Page 22 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
My fingernails instinctually dig into the soft skin of my palms. I know that laugh all too well. It’s Alex, the only member of the team I was hoping would pass on the invite to this dinner.
Anxiety builds in my throat. I should have known that the two biggest players on the team would buddy up, but just knowing that my ex has made a friend on the team leaves me feeling uneasy. It’s a catch-22.
On one hand, I want everyone to think of Alex as poorly as I do. On the other hand, if they don’t rally around their newest teammate, we’re doomed for the season. Either way, my stomach starts churning the second he steps up to the door.
I instantly recognize the six-pack tucked beneath his arm. It’s the same hoppy sour we used to keep our fridge stocked with. His favorite. Personally, just the smell always nauseated me. Of course that’s what he chose to bring.
“The day Saint’s got a girlfriend will be a cold day in hell,” Alex says, shooting me a wink that gives me an instant wave of nerves.
Based on the way these two are laughing like old friends, I’d say the team is starting to accept Alex as one of their own. Now if I can just get them to do the same for me.
“Or maybe a hot day on the rink.” Saint claps Alex on the back. “Whichever comes first.”
“Hey, eez not so bad, Saint,” Lucian Bisset, our goalie, hollers from the couch in his thick French accent. He has one muscular arm wrapped around his slender blond wife, who smiles as she sips daintily from a can of sparkling lemon water. “When you have a wife, zere eez always someone to be, how you call, Didi?”
Saint frowns, his dark brows scrunching together as he tries to interpret. “Didi? I thought your wife’s name was Camille.”
Lucian mimes turning an invisible steering wheel, then motions toward his half-empty beer resting on the glass coffee table. “You know. Tonight, she is my Didi.”
Saint’s blue eyes brighten with a flicker of recognition. “Oh, you mean DD. The designated driver.” He doubles over with laughter, then crosses over to the couch to slap his hand against Lucian’s. “Damn, I was gonna say, man. Whoever this Didi girl is, can I have her number? She sounds fuckin’ hot.”
“Language, Saint,” Camille says, frowning.
“My bad, my bad.” Saint laughs, lifting his hands in surrender. “What I meant to say is she sounds fuckin’ pretty. Is that better?”
As the players laugh, Camille rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t bother pushing the argument any further. It’s not worth it, especially with Saint. Despite his nickname, everything about this man screams sinner.
“What about you, Wild? How’s the single life treating you?” Saint asks, tilting his chin toward Coach.
Wild winces at the question, slowly shaking his head as he gulps what’s left of his beer. From what I understand, he and his ex-wife finalized their divorce in the spring, right around the time Alex and I broke things off. There must have been something in the air.
“I’m not taking questions on the subject,” he finally says gruffly. “Why don’t you bug the rookie about it instead? He’s the one who’s been glued to the dating apps half the night.”
Tate nearly leaps out of his own skin at that comment, shoving his phone into his back pocket before he can be caught in the act.
“Attaboy, rookie.” Saint cackles, clapping Tate on the shoulder. “Get yourself some action.”
Tate rolls his eyes, then his gaze bounces between Wild and me. “I—I’m just swiping,” he mutters, his cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink. “I’ll get off my phone, I promise.”
“This isn’t math class, Tate.” Wild laughs. “Do what you want. Just don’t come crying to me when you catch something that you need a prescription for.”
“Camille, how are you and Lucian enjoying Boston?” I ask, hoping to steer the conversation back into safe territory. Because, wow. Seriously, do these guys have no boundaries?
Camille leans forward, placing her fingers on her chin. “Well, good. Is nice. But we’re still learning American culture.”
“Has there been anything that’s surprised you?” I ask. I know that she and Lucian have lived in the US for about eighteen months now.
Camille considers my question. “The people here . . . Americans, you are very friendly. Very open,” she says in her elegant accent. “Oh, and the portion size . . . It’s way too much food.”
This gets a chuckle out of a few of us, but Lucian only shakes his head. “Is fantastic.”
“I have a new friend. We meet at dog park. She is dating and says the singles scene here is horrible.”
A few heads nod around me.
No comment.
Camille continues, having captured an audience now. “She says American men are . . .” She waves one hand in a dismissive manner. “No matter, I am happy I have my mate.”
