by Kendall Ryan
By the time I look back to where he stood, Holt has disappeared, replaced with a lankier blond guard who I don’t recognize. I’m more than a little disappointed by the swap, but I didn’t come here to stare at security. I’ve got a team to keep an eye on. And now we’re down by two in the first period—which is not good.
“So, where’s that steamy security guy?” Gretchen, who must be a mind reader, nudges me in the ribs.
She’s no help in keeping my focus off of Holt and on my team, but I know my attention needs to stay on the ice right now. Only seven minutes into the first period, and the Denver Avalanche have already sunk two slap shots past Bisset. Not the start to the season I was hoping for, but we still have plenty of game left to turn it around.
“Hellooo?” Gretchen elbows me again. “Did you hear me? I asked where’s that hot bodyguard of yours?”
“He’s not my bodyguard,” I say, correcting her as my eyes still chase the puck. “He’s security for the whole team.”
“But you’re not denying I’m hot, huh?”
My stomach bottoms out to my kneecaps. That deep, husky voice definitely doesn’t belong to my best friend.
I whirl around, and sure enough, there he is, his gray eyes burning into mine and sending a wave of heat pulsing through me. I don’t know if I’m smitten or embarrassed, probably some combination of both, if I’m being fully honest with myself.
“H—hi, Holt,” I stutter, nervously adjusting the tuck on my green cashmere sweater. Paired with the shade of beet red I’m sure I’m quickly turning, I’ll bet I look like a freaking Christmas ornament right now.
Shit. Mental note to practice my poker face in whatever very limited free time I can scrounge up.
Finding my voice, I gesture to my best friend, desperate to direct his attention toward anything but me. “You remember Gretchen from Sutton, right?”
Gretchen wiggles her fingers in a wave, her lips lifting in a wicked smile as she assesses his broad frame from head to toe. “Eden was right. You are even taller than you were back in college. More muscular too.”
Forget turning red, my face feels like it’s moments away from lighting on fire. I knew I couldn’t trust this girl around Holt, and right now, I could push her over the glass railing for that comment.
But Holt just chuckles, pushing his fingers through his cropped chestnut-brown hair as his gray eyes meet mine again. His voice is low, gritty, and suggestive as he says, “So, you’ve been talking about me, huh?”
Yup, it’s official. I need to disappear right this second.
“Well, I’m going to go grab some food.” I trip over my words, frantically searching for an escape route out of this conversation.
Gretchen lifts one dark brow. “I thought you said you were too nervous to eat.”
If ever there was a time I needed her to close that big mouth of hers, it’s right now.
I grit my teeth, forcing a smile and rattling off some excuse about feeling better now that the game has begun. I don’t even fully process the words I’m saying. I’m too busy slipping hopelessly into Holt’s stormy eyes. If I don’t get away soon, I might drown in them.
Flustered, I excuse myself, hurrying across the suite to grab the first bacon-wrapped snack I see and popping it between my lips. Yes, my stomach is still in knots, but I’ll do anything to look occupied right now. Especially if it means my mouth is too full to say anything stupid.
The taste of maple rushes over my tongue, then gives way to something not so familiar. Rubbery, almost? I tilt my head, trying to place the flavor as I slowly chew the buttery substance, letting it melt on my tongue. Which, the more I think about it, is starting to tingle a bit.
Since when is bacon spicy?
I look up to see one of the caterers smiling at me. “Enjoying the bacon-wrapped scallops?”
Scallops? Oh dear God. No.
Frantic, I snatch up a cocktail napkin, spitting the partially chewed food into it. But it’s too late. My tongue has already begun to swell, filling my mouth with a fiery, itchy sensation.
The caterer’s brow furrows. “Are you all right, Ms. Wynn?”
“No,” I choke out, panic rising in my throat. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
10
* * *
HOLT
“Are you okay?”
“I’m all right,” Eden says from beside me.
Her voice sounds slightly high-pitched, and I can tell she’s more affected than she initially let on by this allergic reaction in the middle of the first game. But as the guy in charge of taking care of her, this is all in a night’s work.
I would do anything to make sure she’s safe—including rushing her to the nearest emergency room at nine o’clock on a Thursday night. She was so adamant at first that she was fine. But her tongue started to swell, and she admitted her throat was itchy.
Les and Gretchen helped me talk her into going to the ER out of an abundance of caution. And while she wasn’t initially happy with the idea, Eden finally agreed during the first intermission. I know she doesn’t want to miss the game, or cause any more of a commotion than she already has, but her health and safety will always come first.
When I give her another look, she waves me off. “Seriously. I’ll be fine.”
“What’s your favorite kind of music?” I ask.
Eden taps her knee nervously in the passenger seat beside me. “I don’t care. Just put anything on.”
I look over and give her a smirk. “I’m just trying to distract you, trying to keep you talking.”
She meets my eyes with a soft look. “Oh, right. Okay. I guess I’ll play along.”
“Perfect. Favorite music?” I ask again.
“Rock,” she says, her eyebrows pushing together. “Classic or grunge. Nineties, preferably. It’s such an underrated decade in terms of music.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. I mean, the Smashing Pumpkins. Fuel. Oasis. Nirvana.”
