Page 18 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
My hands start to tremble, so I form them into fists and cross my arms over my chest, gulping down my nerves and hoping whatever comes out of my mouth is half as eloquent as what my grandfather would have said at a time like this.
You can do this, Eden.
“I know the team is hurting right now,” I say, trying to steady my wavering voice. “No one worse than me. Pete, my grandpa, was my mentor and my friend. I know many of you can say the same. But we can’t let losing him turn into a losing season. It’s not what he would want, and I sure as hell know it’s not what you all want either.”
A few players nod in agreement while others seem to find the floor more interesting. I clear my throat, demanding their attention, and clear as day, a snicker cuts through the locker room. There’s no doubt in my head who the source is.
My gaze briefly wanders toward him, confirming what I already suspected. A tight, smug smile is pulling at Alex Braun’s lips, threatening to shrink my confidence to the size of the thin, icy shavings on the blades of his skates.
“I’ll tell you what else my grandfather would have wanted,” I say, my voice firmer now. “For you to treat me with the same respect that you treated him. We need to rise above the drama and move forward. It’s the only way this works.”
Briefly, I pause, weighing the wisdom of my next words. Fuck it.
“I’ll be blunt. You guys looked like shit out there today. And I, for one, don’t want our critics to be proven right this season. I’m going to work my ass off for this team. Are you?”
I scan the team, noting a couple of nods of agreement. It’s a start.
“My door is always open, so if you have any suggestions, I’m all ears. Let’s turn this around, and make not only my grandpa proud, but each other.”
Having said my piece, I swivel on my heel, not allowing myself even a second to assess the team to see if anything I said stuck. Instead, I make a clean exit, letting my pumps carry me as fast as possible across the locker room floor. I don’t even spare the extra steps to walk around the team logo this time.
So what if it’s bad luck? No amount of bad luck could be worse than what I already have.
I rush toward the elevators, stabbing the call button as hard as I can. When the big silver doors part, I hurry inside, turning to jab the DOOR CLOSE button. But before the doors can obey, I spot a tall, broad figure heading in my direction at a slow jog.
“Hold the door,” Holt calls, his voice low and rich, like caramel syrup being poured over chocolate ice cream.
For half a second, I weigh my options. I could pretend not to hear him. Let the elevator doors close and finally be alone, where I can fall apart without an audience.
But something in me reacts instinctively. Against my better judgment, I extend one hand, keeping the doors open long enough for Holt to step in next to me. When I pull away, the doors slide closed, and then it’s only him and me, truly alone for the first time since I fled his room my junior year.
That was six years ago, and in that time, this man has only grown larger, in every sense. He was always bigger than the other guys during his Sutton days, but the man standing beside me now is pure muscle. His company-branded black polo hugs his thick biceps, the fabric stretched across his broad chest. When he speaks, his deep voice fills every inch of the small space we share.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his expression soft but serious.
I can’t hold his gaze without facing the uneven heartbeat thrumming in my chest, so I turn my focus to the elevator buttons instead and lie. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
Damn him for being so perceptive. My shoulders sink as I deflate, the weight of the last ten minutes fully crashing down on me.
Of all the people in the world, Holt Rossi is the furthest thing from my chosen shoulder to cry on. But he’s here, and he’s ready to listen. One more look into those smoky gray eyes, and my fragile heart opens up.
“It’s all just . . . a lot harder than I thought it would be,” I whisper to the floor.
“What is? Having Braun here? Or taking your grandfather’s place?”
I scoff, looking up to offer Holt a weak smile. “All of the above.”
His eyes shift, deepening with a kindness I can’t quite describe. “Understood. It’s a tough job, I’m sure.”
“Grandpa left some big shoes to fill,” I say, swallowing the tears needling my throat as I wish with all my heart that Grandpa Pete were here now.
