Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Yeah, maybe.” He shoots me another odd look, then stands. “Email that through to me. I’m going to go shower.”
Then Oskar leaves, and I know something is up.
Because I’m pretty sure that’s the first conversation we’ve ever had where he didn’t hit on me. And I’m not at all paranoid that now I’ve given him what he wants that he’s lost interest.
I mean, I knew it would happen eventually.
I just didn’t expect it to hit so soon.
SIXTEEN
OSKAR
Even though I showered back in the locker rooms, I was still feeling dirty when I arrived home. Not because of blowing Lane, but because practice was terrible. Nothing was finding my blade.
I’ve had off days before, but this is all new levels of suckage.
Didn’t help that Damon chewed me out for the second time in twenty-four hours right afterward as well.
Shit’s getting real. Too real.
I never let anything get to me—the rumors, the bad press, the fans who say I’m not as good as I think I am. Though that last one is easy to ignore, because please, I am that good. But my point is, I have thick skin. I can take a hit, physically or mentally, and my game has never suffered.
Because of that, my confidence in my future as a hockey player has always been solid, but I’m realizing that maybe it’s been overinflated.
I’m not infallible.
And now I have to work for what I want.
I thought that getting off with Lane yesterday might have made me less tense, but all it’s done is make me realize just how much trouble my career is in. If Lane Pierce is willing to risk his job to keep me in line, how much danger am I in here?
Once I’m done showering for the second time today, I head downstairs to find Lane where I left him.
“You lied,” he says.
“I lie about a lot of things. What specific lie are you talking about?”
“According to Keerson, your practice was a mess.”
Accurate, but still, ouch. “Off day. They happen.”
“Explains the attitude though.”
“What attitude?” I go to my kitchen and pull out a protein bar from the cupboard.
“You’re … weird.”
“Way to boost my ego. You played shit today. You’re weird. What, you think now that we’re hooking up, you can be blunt about everything?”
Lane’s gaze narrows. “I’ve always been blunt with you.”
Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. I don’t say that though. “True.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“About why I did so badly today?”
“Or … anything else that might be bothering you.”
I take a bite of the protein bar, talking with my mouth full. “You’re my orgasm buddy and PR rep, not my therapist.”
Lane stands. “This is what I’m talking about. Where’s Oskar Voyjik gone, and who is this grump who hasn’t so much as made a joke about having my cock in his mouth?”
I straighten. “Let me get this right. I’m a smart-ass, and you tell me to stop being a smart-ass. I’m not a smart-ass, and you tell me something must be wrong. Is that what I’m hearing?”
“Yes. Since when do you do anything I say?”
I drop the protein bar wrapper on the kitchen island and approach him until I can lean in close to his ear. “I think I did a fucking good job of it yesterday while I was on my knees for you.”
His body coils tight, but then he places a strong hand on my chest and pushes me back. “Nice try with a deflect, but it won’t work.”
“Then what will work to get you off my case?”
“I’m not even on your case. I’m asking if you’re okay after a hard practice. That’s all.”
Then why does it feel like more?
I don’t like that Lane has learned to see through my act already. He hasn’t been here that long. But with him in my living space, Damon breathing down my neck, threats from the owner of the team, it’s all … too much for my brain to handle.
And for once in my life, I’m not dealing with that by going out and blowing shit up. Because for the first time in my entire career, I’m worried about the fallout.
For a hockey player, doubt is worse than superstition. It has the ability to get in your head and not let go.
My playing is what has saved me in the past, and sure, one bad practice doesn’t mean it’s all over or that it’ll happen again, but I can’t go into tomorrow’s game in this headspace. I just can’t.
Thank fuck we’re playing Vegas tomorrow because I need to see Tripp. Maybe he’ll take pity on me and let me slapshot a few past him.
“Do you have anything planned for the Vegas trip?” I ask. “Publicity-wise? Can we get the Mitchells in on that action?” At least with them there, it would be more believable. People would totally believe do-gooder Tripp Mitchell and his husband dragged me to some kind of charity thing.