Page 65 of Dice & Dekes

“I knew that boy wasn’t a player!” Baylor shrieks. “He’s got the emotional range of a Labradoodle and the trauma responses of a golden retriever.”

I laugh, but it catches on something tight in my chest. “I was so mean, B. I held onto it like a security blanket. And he never corrected the story. Not once.”

“Because he was a teenage idiot with a raging case of embarrassment and a possibly broken zipper. But, babe? You’re not wrong to be mad about how that shaped you. Just don’t stay there. You can choose something else now.”

I rest my forehead against the windowpane. “I want to. I just don’t know how.”

“You start by owning it. Then maybe, if the boy's worth it—and we both know he is—you let him see you trying.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Thanks, B.”

“Anytime. Now go home and give him a blowjob with feeling. That has to make up for everything, doesn’t it?”

“BYE.”

“Love you!”

I hang up and drop my forehead into my hands, laughing and crying all at once.

I don’t knowhowI’m going to fix this.

I only know that I have to.

Because for the first time since we said I do, I’m starting to wish we really meant it.

I stare down at the little army of pastries, the ones I’d fought for like my life depended on it. Now they just look… sad. Like they know I was wrong, too.

Apparently, Viktor never stopped choosing me. Even when I was making it so damn hard to be chosen.

Chapter Sixteen

Viktor

I try not to panic when Knova doesn’t come home before I leave for the game. Try being the operative word. My only consolation is that all her stuff is here. I keep checking the closet like an idiot, like maybe her boots will vanish or the suitcase will be zipped and gone. Like she’ll ghost me without a word. I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

I want to text her, but what if she needs space? Last night was supposed to fix things. I was going to tell her everything, lay it all out. Instead, I touched her like she was mine and stayed silent like a coward. I’ve probably just reinforced her impression that I’m not the kind of man who can ever be what she wants.

I toss my phone onto the nightstand and flop back onto the bed with a groan, heart pounding like I just finished a sprint drill. I hate this part—the waiting. The quiet. The not knowing.

Eventually, I drag myself up and throw on my suit. I grab my gear bag, lock up, and head for the car. The drive to the arena is short, but my brain fills every second of it with worst-case scenarios.

She won’t text back.

She’s already gone.

You blew it.

By the time I walk into the locker room, the guys are already chirping and suiting up. I fake a grin and chirp back like I’m not dying inside. Like everything’s fine.

Spoiler: it’s not.

And then… we hit the ice. The arena is electric, lights blinding, crowd roaring.

I spot her just before the puck drops. Sitting next to Sofia, talking like she hasn’t been haunting my every thought.

My chest squeezes so tight I forget to breathe for a second.

She came.

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