by Kendall Ryan
Relief courses through my veins, followed immediately by defeat. I’m not going to be able to avoid talking about this with her.
Gretchen reclines into my heap of throw pillows and blows on her tea. She tries a sip and grimaces to find it’s still too hot. “Spill, girl. What happened last night?”
“Nothing,” I say curtly. It’s the truth.
She frowns. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not. Nothing happened. I mean, he walked me up to my apartment, and there was definitely, you know, some chemistry. But neither of us acted on it. And why would we after I made such a colossal ass of myself?”
“Having an allergic reaction is not the same as making an ass of yourself.”
“Maybe. But hacking up half-chewed food into a napkin after implying that your security detail is hot? I think that sort of qualifies.” I grab my latte again, popping the lid off to temporarily hide behind the billowing steam.
“For the record, I’m the one who implied he was hot,” Gretchen says, correcting me. “Which he is. And it could’ve been worse. You could have thrown up on him. You’ve got to look on the bright side here.”
“There is no bright side. There’s only one side to this whole situation. The deeply confusing side.”
Flustered, I sit on the edge of my bed, taking a big, well-deserved sip of my latte. It burns my tongue a little, but I hardly notice. It’s nothing compared to how swollen and tingly it was last night, so there’s that.
“What’s so confusing? You’re doing great. Your team won last night. They’re going to crush it again tonight. And you’ve got a sexy-as-fuck bodyguard who follows you around.”
I let out a shaky sigh. “It’s just a lot to handle. The games, the gossip, the fact that this city still isn’t on my side. Alex. Toss in Holt on top of it, and I just . . .” I shudder, letting myself feel everything at once.
I never had that ride-or-die tribe of women in college that others seemed to have. Yes, I had Gretchen, but she and I weren’t that close. She has a group of girlfriends that she’s had since high school and often hung out with them.
I tried not to let that bother me, but to be honest, sometimes it did. My social media feed made it seem that every other female out there had this pack of girlfriends who were there through every triumph and failure. But after my very public breakup and subsequent promotion, I barely got two or three phone calls from friends asking how I was doing.
Of course, one was Gretchen, but I just never had that big group of friends. I guess that suits me. I’m more of a loner than I let on. But that doesn’t mean I don’t long for more close friendships.
And don’t even get me started on the mess of confusion that is Holt. He’s always made me feel a lot of things. Attraction. Fascination. Anxiety.
I throw up my hands, forgetting for a moment that I’m still holding my latte and almost spill it all over my white duvet.
Frustrated, I leap to my feet. “See? I’m a shit show.”
“Okay, let’s break this down. One thing at a time.” Gretchen’s expression has turned serious. “Alex? I thought we were past that.”
“We are,” I say with certainty. “Doesn’t mean it’s not hard seeing him all the freaking time.”
She gives me a pensive look, as if trying to work out my feelings. “Okay . . .” The word leaves her lips slowly and with uncertainty.
Gretchen clearly doesn’t understand why this has been so hard for me. She knows I’ve moved on, and I really have. I don’t want another shot with Alex. I’ve been there, done that, given him my whole heart, and it still didn’t work out. She was right that I’ve moved on, but someone who hasn’t worked with their ex will never understand the struggle. It’s really a top-notch experience. Well done.
Blah. I feel like banging my head against the wall repeatedly. Thankfully, I don’t. I do, however, grab a set of gray cotton pajamas and toss them inside my bag.
“And then there’s Holt,” she says cautiously but with a flirtatious tilt to her mouth. “They’re so different in every way.”
You can say that again.
“There’s nothing between me and Holt other than some lingering chemistry.” Even as I say the words, I wonder if they’re true.
“If you say so.” Her tone is filled with doubt.
To hear Gretchen question my motives, when it comes to a man who I myself admittedly don’t understand, leaves me feeling vulnerable. It’s jarring.
“There’s been nothing between you two since you fled his bed that morning?”
“Not since that walk of shame.”
She huffs. “I told you I don’t like that term. It’s not a walk of shame. It’s a stride of pride.”
This pulls a chuckle out of me.
The conversation moves on, and when I glance over at her, instead of pity in Gretchen’s eyes, she’s suppressing a laugh.
I plant my hands on my hips, tilting my chin at her. “What?”
“You know what you need?”
“A chill pill?” I’m only half joking, but she shakes her head.
“No, you need to bang Holt to get him out of your system. You robbed yourself of that back in college, and that feeling of loss has lingered.”
Yeah, right.
I scoff, waving off her comment. “No way is that going to happen.”
“I’m totally serious.” Her tone is insistent and less playful than it was before. “I think it’s the only way you’re going to stop being so tightly wound about the whole thing.”
As I finish the last of my packing, I weigh the idea carefully. The thought hasn’t occurred to me before, but now that it’s out there, it sticks in my brain more than I care to admit.
Would it really be possible for me to climb into Holt’s bed again, just to make my same escape before we got carried away? Maybe we do just need to finish what we started so many years ago. It’s possible that’s true—before I can truly turn the page on that chapter of my life.
