Page 34 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“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.
“Sorry. 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.
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?”
