Page 70 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
Without a counter argument, I take a hefty sip. It’s piping hot and burns my tongue a little, but at this point, it sort of feels like I deserve it.
“What you need is a killer PR team.” Gretchen clucks her tongue, folding her arms over her chest. “They can smooth all of this over. They’ll take the old-college-flame route, lean into the fact that Holt is an independent contractor for the team, not a direct employee . . .”
She rambles on like this for a while, spilling ideas about how to solve this mess that, come to think of it, she’s partially responsible for. After all, she’s the one who gave me that garbage idea about banging Holt out of my system.
But deep down, I know the truth. No matter what advice my best friend did or didn’t give me, what happened between Holt and me was inevitable.
If I were more of a romantic, I might call it destiny. However you label it, it’s not something I ever want to let go of. The late-night drives in his car, chasing highway signs and blaring grunge music. The sweet, quiet evenings alone on his balcony, trading bits of our pasts like rookie cards.
Every moment with him has been nothing short of perfect, but maybe all good things have to come to an end, just like they did back at Sutton. That morning in his bed, tucked in some dim corner of a fraternity house, my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and I chose flight. But I never thought I’d have to face that choice with him again.
“Um, hello? E? Are you okay?”
It’s not until Gretchen squeezes my hand that I realize I’ve been staring off into space like a sad, lost puppy who doesn’t know which way is home.
“I’m fine,” I lie, swallowing the tears gathering in my throat. “I think I just need a shower and a little more space to process this.”
Gretchen nods, her lips firmly pursed together as she reaches for her keys. “I get it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, okay?”
Short of turning back the clock, or complete erasure of the world wide web, I don’t think there’s any saving me now.
28
* * *
EDEN
After two days of working from home, which really consisted of more panicking and doom-scrolling through comments sections than working, I finally decided to pick up the phone, but only because Les was calling.
His voice was so sweet and comforting on the other end of the line, and he didn’t even mind waiting while I took a break halfway through the call to cry. Somehow, after thirty minutes of back and forth, he convinced me to come back into the office today. Whether that was a good idea or not remains to be seen. Still, I’m as shaky as a toddler trying out her first pair of skates.
I’m no stranger to facing my fears. The past several months have made me an expert in that department. Angry crowds of protesters hardly faze me anymore, and I can confidently look a full professional hockey team square in the eye and speak my mind.
But as I stand in the hallway just outside the doors of the Titans corporate office, fear doesn’t even begin to describe the cold feeling that’s running through my veins. Terror, maybe, mixed with a certain grade of anxiety I’ve never known.
But I’ve made it this far. No use turning back. Les’s words echo in my head, keeping me from running back outside. “Hiding won’t help you.”
Of all the scary things I’ve faced since taking over the team, those four little words might be the most frightening of all. Maybe because I know exactly how true they are.
I can’t hide forever. Which is why I’m here, shaking in my black patent-leather pumps just a few steps away from facing my new reality, a reality where everyone in the office—in the city, even—knows about me and Holt. The owner of the Titans dating the head of security. How will everyone respond? Anger? Acceptance? Ambivalence, even? I won’t know until I step inside.
Over the last couple of days at home, I avoided calls from Lucian’s wife, Camille, as well as Reeves, Tate, and a handful of other players, which surprised me. Even though I wasn’t ready to return their calls, I doubted theirs were calls of condemnation. I imagined they were actually shows of support, which made me feel the tiniest bit better. Even if I was only imagining it.
Gretchen texted me constantly. My lack of response to her funny memes or encouraging notes didn’t seem to stop her. This morning’s note assured me that I was a badass with a cute butt. It made me smile, despite how miserable and alone I felt inside.
Standing here, ready to face the consequences, I take a deep breath to steady myself.