Or maybe I’m delusional, and the press would run wild with it. If the media thought I was sleeping my way through the team—security, staff, players, whoever—it could ruin everything. One blog post could bring me to my knees.
And not in the fun, sexy way.
No, it would be a total embarrassment. I’m stronger than that. Smarter. I have to be.
“No, Gretchen.” I shake my head. “You know that’s not possible. You saw all the news articles condemning me before I even started this job. People assume I’m going to melt down over my ex, or fall onto some other player’s stick. Holt might not be a Titan, but he’s still employed by the team. I can’t let them be right.”
I throw one last comfy sleep shirt into my bag, then zip it up. It’s closed, just like this topic.
Gretchen nods as she takes the tiniest sip of her tea. “So, what are you going to do?”
My mouth lifts in a slight smile. “My job, first and foremost. But more immediately? I’m going to go to the airport, fly to Detroit, and watch the Titans kick some ass.”
12
* * *
HOLT
This is it. Our first trip for an away game.
When I board the team’s private jet, I have a surreal moment, wondering if this is actually my reality. As head of security, I’ve traveled with clients before, and I’ve flown on private jets more upscale than this one. Still, the fact that I’m traveling with a professional sports team—an experience that most fans would give their left nut for—isn’t lost on me. Too bad I’m not a hockey fan in the slightest.
Eden is in the second row seated next to her assistant, Aspen, and they’re deep in conversation. Les is in the row across from them. I step into the aisle and keep my eyes straight ahead—toward the back of the plane.
Clusters of players are spread out in the seats, some shuffling cards, and others pretending to sleep. The goalie, a French-Canadian guy named Lucian, watches a movie on his tablet as I pass.
I take an empty seat near the middle of the pl
ane and pull out my phone to send a text to Eden. Are you doing okay?
I wait for a couple of minutes, but she doesn’t reply. Maybe her phone is already set to airplane mode. And since we’re getting ready to take off, I do the same.
As we find our cruising altitude, I can’t help but overhear a few of the guys talking about a certain dating app and arranging hookups at the hotel. Alex Braun laughs along to the conversation and doesn’t dispute that he’ll be doing this too.
If he does anything to humiliate or embarrass Eden, I will fucking end him. Hasn’t he put her through enough? I can’t even look at him, with his easy smile and cocky playboy attitude.
“You’re Holt, right?” someone asks from behind me.
I turn in my seat and find one of the defensemen, Price St. James, known to his teammates as Saint, looking at me. “Yeah. That’s me.”
He nods. “Is everything going okay? With Eden, I mean.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, not sure if he heard about the shellfish incident last night.
“She’s not like getting,” he lowers his voice, “death threats, is she?”
So maybe he hasn’t heard about her allergic reaction after all. He seems more interested in my presence and why she’s now traveling with extra security.
I shake my head. “No, nothing like that. Just some loudmouthed fans calling for her resignation. I’m here as a precaution.”
Saint nods, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “They’re wrong. She’s going to be a great owner. I can tell.”
“You should tell her so.”
“You think?” His mouth lifts in an uncertain smile.
I nod. “You know what they say . . . it’s lonely at the top. She may appreciate hearing something positive once in a while.”
“Yeah, good point.” Saint rubs at the stubble on his jaw. “I’ll do that.”
I give him a polite smile, wondering if he’s single and wants more from Eden than he’s letting on.
Jeez, drop it, Rossi.
Not every guy on this team wants to fuck her. Probably not, anyway. I mean . . . Lucian’s married, and there are rumors that Lindquist is gay.
Man, I’m really losing it.
I shove my earbuds into my ears and crank up my music, trying to tune out my own tumultuous thoughts. It doesn’t work, and I spend the flight feeling agitated.
• • •
Two hours later, we’ve landed and deplaned in Detroit. It’s colder than I expected, and the sky is gray. It’s not exactly a warm welcome.
I catch up to Eden on the tarmac as everyone waits to board the bus that will take us to the hotel. She’s dressed in a sleek black coat and carrying a large leather purse.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
She smiles at my concern. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Did you have a good flight?”
She nods. “I did. I wanted to nap, but instead Aspen and I mapped out some work I want to do on an upcoming charity campaign this holiday season.”
“That’s good.”
She nods.
I can feel her assistant, Aspen, watching us. Something between Eden and me feels strained, and I have no idea why.
“Any plans tonight?” I ask, taking my turn to board the bus.
Eden sits down in the seat behind me. “Not really. I’m sure some of the guys will go out to dinner, but I’m kind of tired, honestly. I’ll probably just stay in. Maybe take a bath, order some room service, and turn in early.”
When I meet her eyes, I can guess at what she isn’t saying. She’s nervous—about the game, most likely. Or maybe about being alone with me again. But that can’t be true, can it? I’m probably only imagining the chemistry between us.
“Okay, well, if you need anything, I’m in the room next to yours,” I say, giving her one last look before I face forward again.
She doesn’t say anything else.
