter watches me, frowning a little. I have the urge to get completely smashed, so I lift the cup out of his hand and gulp down half of it.

“Whoa.” He steals the cup back. “Come on, party girl. We’ve got to get out of here.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”

He nods along with my lie.

The sirens are getting louder, and more people are pouring out onto the back steps. In their arms are bottles of booze, cups.

“Let’s go, then.” Carter grabs my hand and drags me along with him, down the steps and out into the yard. Then farther, until we’re swallowed by the trees at the back of the property.