7. Sydney
seven
sydney
“No.” I plant my hands on my hips. “Absolutely not.”
Dad frowns. “It could go a long way. I consulted a public relations team?—”
“For what?”
“For you .” He sighs and pats the cushion beside me. “Sit. Please?”
I slink closer and drop onto the couch beside him. When he called and asked if he could swing by, I was tempted to lie and say I was out. At the library or wherever. But something about this weekend was already feeling lonely, so I let him up.
And now he’s trying to get me to go out.
He holds out the black FSU Hockey sweatshirt. Their logo, the crossed hockey sticks with the snake intertwined, is front and center.
“Come to the game,” he reiterates. “You’ll sit with Perri and your two friends?—”
“You know I’ve only made two friends?”
His smile drops off. “I’m friends with some of the professors, particularly your Calculus professor, Amy. She’s had Dylan in her class before, said she mostly keeps a small circle of friends and doesn’t tend to be influenced by rumors or gossip. Which is exactly what you need.”
“Right…”
“You can travel with me.” He smiles, then grabs my phone from the coffee table and pushes it into my hands. “Text your friends and get ready. I’ll wait.”
He’s clearly not taking no for an answer.
I sigh, reaching for the sweatshirt and phone. I close myself in my bedroom and shut my eyes, counting to ten.
Maybe a ride with Dad to the stadium might provide some much-needed time to interrogate him. I mean, get to know him better. Or at least find out more about my mother, see if he has any information that could point me toward her…
I change, pull my long dark hair up into a high ponytail and slick on some makeup. At the last second, I snag a black headband that’ll keep my hair warm, pulling out the few strands of long, outgrown curtain bangs. I don’t even think I can classify them as bangs at this point.
The ride to the stadium, however, isn’t what I expect.
Because he heads away from the arena, instead coasting to a stop in front of a tiny single-family home. It’s white, but all the windows are dark.
A second later, the freaking goalie comes out the door on the attached garage. He tosses his hockey bag into the bed of the truck. He stops short when he sees me already in the front seat, changes directions, and climbs in the back. Right behind me.
“Have you met Penn Walker?”
I crane around and eye him. He, like my father, is wearing a suit. His is light gray with matching slacks. White shirt. Royal-purple tie. His hair is combed back, out of his face, and he offers me an award-winning smile.
“Sydney, I presume? You didn’t say your daughter was coming along, Coach.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Because I don’t run everything by you, Penn.”
The boy at my back grins wider.
I sit forward again, gripping the seat belt across my torso. “Any more surprises?”
“Just Ruiz,” Penn answers.
I stare at my father. There are a hundred things I want to blurt out, but I can’t seem to make my voice work. The words get trapped in my throat.
Sure enough, we stop at a very fucking familiar house, and Oliver Ruiz strolls out. He motions to my dad, who parks and hops out without a backward glance.
“Hey, Syd,” Penn says, his lips nearly on my ear. Again . “Did you know Ollie already has an NHL contract? That’s why he lives in this nice-as-shit house. He doesn’t host parties here or anything.”
“Oh, yeah?” I can’t turn and face him. He’s too close. All I can do is stare straight ahead while Dad and Oliver do God-knows-what.
“Do you know anything about hockey?” Penn asks.
“Not as much as you,” I reply.
He huffs. “You’re not very fun.”
“I’m a boring person.”
“Hmm… maybe. Are you hoping if you’re boring enough, people will stop thinking you’re a snitch? I don’t think it works like that.”
“I don’t really care what you think,” I whisper.
The doors on the driver’s side open, Dad hoisting himself back in and Oliver first tossing his hockey bag into the back, then seeming to float into the backseat. The truck felt like overkill when I first saw it, but now… well, if he’s carting around hockey boys and all their gear, it makes more sense.
“Anyone else?” I question.
Dad chuckles. “Nope.”
No one speaks on the way to the arena. I fidget, picking at my nails, until we park. Instead of climbing out, Dad cranes around to face his players.
“Go ahead inside,” he tells them.
They abide by his orders without question, and we watch them cross the lot and disappear through a set of double doors.
“Are your friends coming?” he asks me.
I check my phone. Dylan has volleyball practice, and Brandon is working. In short: no .
And Lettie hasn’t reached out either. She never returned my phone call.
“Okay. Come on.” He leads me inside, through the same doors Oliver and Penn entered, and I recognize enough to know we’re under the main part of the arena. This is where the players go, staff, everyone else. The hall splits, curving to the right and left.
“Stairs to get up to the seating are on the left,” he says. “But come with me this way.”
I follow him. I’m not really sure why, because he seems to think this problem has an easy solution. When we get to the locker room, I balk.
“They’re probably naked,” I hiss.
He chuckles. “Hang tight out here.”
He goes in. A minute later, he opens it back up and waves me through.