At the hotel, I escort Eden to her room and then let myself into mine, which is right next door. I glance in her direction as she uses the keycard to unlock her door. “Well, enjoy.”
I try to sound nonchalant, but inside I’m as chalant as fuck. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I feel so on edge, I could burst. Since I’m not needed, but there’s no way I can relax, I change into my gym clothes and decide to hit the hotel’s workout facility, which is two floors down.
I don’t even feel like working out. My heart’s not in it, but I need to clear my head. Need to blow off some steam, and it’s either fuck something—hard—or run and lift weights. So I obviously do the latter.
I crank up the pace on the treadmill while loud, angry music blares in my ears.
I’ve been fighting with myself for days, ever since I came back into Eden’s life. Fighting to remind myself of all the things that I can never have, Eden included.
After thirty minutes on the treadmill, now breathless and sweaty, I move over to the free weights. The gym leaves a lot to be desired, especially after I’ve become so spoiled with the team’s training facility. But still, it does the job. As I bang out set after set of bicep curls, my mind wanders.
Of course it wanders straight to a certain five-foot-something powerhouse who totally blew me off earlier. I’m not sure why her brush-off should feel so significant. Maybe it’s because I’ve been down this road before.
Just as I finish up one last set of shoulder presses, my phone buzzes with a text. I pick it up and glance at it.
It’s Eden, and my heart jumps.
Can we talk?
13
* * *
EDEN
Nerves fill my stomach as I wait for Holt’s reply. But I shouldn’t have been worried, because it comes less than ten seconds later.
Sure.
It’s only one word, but now I’m nervous for an entirely different reason.
I type out in reply, Come by my room.
Aspen put me in a hotel room right next to Holt’s, in case I needed him for security reasons at a moment’s notice. And a few minutes later, there’s a knock.
When I tug the door open, it certainly seems like I caught him in the middle of a moment. His hair is dripping wet, like my text might have interrupted his shower, and his not-quite-towel-dried body makes his fitted charcoal V-neck cling even tighter to his chest.
“Everything okay?” he asks, his gray eyes clouded with concern.
“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, I know it’s late.” I step back from the doorway, and he joins me inside. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”
“Not yet. I just finished working out. Well, actually, I just finished a shower, but before that I was squeezing in a workout.”
As he talks, he works one hand through his damp hair, allowing me to catch the slightest whiff of mint and eucalyptus. Definitely the hotel bodywash. It’s a change from his usual woodsy, earthy scent, and I can’t help but admire the way his biceps flex as he tries to air-dry his hair with his hands.
Focus, Eden. You didn’t invite him over for dinner and a show. There are actual conversations to be had.
“We should order food,” I say, tilting my chin toward the menu on my nightstand. “I was too nervous to eat earlier, so I took a bubble bath to calm down instead.”
His stormy gaze momentarily dips from mine to assess the fluffy white hotel robe I’m still wearing. “Did it work?”
“Sadly, no. I’m still as on edge as ever.” I tug the terrycloth belt a little tighter, staring down with embarrassment at the hotel slippers on my feet. Had I known he would be over in such a hurry, I would have gotten properly dressed.
But when I look back up at Holt, he’s not smirking at my appearance like I would expect. Instead, a shallow crease has formed across his forehead. He’s studying me with a sort of intensity that might feel somewhat off-putting coming from anyone else, but there’s something oddly comforting about having Holt look at me this way, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“So, is that why you t
exted me then?” he finally asks, one brow quirking upward. “To help take the edge off?”
His phrasing sends the slightest tingle of electricity radiating from my chest to my fingertips. I can think of one very effective way he could help me take the edge off, a method that I’m certain Gretchen would approve of.
How did she phrase it again? I should get him out of my system, or something like that?
Whatever it was, it’s not the reason I invited him over tonight. In fact, it’s not even an option at all. Not tonight, and not ever. I need to shake that possibility for good.
“I just need to talk through some things,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “But let’s order food first. I could use dinner. And maybe a glass of wine.”
Yes, definitely wine, I decide in that moment. Although I seldom drink during the week, I’ll make an exception tonight.
With a quick nod, Holt sits on the edge of my bed and grabs the menu for the hotel restaurant, reading the options aloud—burgers, salads, typical hotel fare. I settle on a club sandwich, and he calls our order in, tacking on a bison burger for himself and a bottle of rosé.
“Thank God for room service,” I mutter.
Despite my instinct to sit next to him on the bed, I opt for the plush cream-colored sofa across the room. I tuck one ankle behind the other, focusing on keeping my knees glued together. It’s the only way to distract myself from those hypnotic gray eyes.
“So,” he says, planting his elbows on his knees and leaning toward me. It’s the same position Coach Wilder assumes when he’s talking to the players in the locker room. “What’s got you so stressed?”
I fuss with the belt of my robe, avoiding eye contact. “Is everything an acceptable answer? I’m just so worried about the team.”
Without even looking up, I can feel Holt’s warm gaze on me as he waits patiently for me to say more.
Well. Here goes.
