Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 5
LACHLAN
I walked Lyla to the guest house and waited for her to fix her makeup. I wanted to carry her away from this house. From this town. From this state. From this country. From this fucking planet. Whatever it would take to make her smile. I’d never been one to care much about women crying. I’d seen my mother cry often. I’d made girls cry when they tried to guilt me into wanting more. Tears annoyed the fuck out of me. They always came with some sort of expectation — comfort, sex, whatever. Seeing Lyla cry fucked me up. Maybe because she rarely showed emotion at all. Maybe because I cared a little more than I wanted to admit.
Whatever the case, she didn’t want to discuss it with me and completely shut back down when we walked into her dad’s yard. Her expression was impassive again, her eyes vacant. I fucking hated it. I preferred tears over indifference — only hers. I didn’t know how she did it, but she even looked beautiful when she cried. Her eyes were soft and held a plea that practically screamed, “Save me.” From who or what, I wasn’t sure, but I had the awful feeling it was from herself, and as much as I hated to admit it, that was something only she had the power to do.
I shut my eyes and took a breath. How the fuck did I end up in this situation? I’d always been a selfish person. It was easier that way. Only my mom and brother were allowed inside my bubble, mostly because I couldn’t get rid of them even if I tried. Everyone else was kept at arm’s length. Garnering attention from such a young age meant constantly questioning everyone’s motives. I loved and respected my teammates and valued their friendship, but I didn’t sit around talking to them about my problems. To them, I was a badass center who had reached a level of notoriety they could only dream of, a playboy who discarded women. It wasn’t like the women cared. Most of them were puck bunnies that just wanted to say they fucked me, as if that earned them a medal of honor or some shit. And then there was Lyla fucking James, with her indifference and snarky comebacks. Someone who truly didn’t give a shit who I was. Who hadn’t even fucking heard of me until a week ago. If I kept everyone at arm’s length, she kept them on a different plane altogether.
While she was in the bathroom, I looked around for anything that would tell me more about her. I was starved for her. Not just her body, but her. Her attention, her secrets, her smiles, her laughter. Anything. Everything. I wanted to break inside her brain and rummage through her memories, worries, fears, likes, and dislikes. Fucking everything. I didn’t like that my left wing knew what happened to her. It was unfair since Prescott had known her a long time, but I didn’t want to play fair when it came to her. I wanted to win at all costs. I wanted to be the sole keeper of her secrets. I wanted to possess her. The smartest thing would be to walk away now, because I knew I’d get lost in this girl if I waited any longer. I was already lost, and I’d only known her for a week. Lyla was a walking red flag. She’d given me every reason to run in the opposite direction, but I was stuck in some weird gravitational pull she had on me.
I kept perusing. She didn’t have much in the guest house — a small jewelry box with a dancing ballerina and a bookshelf. There was a glass soccer ball on the bookshelf that caught my attention. It was fucking nice. Maybe her father got it for her as a present? When I stood in front of it, I realized it was a trophy. Not just a trophy. It couldn’t have been. The only thing I’d seen that was this nice was our NCAA title trophies, and we didn’t casually keep those at home on a bookshelf. This one had her name on it and was dated two years ago. She would have been a second-year student then. Maybe it was an MVP trophy. I leaned down to read it.
Hermann Trophy. I took my phone out and Googled it. I’d seen things about her playing soccer, but I hadn’t paid it any mind since the season was over, and I figured she was just good enough. According to this, Lyla fucking James was to soccer what I was to hockey. Very impressive. I went to the school’s sports page and confirmed that it ended in the fall. I wished I’d known about this sooner. I clicked on the roster and saw she wasn’t on it. She wasn’t on last year’s, either. What the fuck? I looked at the trophy again. It made no sense. Had she quit after the accident? I understood taking a break, but quitting was unfathomable to me. I tried to put myself in her position and couldn’t wrap my head around it. My competitive nature would never let me stop playing before I was forced into retirement. She could have gone pro. I knew that wasn’t something that appealed to everyone. Prescott wasn’t interested in playing beyond college, which was also unfathomable. He’d hang up his skates after the final tournament and go into law, like his parents.