Page 59 of Puck Prince

A roar of laughter comes from his group of sycophant frat boys. I shake my head and ignore them. A baseball cap was not enough for the job. I should’ve worn a ski mask.

“Don’t look now, but people are already posting shit…” Kennedy mumbles. I grab her phone from her and scroll through. There’s everything from filtered pictures of me with hearts around my face to altered ones with angry eyes and horns on my head.

“What the hell is the matter with people?” I screech out.

Kennedy snatches her phone back. “I said don’t look. Listen, we are ignoring them from here on out and watching the game.”

I nod. It’s easier said than done, though. Even with the game remaining neck and neck, I can’t help but hear the conversations raging around me.

“You think there’s a reason he’s dating her? Maybe to get good with Coach?”

“I think she’s hiding something. Gold-digger, probably. PTs don’t make as much as they used to.”

“I bet they hooked up, like, one time, and she roped him into being with her.”

“Yeah, maybe she’s knocked up. Baby-trappin’.”

I have got to get out of here.

I bolt out of my seat, only drawing even more attention.

“Where are you going?” Kennedy asks.

“I need to use the restroom,” I lie, though I might actually be sick.

I glance at the ice just in time to see Owen’s attention on me. For one fleeting second, I think he might save me again. Then an opposing player slams into him while his guard is down. He shoves the guy aside and gets back into the game.

Looks like I’m on my own this time.

“I’ll come with you,” Kennedy offers.

“It’s fine.” I am growing increasingly sure I’m going to puke. Between the popcorn and the panic, everything in my stomach is threatening an emergency evacuation.

Kennedy is still shouting after me as I shove down the line of people. I finally make it to the aisle and am about to flee down the steps when a hand grabs me. “Hey, aren’t you that girl?”

It’s a guy with a bad attempt at a mullet wearing a jersey for the opposing team.

“I doubt it.” I try to pull away from him, but his grip tightens.

“Let go of me!”

Everyone around us stands, but it isn’t because Hillbilly McDouchFace here is pulling me towards him.

“Sharpe snags the puck and makes a run for it!” the announcer booms over the speakers. The crowd is losing their goddamn minds.

“No, you’re definitely her. You’re Sharpe’s girl.”

“And you’ve had too much to drink,” I inform him, making a second attempt to pull out of his grasp. I glance down the line for Kennedy, but she is caught up in the game. Everyone is.

“Maybe so,” he drawls, “but I could eat you up.”

“Listen…” I raise my voice, pressing my hand against his shoulder. He grabs my wrist and whips me around, pulling me against his chest.

“Check it out! I got Sharpe’s girl with me. Bet Mister Hotshot ain’t gonna like that too much.” He laughs, holding his phone in front of us for a selfie. His friends are all just cackling. Bunch of Zyn-gobbling hyenas with bad goatees.

“Let go!” I try to wriggle away. I catch sight of us in his camera—and just like that, my mind falls backwards into memories.

Memories I’ve tried to bury. Tried to forget. Not just because one stupid mistake ruined my reputation, but because it also got me into one of the scariest situations of my life.

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