Page 38 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
Focus, Eden. You didn’t invite him over for dinner and a show. There are actual conversations to be had.
“We should order food,” I say, tilting my chin toward the menu on my nightstand. “I was too nervous to eat earlier, so I took a bubble bath to calm down instead.”
His stormy gaze momentarily dips from mine to assess the fluffy white hotel robe I’m still wearing. “Did it work?”
“Sadly, no. I’m still as on edge as ever.” I tug the terrycloth belt a little tighter, staring down with embarrassment at the hotel slippers on my feet. Had I known he would be over in such a hurry, I would have gotten properly dressed.
But when I look back up at Holt, he’s not smirking at my appearance like I would expect. Instead, a shallow crease has formed across his forehead. He’s studying me with a sort of intensity that might feel somewhat off-putting coming from anyone else, but there’s something oddly comforting about having Holt look at me this way, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“So, is that why you texted me then?” he finally asks, one brow quirking upward. “To help take the edge off?”
His phrasing sends the slightest tingle of electricity radiating from my chest to my fingertips. I can think of one very effective way he could help me take the edge off, a method that I’m certain Gretchen would approve of.
How did she phrase it again? I should get him out of my system, or something like that?
Whatever it was, it’s not the reason I invited him over tonight. In fact, it’s not even an option at all. Not tonight, and not ever. I need to shake that possibility for good.
“I just need to talk through some things,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “But let’s order food first. I could use dinner. And maybe a glass of wine.”
Yes, definitely wine, I decide in that moment. Although I seldom drink during the week, I’ll make an exception tonight.
With a quick nod, Holt sits on the edge of my bed and grabs the menu for the hotel restaurant, reading the options aloud—burgers, salads, typical hotel fare. I settle on a club sandwich, and he calls our order in, tacking on a bison burger for himself and a bottle of rosé.
“Thank God for room service,” I mutter.
Despite my instinct to sit next to him on the bed, I opt for the plush cream-colored sofa across the room. I tuck one ankle behind the other, focusing on keeping my knees glued together. It’s the only way to distract myself from those hypnotic gray eyes.
“So,” he says, planting his elbows on his knees and leaning toward me. It’s the same position Coach Wilder assumes when he’s talking to the players in the locker room. “What’s got you so stressed?”
I fuss with the belt of my robe, avoiding eye contact. “Is everything an acceptable answer? I’m just so worried about the team.”
Without even looking up, I can feel Holt’s warm gaze on me as he waits patiently for me to say more.
Well. Here goes.
“Aspen gave me the full download on our flight here,” I say, pressing to my feet and beginning to pace. “The blogs are saying last night’s win was a fluke, more of a sign that the opposing team needs work than anything else. They picked our offensive line apart, insisting that we’re doomed, and Lord knows that I’ll be the one to blame for a losing season.”
“It’s not exclusively your responsibility,” he says, but I’m too wrapped up in my own downward spiral to acknowledge his comment.
“What if I can’t handle this? What if I let my grandpa, my whole family, everyone down? What if I run the entire Titans franchise into the ground till it’s worth nothing and I have to walk away with my tail between my legs?”
I slow to a stop, heaving a sigh as I will my anxious heart rate back to a normal speed. That was . . . more than I planned on saying. When I’ve caught my breath, I turn back toward Holt, who is staring at the calluses on his palms, nodding slowly as he processes my word vomit.
Frustrated, I huff out, “Say something.”
He meets my eyes, and there’s something solemn about his expression. Finally, he speaks.
“I have an idea. Wait here.”
Before I can say another word, he shoves up from the bed and stalks toward the door, flipping the latch before he leaves to keep it from locking behind him. And just as quickly as he arrived, he’s gone.
My heart squeezes. What happened? Did my oversharing scare him off?
Before I can assemble a complete catalog of worst-case scenarios, he reappears in my doorway, gripping a well-read paperback book.
“What’s that?”
“My therapist gave it to me,” he says, turning it over in his hands. “Seabiscuit. She thought it might help me if I read it.”
