Page 7 of All Your Pucking Secrets

“The backup plan is to shower her with meaningful gifts.” We used to be incredible together, so surely, with a few well-placed gifts designed to remind her of that time, I can soften her toward me.

Ryan snorts. “They’d better be some gifts.”

“They will be.” I’ve already got the first one on order and it should arrive here soon. Regardless of whether gifts become necessary, she deserves them.

The waiter appears with my coffee and slides it across the bar. I cup my hands around it and inhale the rich scent, then blow across the surface.

“So…you never told me what you actually did to Echo,” Ryan says, bracing himself as though I might attack. “I know you broke her heart—that was easy to work out—but there must be more to it than that. She was a mess when she first moved here.”

I keep silent. If Echo has chosen not to tell Ryan what happened, then I’m certainly not going to.

“It’s not my business to share,” I say.

He arches an eyebrow. “It kind of is.”

“Then let’s just say that I don’t feel like sharing.”

“Fair enough.”

Despite his obvious dissatisfaction with this answer, I sense his respect for me grow.

“But let’s just get one thing clear,” he adds, holding my gaze: “No matter how rich and powerful you are, no matter how big your muscles are, or the fact you could probably kick my ass, if you hurt Echo again, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

I nod, my respect for him also jumping up a notch. Not that it was low to begin with. And as for me kicking his ass… He could probably hold his own, but he’s a baseball player and I’m a hockey player, so yeah, it’s safe to say I’ve got a few pounds on him and more experience with my fists.

“If I hurt Echo again, you won’t have to make me regret it,” I tell him, meaning every word. “Because I’ll self-destruct. I can’t exist in a world where I cause her more pain. I refuse to.”

3

THE PAST

TYLER

My arms burn as I finish another set of bicep curls and drop the weights onto the bench, the crooning voice of Dan from Imagine Dragons blasting through the speakers. As I grab my bottle and gulp water, something crashes elsewhere in the house. I flinch.

Then, ignoring the crash and hoping like hell that nothing bad is happening, I check the whiteboard leaning against the back wall. I have another set to do and then I’m onto tricep dips.

I wrap my hands around the barbells and lift them into position, grimacing when the rough metal rubs against the calluses on my palms. I inhale slowly, relishing the tang of sweat that’s always present during a good workout, and begin pumping iron again.

The door beside the whiteboard bursts open and Dad strides through, his phone clasped in his hand. Without a word, he switches off the Bluetooth speaker and brandishes the phone at me.

“What’s this?” he demands.

I peer at the phone screen, confused to see my biology teacher’s email address at the top.

“An email,” I mutter because I’ve learned that failing to answer my father never leads to anything good.

“I can see that,” he snaps, and jabs his finger at the text below. “How the hell did you fail a major assignment?”

My heart sinks. I should have known someone would tell Dad about the ‘F.’

“I don’t know.” I look down at my feet. The truth is, I’m just not great at science, and I’m not interested enough to put in the effort it would take to do well.

“You can’t afford to fail.” He pockets the phone and steps toward me menacingly. “If you’re going to go to Princeton, you need top grades. Being a great hockey player won’t be enough.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from telling him I don’t want to go to Princeton. Any decent hockey college would do.

It won’t matter what I have to say. He’s been claiming I’ll play hockey for Princeton every year since I started high school, and he’ll be humiliated if I let him down.

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