Page 68 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“Fuck you, Rossi. Fuck both of you.”
Alex practically hurls his words at us, but when he takes a step closer to Eden, that’s when I lose it. I throw the first punch and have him down on the floor and restrained before he can react.
He struggles against my hold. “Let me go, asshole,” he hisses, thrashing against my firm grip. “I wasn’t going to touch her. I was going to hand her this.”
I look down at his hand. He’s holding a gold watch.
“Let him go, Holt,” Eden says, sounding drained and exhausted already from this fifteen-second exchange.
I release him, and Alex is on his feet before I can barely take two steps back.
Alex extends his hand holding the watch toward Eden. “It was an anniversary gift,” he says, probably for my benefit. “Take it.”
Eden looks uncertain, more confused than I’ve seen her. Then she shakes her head. “Just keep it, Alex.”
“I don’t want the watch,” he says, daring to take another step toward Eden. “I know it was your grandfather’s. Take it.”
Finally, she does. Alex blows out a long sigh and then heads for the door.
What an asshole. If it were so important for him to return that watch, he could have brought it to practice any day of the week.
The door closes, and then we’re alone.
Eden sets the watch on the counter and spins to face me. Worry lines her features, and I cross the room to take her in my arms, to reassure her. But instead, she’s the one checking on me, delicately taking my hand to inspect it.
It’s in this moment that our story comes full circle . . . me with busted knuckles, her tending to them just like all those years ago in college. The significance of this moment isn’t lost on Eden. I can see the emotion in her eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, pressing my lips to her temple. I pull her close, and she rests her head on my chest.
“It’s crazy how one night can change your whole life,” she murmurs.
I squeeze my eyes closed—hard—and fight off an unexpected rush of emotion. “I felt so much for you back then.”
She lifts up on her toes and presses her mouth to the stubble along my jaw. When I meet her eyes, I sense there’s some unspoken thought on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she just whispers, “I made the wrong choice.”
We’re interrupted when her phone rings again.
It better not be Alex. I heave in a deep breath while Eden grabs the phone and checks the caller ID.
“It’s Les,” she says before answering it.
She puts the phone to her ear, and even I can hear the frantic tone in his voice.
“Eden?” I ask when her face falls.
She swallows hard and tells Les to give her a second. When she looks at me, it’s without any of the tenderness from a moment before.
“We have a problem.”
27
* * *
EDEN
Holt was at my place yesterday when Les called with the news. I ushered him out with the excuse that a work thing needed my attention.
Poor Holt, he believed me. He hadn’t yet heard the news, didn’t realize that everything between us had just imploded. I promised to call him later, but even as I said the words, I doubted they were true. Somewhere deep inside, I worried things were over between us—for good this time.
It’s a funny thing to watch your worst nightmares come true. And by funny, I mean shocking and horrible.
When I woke up this morning to an onslaught of panicked notifications on my phone, all of which contained links to news and blog articles featuring my name, I knew that I hadn’t dreamed it. And yesterday, sending Holt away had only been the tip of the iceberg. I was in for one of the worst days of my life.
All it took was one little picture. A shot of me and Holt at Lucian’s son’s birthday party.
Holt’s back is to the camera, one arm wrapped around my waist, his hand lingering on the curve of my ass. Meanwhile, my face is clearly photographed, and it’s turned up toward Holt’s with a smile on my lips, looking at him like he hung the damn moon.
Out of context, it would be a pretty sweet photo. But plastered on the front page of every hockey gossip blog, it makes my stomach churn and sweat bead on my forehead.
Well. Fuck me, I guess.
The media has spun themselves into a frenzy, speculating that I’m involved with someone on the team—just like they all predicted in the beginning. No one wanted to take a young female owner seriously. After my breakup with Alex, it was suggested that I’d soon move on to another player.
My heart slams against my ribs as I scroll through the notifications on my phone, each headline worse than the last.
