Page 17 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
At the very end of the line, my gaze locks with a familiar set of ocean-colored eyes, their cutting gaze sending a shiver racing down my spine. Fresh from the shower, Alex Braun stands in front of me in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts that hang low on his trim waist, his fingers scratching absently at his bare chest.
I can’t help but steal a glance, checking the space on his left pec, right above his heart. My stomach deflates. He still has it. The dark-shaded heart tattoo that he got for me, a surprise for my twenty-fifth birthday. My initials used to be tucked in the design somewhere, but I see that he’s since gotten it filled in, the whole heart now as black as a hockey puck. He didn’t even bother to leave any bare skin to hold another woman’s name someday.
I can’t help but wonder if that was on purpose. I may have held his heart for a few years, but he’s not the kind of man to be held down. Not by me. Not by anyone. It took me a while to see that, but now it’s as clear as day.
When I finally drag my gaze away from Alex, my focus moves to the next face in the locker room, one that’s every bit as familiar, although much less expected. Holt is standing in the corner near the back exit, his thick arms folded over his chest as he surveys the locker room with serious gray eyes. When he meets my gaze, his unhappy look fades.
I didn’t expect to see him here, and a jolt of electricity races through me. I was prepared to deal with one bit of romantic history today, not two, if you can even call what Holt and I had romance. It was a one-night mistake, and I’m undecided if that’s better or worse than the five-year mistake I made with Alex.
Either way, seeing the two of them here together is unsettling—the man I chose . . . and the man I didn’t.
But guys like Holt Rossi have heartache written all over them. Back in college, I thought Alex was the safe choice. The golden boy, a fun-loving jock everyone adored. I’d wanted a little bit of fun, to break out of my shell and experience all that college had to offer. A hot fling. Maybe something more. But I wasn’t looking for love.
Against all odds, that’s what Alex and I found together. He said I wasn’t like the other girls he’d dated. Well, the term dated is a generous one. Back then Alex was known mostly for casual hookups. His few relationships had only lasted a couple of weeks—just long enough for him to get bored and move on to the next groupie. I guess I was the exception. I challenged him.
We worked well together. For a while, anyway. We weren’t the best at communicating. Sharing with each other about our needs was never a strength, but then again, we were young. Each other’s first loves. I’d like to think I’ve learned a thing or two about myself since then.
And now with some age and perspective, I question if Alex was the safe choice at all.
I know it’s a waste of imagination, but my mind can’t help but play out alternate versions of my past. Versions where I didn’t run from Holt’s bed and into Alex’s arms. A version where I stayed with Holt and enjoyed his tenderness for a little longer.
If I had, would I have spent those years by Holt’s side? Would I still be there now?
But there was nothing easy about being with Holt that night. The way he kissed knocked me over—it was like drowning, gasping for air, but not wanting to surface. His mouth was so hot and insistent, I could barely breathe. It was too much, but not enough at the same time. Like water brought to a boil, flooding me with relief and a hint of danger. But my complicated and confusing emotions fell by the wayside as I gave in to what my body wanted.
And that night, I wanted him.
The way Holt looked at me, I can still remember it. Gazing deep into my eyes as if to memorize their color. His fingertips skimming my skin like I was the most precious thing in the world . . .
Snapping me out of the dangerous memory is Wild’s low voice.
“Miss Wynn?”
Wild’s rough chuckle brings me back to the moment, where I’m face-to-face with twenty expectant men, all waiting to hear what I have to say.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. What has gotten into me?
Here I am, dressed in my sharpest power suit, holding the attention of a professional hockey team, all of whom are in my employ. I should feel like I have the room in the palm of my hand. Instead, I’m caught up in my own ancient history and the two men who helped me write it. It’s unprofessional, which is not the way I want to portray myself. Ever.
