Page 121 of The Score

During the five-hour bus ride to Scranton, Allie sends me updates about their day, along with running commentary about how great my sister is and OMGs! every time Summer reveals an embarrassing detail from my childhood.

Having breakfast at the diner.

OMG—your first word was “booby?” Why does this not surprise me??

Taking S to the salon. She wants a mani.

You’re scared of tattoo needles?? S just told me you almost got a tat when youwere 18 but had to leave because you were scared. Bwahahahahaha.

I fucking hate my sister.

My phone stays in the visiting team’s locker room during the game, and not even O’Shea’s cold glares and snarled criticism can bring me down today, because we skate off the ice after third period with an actual W under our belts.

My good mood follows me out of the arena and onto the bus, and I settle in for the long ride, relieved by the latest batch of messages I find.

Driving to Boston for lunch. S wants to do some shopping.

Awesome lunch. Heading home now.

Oooh it’s snowing! S and I are taking a walk.

Home. Chilling and girl talk. Tell Tuck his tomato soup is da bomb.

Saw on twitter you won the game! FUCK YEAH!

Movie marathon. Putting phone on silent. See you when you get back.

The last message came in around eight o’clock. Good. I hope that means Allie and Summer are tucked under a blanket in the living room watching a movie and not out causing trouble.

Huh. And Allie was right. Itissnowing. Once the bus crosses the state line into Massachusetts, there are suddenly white flakes dancing outside mywindow. I love winter, so I wholly approve of the sight.

It’s close to midnight when we arrive at our own arena. I ride home in the Beemer with Tuck, while Garrett and Logan head for the dorms to spend the night with their girlfriends.

Ten minutes later, I pull into our driveway. Not a single light flickers in any of the windows, but I catch flashes from the television flickering behind the living room curtains.

The front hall is pitch-black when we step inside. I walk ahead of Tucker, kicking off my shoes as I fumble for the light switch.

I don’t get the chance to flick it, because a bloodcurdling shriek suddenly slices through the silence.

Before I can react, I’m showered from head to toe with what feels like a tidal wave of lukewarm liquid. Another scream shatters my eardrums, and I’m still struggling to figure out what the fuck is going on when something hard connects with my left temple.

Crack.

Pain swims in my head, and I hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

28

DEAN

Fact #1: the Hastings police department has about eight officers on staff.

Fact #2: I think every single one of them is at my fucking house right now.

“Do you want to press charges?” The officer in charge hovers over Allie like a protective bear, a sneer on his face as he glares accusingly in my direction.

From my perch on the bottom step of the staircase, I glare right back at him. The EMT who’s examining my temple makes a reprimanding sound when I swivel my head in the opposite direction, but I ignore him. Because what’s happening right now is goddamn ludicrous.

“If anyone should be pressing charges, it’s me,” I say in disbelief.

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