by Kendall Ryan
Well, that just happened.
I take a breath. Now is not the time to reminisce about my breakup, not that I want to relive the painful memories of the weeks that followed, anyway.
“All right, that’s enough for today. Hit the showers, boys,” Wilder calls out, pulling off his kelly-green Titans cap and shoving one hand through his sweaty brown hair. When he turns toward me, the look in his eyes is one of pure desperation.
“Well, that was brutal,” he says with a rough sigh. “They’re clunky as hell.”
I’ve sat in on enough team meetings with the coaches to have developed a decent relationship with them, Wilder especially. Like me, he got his fair share of flak a year ago when he signed on as the youngest coach the team has had in decades. And while I hate to base our professional relationship on the fact that we’ve both been harassed by Boston sports fans, I have to count my allies where I can.
“They’re blowing it,” he mutters, looking out onto the ice. “We’ve got a lot of talent, but it’s being wasted right now.”
I nod, watching as the players disappear down the chute toward the dressing room and out of earshot of this conversation. “Any particular guys giving you trouble?”
“Nah, it’s the whole team,” he grumbles. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but they’re not on board with you as owner.”
My lips pull into a tight frown as I step back, folding my arms over my chest. “I see.”
I try to pretend I’m unaffected, but shit, the truth stings. I figured my own team wouldn’t be like those asshole reporters who question my every move. I love this team, but I guess it doesn’t go both ways.
“It’s not just you, though,” Coach says. “It’s Braun too. They haven’t rallied around him as part of the team yet. And, well . . .” He sweeps his hand through the air, gesturing toward the ice and slowly shaking his head. “You saw for yourself how that’s going. He’s unstoppable, though. If they can find a way to click with him, with his grit, Braun could take this team all the way. He’s distracted. On edge right now. But I know he’ll be good again, once the team’s on board, probably. The hockey blogs aren’t wrong about that.”
My stomach turns inside out at the mention of the blogosphere.
It’s true, Alex Braun has been the talk of every sports podcast and fan site since we signed him a few weeks back. I can’t scroll through my Twitter feed without seeing Boston’s latest and greatest starting center, the six-foot slap-shot god the city is pinning their hopes and dreams on. If I’m the villain, he’s poised to become the hero.
As if it weren’t enough to see my ex everywhere I look, I’ve also had to see my own face next to his. Despite our breakup, we’re still a hot topic.
Everyone has an opinion, and every opinion is the same—if Braun is anything short of being the team’s savior this year, my mere presence is entirely to blame.
But I doubt that will be an issue. If I learned one thing about Alex during the years we were together, it’s that hockey will always be his first love. He’s an athlete through and through, a competitor, and nothing will get between him and the game. Even our breakup, or a trade to a new team that hasn’t quite accepted him yet.
Coach Wilder is right—Alex is unstoppable and will power through, one way or another. I just hope for our team’s sake that the bonding takes place sooner rather than later.
“Maybe they should hear from you.” Coach shifts, looking at me now. When I open my mouth but don’t respond, he tips his chin toward the dressing room. “They’ve got their reservations about you. But I think once they know you, once they know you’re serious, they’ll get their asses in gear.”
I straighten, brushing a loose blond strand back into my low bun and smoothing down my suit jacket. When I was named as owner, I sent an email to the entire staff and team, introducing myself, letting them know I was ready for a great season.
But maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to make a personal introduction. Show them I’m serious about this team, even if I didn’t plan to give a speech today.
“I’m game if you think it’ll help, Coach Wilder.”
“Please. Call me Wild. Everyone else does.”
“All right, Wild,” I say. “Lead the way.”
I follow him off the ice, racking my brain for the right words to motivate a failing hockey team. My failing hockey team. If we’re going to have half a chance at the playoffs this year, these men need to clean up their act. Fast.
We pad across the rubber floors to the locker room door, which Wild shoves open with both hands, hollering with a voice loud enough to make a tornado siren jealous.
“Pants up, men, we got a lady present. Team owner coming through.”
I can’t help but stiffen at the coach’s word choice. While I appreciate him making sure the men are decent, I can’t help but resent him calling me a lady first, and team owner second. But I tuck my bitterness away for another time. I have a pep talk to give.
As I pass through the door, the icy air gives way to a cocktail of sweat and men’s deodorant. Our facilities are top of the line and maintained by an expert cleaning staff, but no amount of bleach can chase away the unique cologne of a professional hockey team after two and a half hours of on-ice drills. But it’s a smell I’m used to. It comforts me in some small way.
I step carefully around the Titans logo on the floor, finding a spot close to the center amongst a line of half-dressed men. Half of them don’t even bother looking my way. They’re preoccupied with their gear, shoving helmets into cubbies and whipping practice uniforms into the laundry bin.
But they’re not the ones who bother me. What gets me is the other half, the ones who are staring me down like I’m the grim reaper. And in some ways, I might be. Because if these men can’t grow a pair and accept me as their new team owner, it’s going to be a death sentence for our season.
“Gentlemen.” I dip my head in a quick nod as I scan the line of players, trying to make eye contact with each and every one, if only for a second.
