Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
I look at Matthew. “How bad is the pain?”
“Not bad enough that I want to take a pill,” I tell him. He just nods, and I make my way to the changing room. Undressing and taking a shower is beyond challenging because I am afraid to put pressure on it.
I’m the last one on the bus with Evan right in front of me carrying my bag for me. I grab my phone and see three texts.
One is my mother.
Mom: Is it broken?
The other from Jeffrey with the same question.
The third is from Zoe.
Zoe: That looked like it hurt like a motherfucker. Is it broken?
I answer my mother and Jeffrey with the same text.
Me: Don’t know yet going to have it X-rayed once we get home. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.
Then I text Zoe.
Me: It did hurt like a motherfucker. Not sure. Will have to check it once I get home.
I put my phone away once we get to the plane and ignore the buzzing until I’m in my seat.
Zoe: Don’t be a wuss. Let me know.
I shake my head and put my phone away when Matthew sits next to me.
“We land in two hours and thirty minutes,” he says. “Someone is going to be there waiting for us.”
“You don’t have to come with me,” I tell him. “Go home and I’ll call you when I’m done.”
I put my head back on the seat and close my eyes ending the conversation. I send out a little prayer, hoping it’s not fucking broken and that my season won’t be derailed because of this. I’ve come too far to stop now.
Chapter Eighteen
Zoe
“Congratulations,” I tell my client on the phone. “The offer was accepted, and they are drafting it up as we speak.” Leaning back in my office chair, I smile at another house sold. It’s been over twelve hours since I’ve last spoken to Viktor, and I’m trying not to text him and ask him he’s okay.
I’ve also held out on texting Zara, Evan, and Matthew. It would be suspicious, and that is the last thing I want. I listen to my client go on and on about how happy she is and that she can’t wait to get in there. I hang up and then look over at the clock. It’s almost five, and it shows since it’s starting to get dark outside. I start to pack up my office and stand, slipping on my suede pumps. I’m almost all packed and ready to slip on my jacket when the phone rings again. I see it’s Viktor, and I think about not answering for about one point two seconds until my hand snatches the phone and presses the green button.
“Hello,” I say instead of greeting him by his name.
“Hey,” he says, and I sit in the chair as I take in his voice. He sounds like he just either got up or is fighting sleep. “Did I catch you at a wrong time?” I hear the television quietly in the background.
“No. I was just packing up my office and heading home.” I wait a beat. “Did you go to the doctor?”
“Yeah. It’s bruised,” he says with a huge sigh of relief. “I have to stay off it for the next two days, which means I can’t play, and they want to see it before they leave to go to Washington in five days,” he says.
“That’s amazing,” I say, happy that it’s not as bad as everyone initially thought. “I mean, it’s better than being broken, right?” I ask him. I don’t tell anyone that I was actually watching the game while I was in bed working and that my heart sank the minute I saw the play. I also don’t tell anyone about the amount of time I spent online afterward getting the 4-1-1 on a broken foot in hockey.
“Definitely better than being broken,” he says, laughing a bit, “but it still hurts.”
I laugh now. “Stop being a pussy,” I tell him. He full-on belly laughs, and it just makes it even better.
“I was just wondering …” he says softly, and I wonder if he’s lonely.
“Did you want me to get you something?” I ask him, suddenly hoping he says yes but not wanting him to say yes. The thought of seeing him and spending the night with him is very high on my list, but I know it won’t help me get through this crush I have on him. I need to stop looking for him in a crowd. Stop watching the hockey games just to catch a glimpse of home. “I can swing by on my way home.” The words come out even though my head just said no.
“I don’t want you to go out of your way,” he says.
“Just tell me what you want to eat, and I’ll bring it over,” I tell him, ignoring every single sign telling me not to.