I nod. “I went through a big Incubus phase.”
She laughs. “You?”
It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh since this whole ordeal began. And I really like the sound of it.
“I like nineties too.” I turn the radio on, and since it’s connected to my Bluetooth playlist, I scroll through the list of bands until I land on Incubus. “This okay?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
I select the song “Drive” and press PLAY.
She looks over at me and smiles. Between that gorgeous smile that I don’t deserve, and the familiar lyrics now coming from the speakers, there’s a sudden ache in my chest.
Whatever tomorrow brings . . . I’ll be there with open arms and open eyes.
Eden taps her knee along with the rhythm, seemingly unaware of what these words mean to me.
What I don’t tell her is that the song “Wish You Were Here” was one I played on constant repeat after she bolted from my bed and my life. But I’m not brave enough to play it for her now.
When the next song comes on, “Pardon Me,” the lyrics grab me by the throat the same way they did back then, deep in the despair of letting a girl like Eden slip through my fingers and right into the arms of a colossal dickwad. Namely, Alex Braun. That was what killed me. I knew I wasn’t good enough for her. But a douchebag like him supposedly was?
Soon, those heartfelt lyrics were replaced by angrier ones, and bands like Rage Against the Machine took over my playlist.
It’s quiet in my car, and I’m aware of every little thing. The way Eden’s petite frame fits into the seat beside mine. Her fingers between her knees. The floral scent on her skin. The way the air seems charged between us.
“How are you feeling? We’re almost there.”
“I’ll be fine. Throat feels a little scratchy.”
“Hang in there for me.” I place my hand on her knee and give it a reassuring squeeze. I wish I wasn’t, but I’m all too aware of how warm her skin feels through her jeans, and how long it’s been s
ince I’ve touched her.
Pulling my hand away, I clear my throat. Eden seems unaffected, staring straight ahead out the windshield.
Get it together, Rossi.
When we arrive at the hospital, the check-in process is brief, and then we’re waiting together in the exam room. Eden doesn’t say much. She just stares at a poster of a thyroid gland on the wall. I have no idea what she’s thinking, and even less of a clue about what to say to her.
It doesn’t take long for them to administer an injection of epinephrine. I hold her hand, and when the nurse assumes I’m her boyfriend, neither Eden nor I correct her. After being given a packet of antihistamines to take home for the hives on her chest, Eden signs some paperwork, and then we’re strolling back through the exit less than an hour later.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m so sorry about all of this. What a mess.” She shakes her head, looking down at her feet.
Not wanting her to feel ashamed, I touch her shoulders, turning her body toward mine in the parking lot. “Hey. This isn’t your fault.”
She bites her lip. “It’s a little bit my fault. If I hadn’t been so flustered, I would have paid attention to what I was putting in my mouth.”
Neither of us brings up the topic that had her flustered—Eden and her friend had been gossiping about me. But it would be a dick move to press her right now. She’s obviously upset.
When we reach my car, she grabs her phone, which she forgot in our rush to get into the hospital. She checks the score right away and turns to me with a smile. “We’re up three to two. Four minutes left in the game.”
“Nice.” I nod.
When I start the car, it takes me a minute to find the sports station, but when I do, we sit in the parking lot, listening to the remaining three and a half minutes of the game. In the end, the Titans win it.
“Congrats,” I say, giving Eden a grin. “How does it feel to own a winning hockey team?”
She chuckles. “I feel pretty damn good right now.”
“As you should.” I pull out into traffic, which is heavy because the arena is only a few blocks away. “Is your car at the arena?”
“No, I rode with Gretchen.”
“I’m happy to take you home.”
Eden meets my eyes with a look of gratitude. “That would be great.”
She sends and receives a few congratulatory texts as I drive. The jealous part of me wonders if she still texts with Alex, but the smarter, more rational part of me reminds me that it’s none of my damn business who she texts with. Hell, maybe she’s still fucking him on the side. Even then, it wouldn’t be any of my concern. Eden is a gorgeous, successful woman. Of course she doesn’t lack for male suitors.
I drive back to her building, which isn’t far, and Eden instructs me about where to park.
“You can stop here. I’ll just hop out.”
I shake my head. “I’m walking you up.”
She doesn’t say anything further, just waits patiently for me to find parking nearby. Once I do, we head side by side into the building with its grand lobby and row of shiny silver elevators. She lives in a midrise building of luxury condos that exceed my budget by several million dollars. The location is prime, and the views are outstanding.
She unlocks the door and lets us in, setting her purse on the entryway table and flipping on lights as she moves farther inside.
The place is quiet and dark, except for the streetlights glittering from the windows a few stories below. It’s nothing at all like the last time I was here, when the room was filled with testosterone and loud hockey players. Now it’s just me and her—a scenario I like much better.
Am I intimidated by Eden’s job, or the fact she’s constantly surrounded by some of the world’s most eligible men? No. Not really, anyway.
