Page 21 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
Stepping into the spray of hot water, I let out a sigh. I grab my bodywash and lather up, washing my face, armpits, groin . . . all the important parts.
Now that I’m alone, my thoughts return to Eden. Watching her take charge of the guys, giving that speech. Hearing how composed and confident she sounded.
My hand drifts down to my dick, and I give it a slow caress. I’m already half-hard just from thinking about the way Eden looked in that suit, the way she commanded the attention of every guy in that room. She’s a force to be reckoned with.
Forget it.
But it’s not like I can ignore the rush of heat to my groin. I give the base of my cock a warning squeeze.
Now’s not the time, dude.
Later, I promise myself.
If I keep this up, things with Eden are bound to get complicated. I shut the door on my past, but maybe I can open it just a crack. Just long enough to peek inside to see what I missed.
7
* * *
EDEN
“You’re saving me one of those tortillas or I’m stabbing you.”
My eyebrows dart up at the sight of our team captain pointing a plastic knife at one of the rookies. Wow . . . this is officially nothing like the elegant start-of-season banquets my grandfather used to host at his Victorian mansion in Cambridge.
I wanted to keep the well-loved tradition alive by throwing a small dinner party at my condo for all the players and their plus-ones. But this night is quickly turning into a mess. I ordered fajitas for forty-five people from one of my favorite local restaurants. We have twenty players on our roster. Add in the plus-ones that a few of the guys brought, and this should have been plenty of food.
I guess I underestimated how much a professional hockey team can eat . . . or how much room these big guys can take up. Luckily, the guys aren’t shy about being practically on top of one another. Personal space is nonexistent in the hockey world, and after a few beers, no one thinks twice about three grown men piling onto a two-person loveseat.
As I wander through the kitchen collecting empty beer bottles, I’m warmed by the sound of comfortable chatter mixing with intermittent deep, rumbling laughs from the living room. For the first time since Grandpa Pete passed away, I feel welcome here among the team. As I should, I suppose, because this is my home, after all. But baby steps.
“Need another beer, Reeves?” I call out to our left wing forward, who’s leaning against my granite kitchen island, gripping a long-necked bottle that looks close to empty.
He tips it toward me before draining what’s left of it. “No, thanks, Miss Wynn. Too many of these, and I’ll be about as useless at drills tomorrow as a donkey on skates.”
I bite my tongue, holding back the very real truth that, based on what I saw on the ice the other day, a donkey on skates might prove to be an asset to the team. But Wild assured me that yesterday’s scrimmage ran way smoother than the on-ice practices leading up to it, which is a much-needed sliver of reassurance.
“Well, if you change your mind, the fridge is stocked. And call me Eden,” I remind him with a soft smile.
But while beer is in no short supply, I can’t say as much for the food. After a quick sweep through the kitchen to stack the empty trays, I sneak off down the hall to place an emergency pizza order. If I’m going to avoid any accusations of trying to starve the team, we’ll be needing some reinforcements.
Just as I press the COMPLETE ORDER button, my phone buzzes with an alert from the front desk, notifying me that I have more guests on their way up.
When I tug the door open, standing outside is Price St. James, one of the defensemen, who, like most of the players tonight, arrived with a six-pack of craft beer hanging in his grip. He hands it off to me, and I admire the colorful geometric design on the cans before thanking him with a polite smile. He’s tall and broad-shouldered like all hockey players, but he’s also got a quick smile and sparkling blue eyes. Everyone calls him Saint. I’m still getting used to the nickname thing. They all have one.
He steps inside, shaking his head at me when I go to close the door behind him. “Hang on now, my plus-one is just a few steps behind me.”
I arch one curious brow, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Saint.”
Most of the guys on the team are single, a bit of information that the media loves to dwell on. Of all the players to be tied down, Price St. James seems like the least likely. When the tabloids aren’t speculating which of the players I’ll end up falling into bed with, they’re posting pictures of Saint at the hottest Boston bars, surrounded by a new group of puck bunnies each weekend. And I guess those pictures aren’t doctored, because my mere suggestion of his significant other makes him snicker into his fist, and a familiar chuckle agrees from down the hall.