This is dumb. The last place I want to be is in the locker room of a team that all hates my guts, and yet…
“Attention,” Oliver yells as soon as he sees us.
The room goes quiet. It’s a large, open space with cubbies around the outer wall. They’re labeled with engraved black plaques, the guys’ first initials and last names. Most are shirtless or in various states of dress.
“This is our only scrimmage before our season starts,” Dad says when all eyes are on him. “There’s a good turn out of students, but I will tell you right now: brush off how last season ended.”
Grumbles.
“I understand being mad, but holding grudges will not be tolerated. And that includes against my daughter.”
Twenty pairs of eyes swing in my direction.
I think I’d rather die. What the hell is my father thinking?
Putting me on display and saying, BE NICE TO HER! to a bunch of guys is absolutely not going to work. I have no doubt these guys respect their coach, but me? And what goes on behind his back? It’s a little laughable.
I cross my arms across my chest and shift my weight, but I say nothing. Their expressions might be mild, but it’s just a show. I remind myself of that when one stands and heads toward me. He towers over me, but he sticks out his hand into the air between us.
“No hard feelings,” he says.
Dad smiles.
I shake his hand, and he squeezes hard enough to grind my bones together. I clench my jaw and refuse to show the pain, although his wicked, secret smile is enough to tell me he knows the power of his grip strength.
“Thank you,” Dad says to the player. He checks his watch and claps. “Okay, finish getting ready, we’ve got warm-ups in fifteen. Let’s put on a good show for FSU, yeah?”
He leads me out to a chorus of cheers and whoops. We go back down the hall the way we came, then past the exit and to the staircase he mentioned go up to the seats. From his pocket, he produces a paper ticket. “Here. Perri will take you home after, okay?”
“Thanks,” I tell him.
But really… I might mean the opposite. Depending on how this goes.
The Vipers are playing a team from the next state over. They’re in the same conference, which means they’ll be facing off quite a bit this season. It’s not a real game, in that the season hasn’t started. But they take it seriously enough.
It also means tonight will set the tone for their next game.
Perri finds me and drops into the seat beside me. We’re toward the back of the section, luckily. I’m not checking over my shoulder as much as I would be if most of the crowd was behind me.
It’s kind of weird to be in this arena and not be at an SJU game. The crowd—mostly students—around us are decked out in purple. When the FSU Vipers skate out onto the ice, they’re wearing all-purple sweaters with white stripes and lettering.
The snake logo is in black and white.
My gaze flicks from Penn Walker, one of the two goalies, to Oliver Ruiz. He skates like he was born on blades, and I add that to my mental list of things that irritate me about him. Also: the way he stares, the way he scowls, the way his lips form a perfect pout?—
“You okay?”
Yikes.
“Just thinking,” I say to Perri. “Do you like hockey?”
She wrinkles her nose. She’s always properly made up, and today is no exception. Her dark hair is in a perfect bun at the base of her neck, her makeup subtle and yet seems to accent and highlight all of her good features. Not that she has any bad features.
“I come to support the boys,” she allows. “But the violence turns my stomach.”
I smile. “The fights are the best part.”
“Interesting.”
I spend the rest of the first period hoping and wishing for a fight. Mainly because hockey can be a little boring if it’s a low-scoring game, or if they spend more time passing than shooting. And I can’t think of a single FSU player who doesn’t deserve to have their face pummeled in.
The cage helmets make things a bit more difficult, although they usually come flying off soon after the guys engage. There’s no good reason to break your knuckles trying to hit through the cage.
The horn blows, and I let out a loud sigh. The score is 0-0.
“I’m going to see your father,” Perri says. “Want to join me?”
“Nah, I’ll just hang here.”
Although that doesn’t feel safe either. As soon as she’s gone, I get up and speed to the women’s restroom. I wait in line, grateful to be sandwiched by the opposing team’s fans. I tap my foot as the line moves, until I’m up next. As soon as a stall is free, I lock myself in.
I sit on the toilet and check my phone, hunting for a text from the person I’ve been having random conversations with. I don’t trust them, not entirely, but their conversation makes me feel… better.
Still, I find myself picturing a million different faces on the other side of the text thread. Boy, girl, young, old. It could be someone at SJU or FSU, or a complete stranger with a bucket of empathy.
The not knowing is going to kill me, although I’ve been trying to stay patient. People have a way of revealing themselves…
The restroom eventually goes quiet. It’s my sign, maybe, that the game is about to start again. I finish my business and tuck my phone in my pocket, flipping the lock on the door.
Leaning against one of the far sinks is the girl from my writing class.
The one who called me a slut… Andi, I think?
Miranda Summers, another girl from the writing class, stands in the doorway with her arms crossed. Of the two, she looks decidedly uncomfortable.
“Is this an ambush?” I ask.
Andi smiles.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” I say under my breath.