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)
“Good luck tonight.” I manage a quick nod back, then pull out my phone and walk ahead of them, blocking out their conversation. On the team bus to the arena, I sit as far from them as possible and try not to glance over every time Oskar’s laugh fills the space between us.
He’s rowdier than he was back at the hotel, and where some of the other guys have headphones in and are trying to block everyone out, Oskar’s only getting louder. That personality he’s taught himself is on full display.
I’m starting to recognize it for what it is: fake.
The broad smile hides his nervousness, and the false cocky attitude and snide remarks divert attention away from him in a way I’d never noticed before. I used to think of Oskar like gravity, constantly drawing people in, but that’s not totally accurate. No, it’s more like his exuberance creates an invisible barrier between him and everyone else. They can get close but never past it.
Except me. For some reason, Oskar’s let me in, and that’s not something I’m going to take lightly.
So fuck Aleks.
We pull up at the arena, and the players follow their coaches down to the locker room while I head upstairs. It’s still early, but a handful of the WAGs who travel with the team are here, and the bar is already open. I order a drink and wait.
The arena fills up slowly. First some of the diehard fans in the front rows, then gradually more and more people show up to take their seats.
My gaze drifts over the space as I sip my scotch and snags on the DJ booth over the arena. It’s not as high up as the one in San Jose, but unlike the team box, it’s relatively obscured from view.
A wild idea takes root in my mind.
I pocket it for later as both teams file out onto the ice for a warm-up skate. My gaze is immediately drawn to Oskar. There’s something so sexy about him in that uniform, which doesn’t make sense to me, considering the majority of his body is hidden beneath the bulky pads. His strong legs are obvious even from up here though, and I greedily watch them as he speeds up and slows down before turning in a sudden stop.
“Lane, how are you?”
I jump at the familiar voice and glance over at Mick, completely surprised to see him here. It’s not that owners don’t travel with their teams sometimes, but more that he doesn’t. I hurry to pull my shit together and shake his offered hand.
“I’m great. Surprised to see you out of San Jose.”
He gestures to the arena around us. “We’re getting close, and I wanted to experience a different atmosphere.”
The reasoning seems flimsy but is probably half-true. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was here talking business with Chicago’s owners or other businessmen, but that kind of thing is well above my pay grade. Mick has no need to be following up on me when Oskar’s been coasting under the radar the last few weeks. He gestures to seats toward the glass window and sits beside me. “Think we’ll take out the win?”
“Oskar’s confident. Chicago has come off two good games though.”
“True, but we’re ranked higher than them.”
He’s right, but I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Chicago needs to win most of their remaining games to make the playoffs, so I can imagine they’re going to go out there and play hard.
“Speaking of Voyjik …” Mick says, and I immediately tense. “He’s been quiet lately.”
Suspicion prickles the back of my neck at the way Mick’s casual tone doesn’t sound so casual. “He has been. He’s trying.”
“I have to say, the complete one-eighty has given me whiplash.”
I force a laugh. “So first he’s too much of a problem, and now he’s being too good?” No wonder Oskar hates it when I do that to him.
“Of course not.” He takes a long sip of his beer. “Just want to know what magic you’ve pulled on him.”
“No magic. I reasoned with him.”
“And that worked?”
I shrug. “Seems to have, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” He gives a quick shake of his head. “I never thought Voyjik was the type of man who could be reasoned with.”
I play up the smug angle to try and get him to drop the conversation. “I simply reminded him how easily he could lose the one thing he loves. Oskar is hockey. Completely. And the thought of losing that—and, yes, of having me shadow him every waking moment of his life—has helped reframe his perspective.”
“Well, at any rate, I’m glad it’s working. I never thought we’d see months go by without Voyjik’s bare ass splashed all over the internet.”
I laugh at that, partially from what he says but mostly from relief because the fishing tone he was using has completely disappeared. “I have to agree with you.”