Yom kept his head down as he left the locker room, ignoring all the people who’d waited outside the doors for the chance to attack him with questions and jeers.
But one voice stopped him in his tracks just as he reached the doors leading outside the stadium.
“Wow, Lydia really came through for me.”
Yom turned to see Paul Carrington standing right next to the outer doors. Alone.
“Where’s—” Yom began to ask, despite the ugly suspicion growing in his gut.
“Lydia?” Paul smirked. “Oh, she decided she had better things to do than watch you take this walk of shame out of the stadium. But I decided to make the time.”
Paul gave him a pitying shake of his head. “You know, I wasn’t sure when I sent her over to talk to you that it would work. I mean, she’s cute and all that, and I’d heard the rumors about you Rustanovs preferring girls that look like her. But when shetold me she’d been too scared to spike your drink like I asked because you ordered fake beer like some sort of pansy, I figured my mission had failed.”
It had all been a trick? A flash of coldness seared his body, and Yom’s heart dropped with the knowledge of what Library Girl had meant when she said she’d let it go too far.
His skin tightened, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. “What kind of male sends woman to do his dirty work?”
Paul smirked. “The kind of guy who doesn’t make stupid, sentimental mistakes. Do you think I’d risk losing six figures to some shady bookies? No. I win, Yom. And I make sure I win, no matter what it takes.” He paused, letting his smirk widen. “But hey, Lydia didn’t exactly need convincing to play her part. She’s always down to help out somebody she loves, and she loves me a lot.”
Yom jerked his head back at the news that the end-of-match sighting had been part of the shorter blond man’s plan, too.
Paul chuckled low. “Yeah, just as I suspected, Lydia did a real number on your ego when she ran out like that. Thanks for proving me right and making sure I got compensated after that earlier loss. Really appreciate it, man. Un-unh-unh, none of that.”
Paul waggled a finger at Yom, who’d unconsciously raised his fist.
“Look around you. All this security? A shitload of cameras? Do you really want the world to watch you punch an American after you lost Germany that final? Don’t you have enough bad press for one day?”
Yom found himself cursing again. Thegandonwas right. It was bad enough he’d let himself fall for the American’s scam. Punching him out in front of everyone would only bring Yom a measure of satisfaction while making the situation immeasurably worse.
Yom lowered his fist and crashed out the doors, shoving it open with both hands.
What happened?
That question had been answered in full.
To think, he’d felt so lucky when Library Girl fell into his lap. No, not Library Girl. Lydia. The illusion of the sweet, mesmerizing maiden he’d let himself fall for dissipated before his eyes. The real Lydia was nothing but a walking con, designed specifically for him to make sure he was thrown off his game.
Less than sixteen hours ago, he’d thought all his dreams had come true. But now? Now, all he could see was the truth. Lydia hadn’t smiled at him because she wanted him. She hadn’t sighed under his touch because she felt anything real. It had all been for him to lose.
As he made his way to the dark car waiting to take him back to his hotel, the icy night air bit into his skin. But it did nothing to cool the fury burning in his chest.
Because now all he felt for Lydia was hate.
Lydia
The library wasn’tthe same as when I left.
Right before the start of the last semester of my senior year, I walked into the place where I’d spent most of my time at the University of Minnesota-Gemidgee and found its most infamous carrel altered.
The Prince Rogers Nelson carrel now sat on top of a tarp in the middle of the library floor. Though it still bore The Artist’s signature shade of purple, the words “The Beautiful Books, They Hurt You Everytime” had been written across it in calligraphy. Below those words was a musical staff, but instead of notes, the covers of classic works likeOthello,Anna Karenina,Lolita, andThe Great Gatsbydotted the ledger lines.
I recognized the play on the lyrics from “The Beautiful Ones”—though, in a total “Today I Learned” confession, I’d thought Mariah Carey wrote that track.
So, it was her voice and the lead singer of Dru Hill that I heard as the song began to play in my head. Along with a weird, uneasy feeling of being watched.
It was the same feeling I’d had when I took my sweet time admiring the view of Berlin from that Tourmaline hotel room. Anything to delay the awkward conversation with the insanely hot hockey player about my virgin status. But I could only stall for so long under the intense heat of his gaze, tracking me around the intimate space.
Is he here?I glanced around, despite knowing that was a ridiculous question to ask. No way UMG’s star hockey player was spending the last Friday night before classes started studying, like me.
