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)
Tripp pins him with a look. “If you’re trying to make me jealous …”
Oskar leans in and runs his tongue up Dex’s cheek.
“Yeah, that’s enough,” Tripp snaps, and Dex laughs, ducking out of Oskar’s hold.
Richard opens the door. “Why don’t you guys come in before someone gets hurt? Ah, again.”
Dex bounces after him, still on a roll with this party idea, as Oskar and Tripp follow, shoving and jostling each other like a pair of fucking teenagers. I want to remind Oskar about his face, but there’s no point wasting my breath.
I hold true to my previous thought: hockey players are crazy.
TWENTY-SIX
OSKAR
This camp is state-of-the-art for something that’s a nonprofit. Richie from Montreal’s PR department has organized this whole benefit because he went to college with the owners of the camp, as well as Foster Grant, one of our very own from the Collective.
Richie gives us a tour of the main building, which includes the dorms, the admin offices, and a dining hall before moving on to the marquee set up outside where I spot Ezra, Anton, and Foster putting tablecloths over rented tables.
“Damn it,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear. “We got here too early, and now I need to help set the place up? I thought it was my job to stand here and look pretty.”
I didn’t know it was possible to make this many hockey players silent at once, but I’ve managed it with one joke.
When I look at Lane to taunt everyone over being awkward about my appearance, the disappointment on his face is obvious, and I’m reminded that he wants me to make an effort with my friends or whatever.
This whole growing as a person thing is really fucking boring. Though, I might see his point. A little. This event and how many of us turned up is proof that the Collective will do anything for each other, yet I’ve somehow never called upon them for anything serious. I haven’t confided in them. Haven’t really talked about anything deep.
Because I try not to go there with anyone.
Letting Lane in has brought us closer. Not the physical side either. I’m connected to Lane in ways I don’t completely understand yet, but I do know that he’ll be there for me if I need him. I guess with the Collective, I’ve held back because what if I did need them but they didn’t care? What if I called for them and no one showed up? What if I was the one member out of all of us who wasn’t a priority? I’ve never had to test it out, and I have to say, I’m not liking doing it now either.
Ezra is the first to get to me, and he pulls me in for a tight hug.
“Whoa, who died?” I ask because he’s hugging me and not giving me shit about how ugly I am. It hits a little too close to my chest. “Other than my modeling career.”
When Ezra pulls back, he looks all serious and sympathetic. “I just don’t know how you’d be feeling.”
I go to open my mouth to say I’m fine, but he keeps talking.
“Before, you could’ve rivaled me for sexiest player in the league, and now you’d be lucky to beat Tripp.”
“Hey,” Tripp whines while I laugh. My face still feels tight and sore from the stitches and bruising, but at least the almost serious moment has passed. “Redheads are hot.”
“Not when they’re stealing your soul,” Ezra yells.
Other people helping set up the event look over here with varied expressions. From awe to confusion and everything in between, Foster being one of them.
Foster starts in our direction and brings two other men with him, and when he gets to me, he slaps my shoulder. “Have to say, you’re less intimidating with all”—he waves a hand in front of my face—“that being mangled now.”
I’ve heard the intimidating thing before. A lot.
“And I’m not now?” I ask.
“Not for your face anyway. You’re still scary as ever on the ice.”
Under his praise of hockey, I preen. When Foster mentions my looks, I hate it. There’s barely a difference, but with hockey, it took years of dedication and work. I was born with my face. It’s the whole reason I built up my personality so it’d be the first thing people noticed about me instead of my looks. One compliment is acknowledging my talent and my drive. The other is giving a silent high five to my parents for fucking each other, and that’s weird.
“This is Beck and Jacobs,” Foster says. “They own the camp. They’re also really big fans and are going to embarrass the hell out of me, but I promised I’d introduce them to as many of my NHL friends as possible so they could have some pull with clients and investors.”
“Aww, you want to use me for my fame?” I ask the two guys who are maybe one or two years younger than I am.