Page 30 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
Maybe I can hypnotize myself. You will not think about Holt Rossi that way. You will not think about Holt Rossi that way . . .
Jesus, I really need to change the subject.
“So, you’re coming with me to the game tomorrow, right?”
Gretchen’s face sours, all her mischievous matchmaker energy disappearing in the blink of an eye. Note to self—bring up sports anytime you need Gretchen to drop a topic.
“Do I actually have to watch the game?” she asks with a whine.
“Come on, you’re telling me you still don’t care about hockey? Not even now that you’re keeping up with the blogs?”
“I care about you,” she says to clarify. “But I don’t care about a bunch of sweaty guys fighting over a puck that, half the time, I can’t even see.”
“It’s not their fault you need an updated contacts prescription,” I remind her. “Maybe then you wouldn’t have such a hard time keeping up.”
“I told you, I’m nearsighted,” she says stubbornly. “So as long as you keep the catering options near me, we won’t have any problems.”
A laugh spills out of me as I pull my credit card from my wallet. “Just don’t get too close to Holt, okay? I don’t need you talking to him about the fact that he’s apparently a sign.”
Gretchen holds up a freshly painted pinkie. “Promise to try my best.”
I give her a pointed look. “That’s not the same as promising not to talk to him.”
She shrugs, then shoots me a wink. “I said what I said.”
• • •
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give it up for this year’s Boston Titans!”
Looking over the stadium from the executive suite, I feel like a queen surveying her kingdom. The seats are packed to the rafters with fans, their raucous applause sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
It’s been a stressful week, but tonight I feel nothing but pride. Every headache-inducing day and late night at the office has been leading up to this moment—the first game of the season. And I’m ready for my team to prove what they’ve got.
As the team shuffles down the chute and out onto the ice, the sea of jersey-clad spectators leap to their feet, fists pumping and cheers echoing through the stadium. Moments later, our competitors take the ice.
Let the games begin.
Beside me, Gretchen rests her elbows on the glass half wall, watching the teams warm up with a look of determination in her eyes. “Which ones are our guys again?”
“The green jerseys.”
She frowns and squints. “But they’re both green.”
Stifling a laugh, I give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “The Denver Avalanche are teal, Gretch. Don’t hurt yourself. You can go get food, if you want.”
She brightens at the mention of hors d’oeuvres, almost enough to make her enthusiasm about the puck drop seem genuine. As soon as the forward for the Avalanche takes control of the puck, though, she scuttles off to the buffet, returning a few minutes later with a plate piled high with spring rolls and chicken wings.
“Want some?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m not very hungry.”
The truth is, my stomach is probably about ready to eat itself, but my nerves have kept a vise grip on me all day, and I haven’t been able to stomach a thing. Not unless you count the two oat-milk lattes I’ve sucked down to keep myself alert.
Maybe Gretchen has a point about my caffeine habits, but that’s a conversation for another time. For now, my eyes are locked on the ice, my attention wandering only momentarily when I spot a certain broad-shouldered head of security standing one section beneath my box.
A fluttery feeling stirs in my belly.
Holt looks handsome as hell in that Boston Titans polo, even if the jewel tone does seem a little contrary to his personality. His usual black shirt and slacks complement his broody gray eyes and the dark stubble peppering his angular jaw, but I like him in green equally as much. Or maybe I just like the idea of him matching my nails.
That’s a worrying thought.
I look away from him just in time to watch the Avalanche score the first goal of the game, and a few minutes later, the second. Shit.
All the things I used to know about Alex seem to be thrown out the window. He used to love the thrill of speeding down the ice, the rush of adrenaline with each hit, but right now he looks tired. Worn out. Completely over it.
It’s strange because he should be at the top of his game. He’s single, just like he wanted, and he recently signed a lucrative deal with Rush Sports, one of Canada’s biggest sporting goods brands. And not that I went looking, but I see photos of him on the hockey blogs from time to time with different women on his arm. A blonde in a silver dress he took to the ESPN awards last month, and a buxom redhead he was photographed with leaving a nightclub the week after.
