Page 70 of Jaded

He leans his shoulders against the worn brick wall, lifts his mask to expose his face. Tilts his chin to meet my eyes.

“Nobody has any proof.” His voice is quiet, firm. Certain. “But they’ll be curious.”

I hesitate, suddenly aware of how close I am to him, how a narrow margin of mere inches separates our legs, hips, torsos.

Then his meaning hits me. “You mean, curious enough to go to the next game?”

“Everybody loves a good scandal.” He shrugs, the cloth of his jersey snagging on the brick. “We’ll see if it actually works.”

“You’reinsane,” I say, my voice almost shaky. I don’t step backwards, because I’m too busy trying to wrap my mind around the magnitude of what he’s done.

He put his career on the line. His future. Hell, his freedom.

He’s still looking at me, eye to eye. His jaw twitches into a firm line. “I want to save this team.”

More words to befuddle my brain. More words that just don’t makesense. “Why do you care?”

For the first time, I think I see something in his gaze crumble. A break in the endless confidence that is Olli James—or at least, that Olli James presents to the world.

“I didn’t come here to watch my career crash and burn,” he says, voice still soft, eyes still fixed on mine. And there’s something so fierce and determined and yet so broken in that gaze, it breaks something in me too.

“You think that’s what’ll happen here?”

“I think,” he says, the words just the ghost of a whisper, “if we don’t start winning, the team will move or go under and the players will get shuffled off under various rugs andpoof,there go Olli’s NHL dreams.”

I don’t know why the words strike like darts. It’s not uncommon for a minor league player to dream of going all the way—I’d say it’s more uncommonnotto dream of that. “If you get this team winning, scouts will notice.”

“Damn straight.”

“Seems like a massive risk.”

“Kinda my MO,” Olli says with another careless flick of his shoulders. “Go big or go home.”

“Right.”

“And I know you don’t want to see this team go under.” Olli’s dark eyes meet mine. Unblinking. “Lose the job you actually like.”

There he goes again, reading me way too deep, way too easily.

I sigh. “I don’t want to repo cars. And I don’t want to see the team leave. So yeah, I’m kind of upset when Coach finally gets somebody on the bench I think can make a difference . . . and he’s at the fuckingIce Out.”

Olli’s gaze doesn’t waver. And when he speaks, his voice doesn’t either. “I think I’d like to see some of these fans watching Dingoes games instead of illegal fight-hockey.”

I study him for a long moment. I’m still standing too close, so I get a front-row seat to the smooth arch of his brow, the curve of his nose and lips, the cut of his jaw. The way the street light turns his eyes to caramel, sets his skin aglow, making me wonder what it would feel like to slide my fingers along the curve of that cheekbone—

“You really think this will work? Really?”

“Honestly?” His brown eyes go wide. “People love a good scandal, especially when they don’t know what it is. But really? I’ve no idea.”

And there it is again, that softbrokenside I never would have guessed exists beneath all his light. Something so desperate, so wanting—something I understand the way I’ve never understood anybody.

Something, I’d bet, that understands me too.

And maybe that’s what’s holding me here. Inches from his warmth. Staring into his eyes. Inhaling his butter-soft scent.

But before I can say anything, Olli speaks. “Did you hear that crowd?”

Silence falls as we remember that roar. The people of Day River, calling for more. Screaming for blood, for violence. Forpassion.

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