Page 1 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

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.

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