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)
ELEVEN
LANE
That’s what I get for meddling, I suppose.
I knew that tipping off Damon wasn’t smart. Picking Oskar over the team is the kind of thing that would put me squarely on the chopping block if it gets out, and if Oskar clues in on that, with how angry he is at me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes right up to Mick and spills. He has no idea what I’ve risked for him.
But not following him? Yeah, that I can’t do. I grab my keys and march outside.
This is exactly the type of mood that’s likely to send him spiraling to a point where he gets himself into trouble. Which would be the opposite of what he needs.
I’m pissed. At him, at myself. Like, fuck, why won’t Oskar look out for himself? Why do I feel like I’m the only one actually fighting for him to clean up his image and keep his job?
And why? Why won’t I let him burn it all down when he’s so intent on doing it anyway?
Do I really love my job this much?
Or is it that something about Oskar won’t stop drawing me toward him? The hint of a good person underneath all that … him.
My gut gives a familiar flutter and stalls my steps on the way to the car.
Ah, shit.
That … didn’t feel good. The fluttering, my elevated heartbeat, the need to rush out and protect.
Nuh-uh. Sex is one thing, but this is almost like …
I never learn.
As much as I try to hide it, I’m a goddamn bleeding heart.
I’m torn between climbing in my car anyway and heading back inside the house. The only two real relationships I’ve ever had were toxic as all hell, and I’m recognizing the red flags already.
Broken boy, inner sadness, my protective need to swoop in and save him from himself.
It’s not Oskar, specifically, that I’m drawn toward—it’s his vulnerability.
The last time this happened, I came home from work to find my house stripped bare by my boyfriend of a year, who’d told me he’d stopped using but had been lying the entire time. The guy before that was closeted … and married. Only I didn’t find out that last part until I worked out that everything I knew about him—including his name—was a lie.
Oskar has all the markings of someone who can’t be trusted and who will discard me the second he gets what he wants. He doesn’t need some knight in shining armor. He needs a therapist.
My keys dig into my hand as I force myself to turn and slowly walk back up to the house instead of making the mistake of hunting him down. If those protective feelings are already taking over, I need to take a giant step back. Oskar’s his own person, and while I’d love to believe he’s suddenly been given a reality check, I don’t have my head in the clouds.
The only way to prevent myself from falling into familiar patterns is to do the complete opposite.
I trust him to make his own decision.
And pour myself a stiff drink while I wait for my world to implode.
The whole time I’m pacing, drink barely touched, I’m fighting myself over my decision. Not like it matters now—Oskar is long gone, and finding him in this city would be an incredible stroke of luck. But fuck if I’m not kicking myself.
In the split second I decided not to chase him down, I all but threw my job to the wind. Gave up my entire livelihood, for what? An entitled, cocky hockey player who would sooner see me lose my job than give up his childish ways.
He doesn’t give a crap about me or the team.
And somehow, I put him first.
Because even if he is entitled and cocky … I know now that it’s not all he is.
And I hate him for showing me that side.
I can fight my instincts over keeping my ass in this house all I like, I can’t stop that need to wrap him in bubble wrap and keep him here with me.
The next sip of scotch I take deepens the bitter feelings. I push the mostly full glass aside, then refresh my phone for the fourteenth time. I have notifications set up for all of the players’ names, and every time I pick up my phone, I’m waiting to see Oskar Voyjik flash up on the screen.
It’s only a matter of time. And while apparently past Lane was fine with throwing my job in, the selfish asshole made the decision for Oskar too. Because one more headline and he’s gone. I’m gone. The team is left the mess of trying to replace him.
The weight of pressure bears down, and I resist the urge to pick up the scotch again.
Instead, I send a text to Damon King.
Me: No chance you’ve heard from Voyjik?