At the very end of the line, my gaze locks with a familiar set of ocean-colored eyes, their cutting gaze sending a shiver racing down my spine. Fresh from the shower, Alex Braun stands in front of me in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts that hang low on his trim waist, his fingers scratching absently at his bare chest.
I can’t help but steal a glance, checking the space on his left pec, right above his heart. My stomach deflates. He still has it. The dark-shaded heart tattoo that he got for me, a surprise for my twenty-fifth birthday. My initials used to be tucked in the design somewhere, but I see that he’s since gotten it filled in, the whole heart now as black as a hockey puck. He didn’t even bother to leave any bare skin to hold another woman’s name someday.
I can’t help but wonder if that was on purpose. I may have held his heart for a few years, but he’s not the kind of man to be held down. Not by me. Not by anyone. It took me a while to see that, but now it’s as clear as day.
When I finally drag my gaze away from Alex, my focus moves to the next face in the locker room, one that’s every bit as familiar, although much less expected. Holt is standing in the corner near the back exit, his thick arms folded over his chest as he surveys the locker room with serious gray eyes. When he meets my gaze, his unhappy look fades.
I didn’t expect to see him here, and a jolt of electricity races through me. I was prepared to deal with one bit of romantic history today, not two, if you can even call what Holt and I had romance. It was a one-night mistake, and I’m undecided if that’s better or worse than the five-year mistake I made with Alex.
Either way, seeing the two of them here together is unsettling—the man I chose . . . and the man I didn’t.
But guys like Holt Rossi have heartache written all over them. Back in college, I thought Alex was the safe choice. The golden boy, a fun-loving jock everyone adored. I’d wanted a little bit of fun, to break out of my shell and experience all that college had to offer. A hot fling. Maybe s
omething more. But I wasn’t looking for love.
Against all odds, that’s what Alex and I found together. He said I wasn’t like the other girls he’d dated. Well, the term dated is a generous one. Back then Alex was known mostly for casual hookups. His few relationships had only lasted a couple of weeks—just long enough for him to get bored and move on to the next groupie. I guess I was the exception. I challenged him.
We worked well together. For a while, anyway. We weren’t the best at communicating. Sharing with each other about our needs was never a strength, but then again, we were young. Each other’s first loves. I’d like to think I’ve learned a thing or two about myself since then.
And now with some age and perspective, I question if Alex was the safe choice at all.
I know it’s a waste of imagination, but my mind can’t help but play out alternate versions of my past. Versions where I didn’t run from Holt’s bed and into Alex’s arms. A version where I stayed with Holt and enjoyed his tenderness for a little longer.
If I had, would I have spent those years by Holt’s side? Would I still be there now?
But there was nothing easy about being with Holt that night. The way he kissed knocked me over—it was like drowning, gasping for air, but not wanting to surface. His mouth was so hot and insistent, I could barely breathe. It was too much, but not enough at the same time. Like water brought to a boil, flooding me with relief and a hint of danger. But my complicated and confusing emotions fell by the wayside as I gave in to what my body wanted.
And that night, I wanted him.
The way Holt looked at me, I can still remember it. Gazing deep into my eyes as if to memorize their color. His fingertips skimming my skin like I was the most precious thing in the world . . .
Snapping me out of the dangerous memory is Wild’s low voice.
“Miss Wynn?”
Wild’s rough chuckle brings me back to the moment, where I’m face-to-face with twenty expectant men, all waiting to hear what I have to say.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. What has gotten into me?
Here I am, dressed in my sharpest power suit, holding the attention of a professional hockey team, all of whom are in my employ. I should feel like I have the room in the palm of my hand. Instead, I’m caught up in my own ancient history and the two men who helped me write it. It’s unprofessional, which is not the way I want to portray myself. Ever.
My hands start to tremble, so I form them into fists and cross my arms over my chest, gulping down my nerves and hoping whatever comes out of my mouth is half as eloquent as what my grandfather would have said at a time like this.
You can do this, Eden.
“I know the team is hurting right now,” I say, trying to steady my wavering voice. “No one worse than me. Pete, my grandpa, was my mentor and my friend. I know many of you can say the same. But we can’t let losing him turn into a losing season. It’s not what he would want, and I sure as hell know it’s not what you all want either.”
A few players nod in agreement while others seem to find the floor more interesting. I clear my throat, demanding their attention, and clear as day, a snicker cuts through the locker room. There’s no doubt in my head who the source is.
My gaze briefly wanders toward him, confirming what I already suspected. A tight, smug smile is pulling at Alex Braun’s lips, threatening to shrink my confidence to the size of the thin, icy shavings on the blades of his skates.
“I’ll tell you what else my grandfather would have wanted,” I say, my voice firmer now. “For you to treat me with the same respect that you treated him. We need to rise above the drama and move forward. It’s the only way this works.”
Briefly, I pause, weighing the wisdom of my next words. Fuck it.
“I’ll be blunt. You guys looked like shit out there today. And I, for one, don’t want our critics to be proven right this season. I’m going to work my ass off for this team. Are you?”
I scan the team, noting a couple of nods of agreement. It’s a start.
