Page 43 of Wild Obsession
Chapter Seventeen
Dylan
Passivity and inactionwere the evil stepchildren of indecision, and I hated them all.Especially when the uncertainty belonged to me.
How could a guy who got off on being in charge of everything be so incapable of acting on what he wanted?
It had never been much of a problem before now.Up to this point, the only thing I’d thought I wanted was Jamie.Love from Jamie.To raise my son with Jamie.To build a life with Jamie.All things fucking Jamie.
But I couldn’t have her, and I’d come to terms with that.
Things in my life were shifting, but all I seemed capable of doing was standing by and watching it happen.Waiting to see where I’d end up when it stopped.
I didn’t know what to say to Sean.I wasn’t sure when to call Chantel.And I didn’t want to have to choose between them.So, instead, I’d done nothing.
Then I continued doing nothing, knowing the longer I waited, the less likely I’d ever do anything at all.
And I fucking hated it.
Regret, shame, the worry of failure—those were feelings for other people, the assholes who didn’t know who they were or what they wanted out of life.
I finally knew what I wanted.So why the hell couldn’t I just pick up the damn phone?
As if the devil could hear me thinking, my phone vibrated with a text from Sean.
Did you hear the news?Got traded.I’m moving to Montreal.Do you know how to say “Grab my cock” in French?
Montreal.What were the odds?
Just thinking of him and Chantel in the same city made my pulse fucking skip.
Training camp was weeks away.He’d be tied up after that with games, travel, whatever was left of his career burning through the fall.If something was going to happen, it had to happen now, before the window closed.
I stared at my phone for a long moment.Then, before I could second-guess myself, typed out a reply.
Before you move… come meet me at Copper Ridge Resort.I’ll book it.
Fuck.Was I really doing this?I put the phone down.Then picked it up again.
BTW my French sucks.But I know someone who can help.If I tell her to.
Considering the number of texts he’d sent me over the weekend, I expected an immediate response from him.Instead, he made me wait.
I waited through two bottles of beer and an entire episode of Love Island, getting more annoyed with each passing second.
It made me want to scream every time one of the islanders flipped on her partner the second a new guy walked into the villa.Or batted her fake lashes through some manufactured challenge.Or cried over a man she’d known for forty-eight hours.And not just because the show drove me up a fucking wall with its ridiculous, plastic take on love, but because I missed having that kind of devoted attention directed at me.
Even the fake kind looked better than nothing.
I was about to give up when Sean finally texted back.
Just tell me when & I’m there.
A simple, single sentence followed by a picture of his training schedule.It wasn’t much, but it meant everything.Enough to have the blood pumping steadily through my veins.
Enough to have me half-hard just thinking about what I was about to do next.
Scrolling quickly through my contacts, I pulled up Chantel’s number, and once again, without hesitation, hit dial.
