Page 209 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

penn

She’s never going to forgive me.

I’ve kept this secret for far too long. In a way, it felt like a different life. She pulled me out of my head, out of everything, and made me be present with her. Through the phone. Through her candidness. As L., I had conversations with her that I don’t think would’ve happened as Penn.

As me.

That hurts. It’s been hurting for a while, a lingering bruise that I keep pressing on when I get bored or tired or comfortable. The ache, after some time, became soothing.

But the act of touching it, irritating it, over and over again? It meant it couldn’t heal. It meant there was no way I could confess to her. Even when I spoke to her on the phone as L., my heart hammered. I spoke low, but I kept waiting for her to call me out.

For her to recognize me.

And in her room—the same thing. I pushed her against the desk and I fucked her, and I kept waiting for that moment of realization. The part where she was supposed to say, “Oh, I recognize this dick. Penn, you jokester!”

Probably would’ve worked better if she saw my dick instead of just felt it. The tattoo—a fucking spiral that I got drunk one night my freshman year, some stupid hazing shit on the hockey team—would be a dead giveaway.

Instead…

I took it too far.

I take everything too far.

As soon as I realized there was a way out of my small, nobody-leaves hometown, I leaned into it. Hockey was my escape. It had been an emotional escape for years prior, sure. But a physical escape? I went from practicing with the team to extra hours on the ice, a private goalie coach… anything and everything.

It’s not like I thought I would get into the NHL. Goalies have a harder time than anyone, because teams only need two of them compared to the eighteen players across the other positions.

Competitive.

I am competitive. It’s how I got into Framingham State U and became a Viper. I worked my ass off until recruits noticed me.

So it may or may not be a reasonable leap to want Sydney to notice me. Both as L. and Penn. Or any way possible.

It’s just so stupid, it’s not even fucking funny. And now she’s hurting because it feels like a betrayal or some cruel joke. That’s how she thought of it in the beginning.

Me, too.

It was just supposed to be… a game. A game where only one of us got exploited.

“Focus,” Carter snaps at me.

I cringe. “I’m in it.”

Oliver groans through his teeth. “Yeah, fucking right. Vete a la chingada.”

Oh, I know that one. Fuck yourself. Figures.

We’re bouncing our way down a forgotten back road toward the mechanic’s warehouse where we fight. Because that’s where Bear and Oliver took Sydney the first time, and Carter says it would be stupid for him to take her anywhere else.

The police still have the apartment under surveillance—her dad mentioned that at practice the other day, offhandedly. Like we wouldn’t be upset by it, or shocked…

I don’t know, maybe he meant it to just be a conversation piece. Or reassuring. “Don’t worry, the police are still keeping an eye on her apartment.” Not, “By the way, the police are watching her apartment, so don’t do anything fucking dumb.”

Whatever.

I cross my arms. My stomach is in knots over what we’re going to find at the warehouse.

Bear seems to have gone into full psycho mode—judging by the unhinged mask with a note anyway. I’ve got nothing to base that assumption on besides that. But isn’t that enough? If he took her…

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