“My door is always open, so if you have any suggestions, I’m all ears. Let’s turn this around, and make not only my grandpa proud, but each other.”
Having said my piece, I swivel on my heel, not allowing myself even a second to assess the team to see if anything I said stuck. Instead, I make a clean exit, letting my pumps carry me as fast as possible across the locker room floor. I don’t even spare the extra steps to walk around the team logo this time.
So what if it’s bad luck? No amount of bad luck could be worse than what I already have.
I rush toward the elevators, stabbing the call button as hard as I can. When the big silver doors part, I hurry inside, turning to jab the DOOR CLOSE button. But before the doors can obey, I spot a tall, broad figure heading in my direction at a slow jog.
“Hold the door,” Holt calls, his voice low and rich, like caramel syrup being poured over chocolate ice cream.
For half a second, I weigh my options. I could pretend not to hear him. Let the elevator doors close and finally be alone, where I can fall apart without an audience.
But something in me reacts instinctively. Against my better judgment, I extend one hand, keeping the doors open long enough for Holt to step in next to me. When I pull away, the doors slide closed, and then it’s only him and me, truly alone for the first time since I fled his room my junior year.
That was six years ago, and in that time, this man has only grown larger, in every sense. He was always bigger than the other guys during his Sutton days, but the man standing beside me now is pure muscle. His company-branded black polo hugs his thick biceps, the fabric stretched across his broad chest. When he speaks, his deep voice fills every inch of the small space we share.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his expression soft but serious.
I can’t hold his gaze without facing the uneven heartbeat thrumming in my chest, so I turn my focus to the elevator buttons instead and lie. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
Damn him for being so perceptive. My shoulders sink as I deflate, the weight of the last ten minutes fully crashing down on me.
Of all the people in the world, Holt Rossi is the furthest thing from my chosen shoulder to cry on. But he’s here, and he’s ready to listen. One more look into those smoky gray eyes, and my fragile heart opens up.
“It’s all just . . . a lot harder than I thought it would be,” I whisper to the floor.
“What is? Having Braun here? Or taking your grandfather’s place?”
I scoff, looking up to offer Holt a weak smile. “All of the above.”
His eyes shift, deepening with a kindness I can’t quite describe. “Understood. It’s a tough job, I’m sure.”
“Grandpa left some big shoes to fill,” I say, swallowing the tears needling my throat as I wish with all my heart that Grandpa Pete were here now.
“And what about Braun?” Holt lifts one dark brow, his head tilting with curiosity.
“What about him?”
“Do you still love him?”
My heart leaps into my throat. Did he really just ask me that?
I study the tiny crack between the elevator doors, wishing I could shrink down to nothing and slip out through that tiny space. But there’s no escape. It’s only Holt and me, and the question no one else has had the courage to ask these past six months.
“No,” I finally say, my voice soft but honest. “I’ll always care for him in my own way, but it’s not love. Not anymore. Not even close.”
Holt nods, his full lips barely parting, like he’s about to ask a follow-up question. But before he can say a word, the elevator settles at my floor, the doors easing open to allow for my escape.
“Well, this is me,” I say as I step out, grateful for the abrupt ending to this mini press conference.
My heels click against the white marble tile as I hurry down the hall toward my office, not even pausing to look over my shoulder. I’ve done enough looking back for today, and
all it’s earned me is more hurt and confusion than I’ve bargained for.
6
* * *
HOLT
“So, you got it?” Madden asks, grabbing a pair of thirty-pound dumbbells from the weight rack.
“Huh?”
“The contract, dumbass. You got it?”
“Oh, right. Yeah.” I smirk and help myself to a bottle of water from the mini fridge in the training facility.
Madden was the first employee I hired when I started my company. He’s been with me for four years now, and we’ve grown from being mere boss and employee to friends.
Well, mostly workout partners, but occasionally drinking buddies too.
Today, though, our workout facility got an upgrade. Now that we’re on the payroll of the Boston Titans, we have privileges at the same gym the players use. It’s bougie as fuck, and I’m not complaining.
There are clean towels and free bottled water. Locker rooms that don’t smell like fungus and sweaty balls. Sign me the hell up. There’s even a juice bar in the entry with shots of turmeric (for inflammation) and ginger (for immunity, I think). I’m sure it’s all a bunch of shit, but hey, it’s the little things.
“Sweet, because after seeing this gym, it would be really hard to go back to using that shithole in your building’s basement.”
I chuckle. “Tell me about it.”
Madden finishes his bicep curls and moves on to chest presses. “So . . . the lady boss, Eden Wynn. What’s she like?”
I raise one eyebrow at him. “Lady boss? Really, dude?”
He shrugs and drops the thirties at his feet. “Sorry. Disrespectful?”
I lift my chin. “Not if you didn’t mean it to be.”
“I meant no disrespect. It’s actually pretty cool what she’s doing. Making sure the team stays in the family, stepping up like that. Plus, a chick who likes hockey? That’s just fucking cool.”
I watch as he changes out the thirties for forty-fives. He must be working on his back next. “Yeah. She’s cool. We’ve actually got a bit of history.”
