Page 28 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
Gretchen frowns, worry brewing in her deep brown eyes. “Jesus, I’m so sorry. Who knew hockey fans could be such dicks?”
“And sexist,” I say with a huff. “Sometimes I think this city would be happier with a golden retriever for an owner, so long as it’s male.”
“I, for one, think you’re doing a way better job than a golden retriever,” she says.
It’s not much of a compliment, but it makes me laugh, which is something I haven’t done a whole lot of lately.
“Well, I’m glad my fan club has at least one member. Maybe if we win tomorrow, I’ll get a second and a third.”
Gretchen’s smile fades, her voice dipping to a strained whisper. “And what if you lose?”
I heave out a shaky exhale, focusing on the tiny nail brush David is wielding like a Michelangelo of manicures. Admittedly, I’ve been ignoring the very real possibility of a loss.
“Then maybe I’ll be glad management hired the extra security. Personally, I think the protesters are all bark and no bite, but—”
“But you can never be too careful these days.” Gretchen finishes my thought, then steers the conversation in a more positive direction. “I’ll bet the extra security has you feeling better about things, though. Right?”
My heart kicks in my chest. I’ve been having plenty of feelings about our security detail lately, very few of them having to do with my safety. In fact, a hundred percent of those feelings revolve around a certain tall, smoky-eyed man who seems to be occupying the corners of my mind in the least professional of ways.
“Well, I’m feeling all kinds of ways. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about one of our security guards. Any chance you remember Holt Rossi?”
She’s silent, and my gaze wanders back to hers just in time to watch her nose crinkle in thought. “That name sounds familiar, but I’m drawing a blank.”
“He graduated from Sutton the same year we did. Really big guy, kind of a loner type?” There’s a whole arsenal of other more flattering adjectives I could use to describe him. Tall. Broad. Mysterious. A better kisser than any man has the right to be. Need I say more?
After another quick pause, Gretchen’s eyes brighten with a flicker of recognition. “Oh yeah. Rossi. Wasn’t he involved in breaking up that fight at the frat house the night you were trying to hook up with . . . he-who-must-not-be-named?”
“You can say Alex’s name, Gretch,” I say gently. “He’s an ex, not a hex.”
She shrugs. “I know. I just think he doesn’t deserve to take up any more time in our conversations than he already has for the last six years.” She gives me a sly smile.
I’ll give her that. But I don’t think Gretchen understands that working in close proximity to Alex is its own special kind of torture.
If only I didn’t know how tense he got after a game, maybe my hands wouldn’t itch to rub his shoulders. If I were able to forget how hard he was on himself following a loss, I wouldn’t care about how hurt he probably was.
But caring for Alex is no longer my role. He made his decision. He was the one who broke things off, the one who wanted to be single, and he got his wish.
So, why doesn’t he seem any more at peace? I’m not sure. But it’s no longer my job to comfort him. Now he has puck bunnies for that. And according to some of the locker-room chatter I’ve overheard, he’s making good use of their skills.
“Anyway, back to Holt,” Gretchen says with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “Did he remember you from Sutton or something?”
I nod, my teeth habitually finding my lower lip. I never told Gretchen about my one-night history with Holt. It didn’t seem important enough to share at the time. It was just a one-time thing, after all. A fling. A fluke. So, when I slipped out of his bed and scrawled my good-byes on a scrap of paper, that was that. He was in my past, where I thought he’d stay.
And he did, up until now.
“Yeah, he, uh . . . he remembered me. And I remembered him too, of course.” I can’t disguise the nervous hesitation in my voice, and Gretchen catches it right away, her gaze narrowing with a devilish gleam.
“What’s going on?” Her voice is a low, suspicious whisper. “Did something happen between you two?”
Something? Damn near everything happened between us, all in one whirlwind of a night.
I used to think Holt was a one-time thing. An error in judgment on my part. It used to bring me shame, thinking about my night with him. I went to that party determined to get the fun-loving hockey player to notice me, and instead hooked up with the rugged loner. Afterward, I felt ashamed, and Holt was the antihero in my story.
