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)
Oskar shifts, looking uncomfortable, before he forces out, “You okay?”
I give his shoulder a playful punch. “I just had incredible sex, my hockey player is behaving himself, and we’re about to spend the night doing something charitable. I’d say I’m better than okay.”
He unlocks the car and crosses to the driver’s side. “Don’t tell anyone that somewhere in amongst the black sludge in my chest, there might be some semblance of a heart. I have an image to uphold.”
“You better be careful, then, because at this rate, your wayward reputation is going to be more or less ruined. Another couple of weeks and you won’t need me anymore.”
And isn’t that some shit?
Oskar’s finally doing everything he’s meant to be doing … and there’s a small selfish part of me that wishes he wouldn’t. Because with the way he’s going, I won’t have an excuse to stay.
TWENTY-TWO
OSKAR
After killer back-to-backs where we very narrowly take out the wins, I have a rare day with no practice. I’ve spent the morning lying on the couch, alternating between icing everything that hurts and putting heat on it, and every time Lane looks at me, he tries to hide his amusement, but I know he’s laughing on the inside.
I don’t hate it as much as I should.
“I heard Caleb Sorensen say when everything hurt, that’s when he knew it was time to retire.”
“Fuck you. That word isn’t allowed in this house. Also, hockey is pain, so that excuse from him was bullshit. He really retired to follow his famous husband on tour.”
“Someone’s protesting a little too hard about how much pain he’s in. Do you have any other plans than feeling sorry for yourself today?”
“Yeah, I have to hit the weight room at some point, but that’s it. We have two rare days off to prepare for this next road trip.”
“Which has another back-to-back up first,” Lane adds. “And then the fundraiser in Vermont, followed by the game in Montreal.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me.”
It’s that part of the year where there are only a few weeks left of the regular season, so we’re all exhausted yet scrambling for those top spots to head into the playoffs.
“We should do something fun today.”
My ears perk up. “Sex? I’m ready.” I dump my ice packs on the floor and go to lower my sweats.
“I was more thinking of going out to have fun.”
I sit up, my excitement growing. “Strip club? Ooh, BDSM club? Do you want to pass me around and watch me get used by a room full of—”
“Why when I give an inch do you take a mile?”
“Firstly, your dick is impressive, but no way is it a mile long. And secondly, you say fun, I think sex. What else could it be?”
“Get changed out of your sweats and find out.”
Hmm, to get up or to keep lying here feeling sorry for myself. It’s a tough one because the first intrigues me, but my couch is really comfortable. And why, when I joke about being shared, does the thought hold little appeal anymore?
I stand. “Okay, show me this super-fun time.” After I change and we get in the car, Lane drives us to the mall and parks right outside …
“Dave & Buster’s? I think we have different ideas of what constitutes as fun. I can’t believe I put on underwear for this.”
“Come on. Where’s your childhood spirit?”
“Thinking about hookers and debauchery.” I lean forward and stare up at the sign through the windshield.
“Sometimes, I think I give you far too much credit.”
Me too, Lane. Me too.
“I figured being a military brat, you didn’t do much of this as a teenager,” he says, and he’s right.
I was never invited to parties, didn’t have many friends. It felt like we were never in the one place long enough for me to make connections. Much like in my hockey career where I keep getting moved.
“My guess from what you’ve told me is you didn’t do a lot of things most kids did. So I brought you here to do all those things.”
Damn it. Why did he have to go and make this a good thing? I was prepared to hate it.
“Okay, let’s get this over with.” I get out of the car and head for the entrance.
Lane follows me inside and says, “Where to first?”
“Bar. Duh.”
“Nope. No drinking.”
“How is any of this going to be fun if I’m not at least a little buzzed?”
He turns to me. “Are you trying to tell your PR agent that you could be an alcoholic?”
“Yes, because I drink so, so much. All the time,” I say dryly.
“Is it bad I half wish you did have an addiction of some kind? At least then it would be easy to handle the media. The threesome in the alleyway was because of a sex addiction. Send you away to rehab, come back out all fresh and acting like a choirboy.” Lane taps his chin. “On second thought, would you be willing to fake an addiction? It would make my job a lot easier.”