Page 25 of In Too Deep
Brow furrowed, I reach up as he opens his mouth as wide as he can. As I suspected, he’s still got his mouth guard in. Without an ounce of hesitation, I remove the rubber piece and set it on the counter behind us. He lets out a breath of relief.
“Merci, ma reine,” he says, and I shiver at the nickname.
I nod, not trusting my voice right now. Tears burn the backs of my eyes again, and I’m doing everything I can to prevent them from falling.
“Don’t worry about me, princess,” he says gently.
I roll my eyes and shoot him a half-glare. Like I could stop worrying if I tried. He chuckles, then tries to shift, but stops with a gasp. My hands hover over his bare chest, trying to find what’s hurting.
“I’m okay. Backboards aren’t exactly built for comfort, though,” Oli says with another laugh.
“I can’t believe you’re cracking jokes at a time like this,” I grumble, my lower lip trembling.
“Hey…” His hand closes around mine at his side.
I look up at his face again, softening as I see the lines of concern on his forehead. Reaching up with my free hand, I brush a fingertip across them, smoothing them away with light caresses. He purrs softly, squeezing our joined hands. I smile and brush a damp strand of hair away from his eyes. But when he looks back at me, there’s a serious glint to his gaze that has me swallowing hard again.
“I’m sorry about the other day. I shouldn’t — What I said was out of line and not at all how I feel about you. I want this”—he squeezes my hand for emphasis— “but only when you’re ready. I don’t care how long it takes, but I won’t be going anywhere. You have this for however long you want it.”
He brings our joined hands up to rest over his heart, and I have to blink tears away as I try to sort through the thicket of emotions in my chest. Seeing him like this hurts more than I expected, but I realize that not being able to by his side was true agony.
But what happens next time?my instincts demand.What happens when it’s something more serious, and you have to watch as other people make decisions about the health of your alphas without you?
I grit my teeth as the thoughts occur to me, a flare of something hot and painful filling my chest. A flame that incinerates the last of my hesitations.
“I accept your offer, Oliver Astrauckas,” I say, voice strong for the first time since he came off the ice.
He gives me a quizzical look, and I smile, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “We’re going to be a pack,” I whisper as my lips brush over his skin.
I pull back just enough to see his delighted eyes, a smile pulling up my cheeks. He opens his mouth to speak, but then the door slams open, making me jump about a foot high before I whip around to face the sound. All the warmth that’d returned to my limbs disappears in a nanosecond as I find Logan glaring daggers at us. I look down, my stomach dropping as I become aware that my fingers are still intertwined with Oli’s.
For a moment, the world shatters around me. He knows. There’s no denying what he’s seen. It’s over. I’m done. My career is over. I’ll be lucky if I ever see the boys ever again. But then, as Spencer and Eli come barreling through the door, and I step out of the way to let them get a good look at their linemate, Logan approaches my side. His apple cider scent, usually so delicious and thrilling, tastes like poison on my tongue. I brace myself for the worst, closing my eyes as he leans down to whisper in my ear.
“Can you come to my office tomorrow morning, two hours before practice? We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
I nod, my body reacting to his sheer dominance almost against my will.
“Good girl. Now go back to your box before someone less understanding finds you here,” he practically purrs.
My heart clenches in fear as my stomach rolls. I’m halfway to the elevator before I realize how soaked my panties are.
The arena is aghost town as I make my way down to the hall beneath the arena where the coaching staff have their individual offices. It’s a path I’ve walked plenty of times in my five years with the team, but today, my feet wobble with each step. I don’t know why I opted for heels and a skirt; maybe it’s a subconscious attempt to soothe his anger and give me enough time to explain myself. Though who knows if that’s going to work. For all I know, Logan has called Dee to his office and I’m about to lose my job for real.
I didn’t sleep well last night, and the anxious thoughts have stayed with me on the drive here. They grow louder and louder until I can barely hear the click of my heels. Whatever happens today, I’m going to handle myself with grace. I am Jack Strauss’s daughter, and I will not be intimidated by any man—alpha, beta, or otherwise.
When I reach Logan’s door, I pause before I knock. He’s not the principal, and he’s not my supervisor. Does he hold my career in his hands? Yes. But that doesn’t mean he holds all the power here. I’ve gone over all possible outcomes since I walked away yesterday. I need to establish what he saw or heard, and then I can address matters from there.
“Come in, Victoria,” Logan’s voice calls from within the office after I rap three times.
Hearing his deep baritone curl around my name brings goosebumps to my arms, but I shake it off, clear my throat, and twist the handle, stepping into the office with my head held high.
The last time I was here, our previous head coach had the room decked out in vintage hockey memorabilia, photos, and framed jerseys covering almost every available inch of wall space between the display cases. The furniture was broken-in, faded brown leather, and the whole place had the lingering odor of chewing tobacco. But now, the walls are painted a slate gray, interrupted with black-and-white images, action shots of hockey players. The cases hold NCAA trophies, all of which are polished to a mirror shine. There’s a black leather couch with tasteful white throw pillows against the wall to the left of the door, a huge ebony desk to the right with two comfortable looking white leather chairs. Sleek, modern, clean, brutal. Much like the man at the desk, staring at me as he leans back in his massive chair.
“You’re early,” he remarks, motioning for me to take a seat in front of him.
I straighten my shoulders and glide across the floor, perching myself on the edge of one of the chairs, smoothing out my seafoam-green circle skirt. I don’t say anything as I tuck one ankle behind the other before resting my hands gently in my lap.
“Do you have your phone?” he asks, and my brow twitches down slightly in confusion.