Her place is cozy and modern with wide-planked wood floors and dark gray cabinetry. The huge dark-paned windows are framed by white linen curtains. Not a thing is out of place. There’s not so much as a coffee cup in the sink. It makes me wonder if she’s super-neat and tidy, or if maybe she has a cleaning crew on retainer.
I bring her a glass of water from the kitchen, and she swallows one of the antihistamines.
“I’m so relieved we won tonight,” she says, setting her phone on the charging tray on her kitchen counter. “It almost makes me forget about my blunder earlier.”
Her eyes stay on mine as I move closer to her. When I stop directly in front of her and tip her chin toward mine, her lips part.
“You look better. Your coloring has returned, and the swelling has gone down.”
“I feel fine now,” she says softly.
Her gaze lowers to my mouth, just briefly, but it’s impossible to miss the look of longing in her eyes. And I can’t exactly forget about what Eden and her friend had said about me . . . something about me being hot.
It’s sure as fuck getting hot in here now.
Because while I should leave, it’s the last thing in the world I want to do. What I want to do is kiss her. I want to see if we still have that same magic chemistry we had all those years ago.
The memory of her that night comes rushing back with such force and clarity, it almost knocks me over. The way she looked on my bed. How eager she seemed about everything—it ate at me. And it still does.
An onslaught of memories of what happened that night hits me hard. Maybe because it’s late and we’re alone together now . . . or maybe it’s because Eden’s bed can’t be more than two dozen steps away.
Her gaze lowers to my mouth again, and I take a step back, putting some distance between us.
“I’d better go.” My voice comes out rough, slightly uneven.
“That’s probably a good idea,” she says, sounding as shaky as I feel. “Thank you for taking me to the hospital and staying with me.”
“You’re very welcome,” I say softly.
“Good night, Holt.”
“Good night, Eden.”
I let myself out and head to the elevator, releasing a long, slow sigh as my legs carry me down the hall.
All week I told myself I was imagining things. Her asking if I was single was merely job-related. The way my body reacted to seeing her? Just a product of the years between us. I kept trying to convince myself there are perfectly reasonable explanations for all of it.
Now, though? The question of am I attracted to Eden is no longer one I can deny. In fact, that question mark has been replaced with an exclamation point.
But am I man enough to go down that road again? Especially when there’s so much riding on this?
That remains to be seen.
11
* * *
EDEN
Just after lunch, my phone chimes with a text.
I almost don’t pick it up. I planned to spend the afternoon packing for our first away game in Detroit, considering my flight leaves in three short hours and I’ve done nothing but throw a pair of heels into my weekend bag so far.
But things don’t always go as planned, and the second text makes me grab for my phone with a sigh. It’s Gretchen, and I remember now that she texted me last night too. There’s a couple of messages from her.
You okay?
Hello?
I’m coming over.
I quickly type out a reply. I’m good, you’re welcome to come over. I’m packing.
A short while later, I open my front door and am greeted by a relieved-looking Gretchen holding a beverage carrier containing two extra-large coffee cups.
“Jesus, thank God your lips are back to normal size.” She sighs, pressing a hand to her heart in relief. “I was afraid I was going to have to get fillers just to make you appear normal.”
Before I can call her out for being overdramatic, she hands over one of the coffee cups, the one with OAT-MILK LATTE + EXTRA SHOT OF ESPRESSO scribbled in black ink on the side. Despite the amount of grief she gives me for my caffeine habit, this woman always seems to have my back.
“S
orry. After we left the emergency room, I was pretty focused on catching up on the game.” I sip my latte, letting the caffeine bring me back to life. “Come help me pack for my flight?”
We head to my bedroom, where I set my coffee on the dresser to cool, turning my attention to which of my blazers screams girl boss the most. Meanwhile, Gretchen makes herself at home on my bed, drinking what I suspect is decaffeinated tea and surveying my mostly empty suitcase.
“So? Are you okay? Is your phone broken, or are you allergic to texting people back now too?”
“I’m fine. My throat is still a bit sore, but it’s nothing.” I pinch a piece of lint off a navy-blue cowl-neck sweater, then fold it neatly and drop it into my suitcase. “And I’m sorry for not texting you back. Between the hospital visit and then getting home late . . . my mind was occupied.”
“Yeah? With Holt?”
I roll my eyes to keep her from reading me like a well-worn playbook. Gretchen knows me well enough to spot that flicker in my eyes that I get at just the mention of a guy I’m interested in. “No, not with Holt. Just, ya know, with getting an EpiPen stabbed into my thigh.”
She gives me a wry smile. “Right, while Holt was holding your hand.”
Suddenly, packing seems like the least important thing in the world. My gaze returns to Gretchen in a panic. “How did you know that? It’s not on the hockey blogs, is it?”
My memory races back to the night before. Could one of the nurses be part of some whisper-network of hockey fans, ratting me out to the blogosphere for holding my security guard’s hand? Can’t a woman having an allergic reaction seek a little emotional support?
“Uh, I didn’t know that,” Gretchen says slowly. “And neither do the blogs. I was making a joke. But now that you’ve said that, I’m extra glad I came over to gossip.” She grins.
