Page 49 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“Are you leaving?” Gretchen asks, disappointed. “You haven’t even gotten to the juicy parts.”
“We’re hosting a kids’ clinic at the arena today,” I say. “I have to be there early to give the opening remarks to a bunch of mini hockey legends in the making.”
“Can’t the mini hockey legends wait a little bit longer?” She juts out her lower lip as far as it goes. “You can’t withhold details from me now.”
“I can and I will,” I say, grinning as I scribble my signature across the bottom of the check and slip my credit card back into my wallet. Gretchen’s puppy-dog eyes don’t have power over me anymore, and even if they did, they can’t compete with work obligations.
“Why don’t you just get Aspen to do it? The kids won’t know the difference between the team owner and the team owner’s assistant,” Gretchen points out.
I roll my eyes. “Sure, and then I’ll just have Aspen run the whole team too, on top of managing my entire professional life.” Even if Aspen is amazing at her job, that would hardly be fair. I’m already conscious of how many hours she’s working—and it’s a lot.
“Technically, that would make her Holt’s employer, right? Not you? Maybe then you could bang him without any guilt.” Gretchen’s eyebrows jump up and down suggestively, but I shoot her a stern look and she stops. “Sorry, sorry,” she grumbles, waving me off. “I’ll take care of the tip. Tell the kiddos I said hi.”
“Thanks, Gretch. Gotta run.” I smile, tossing in a wave as I exit the patio.
It’s a ten-minute walk back to my condo, just long enough for me to pop in my earbuds and listen to the first three songs on the playlist Holt shared with me. The gritty vocals and atmospheric guitar solos send adrenaline pulsing through my veins. He was right. This is the perfect pump-up music for any situation.
By the time I make it home, I have forty-five minutes until I have to be at the arena, just long enough to put the finishing touches on my speech. A few run-throughs in my bathroom mirror later, I’m feeling confident and ready.
Maybe the playlist wasn’t the only thing Holt was right about.
As I rehearse the lines I wrote about believing in yourself and working as a team, I realize my words perfectly reflect what he said to me the other night. A team is more than just one player or one coach. It’s a living, breathing organism made up of different essential parts, and if I take on the pressure of the entire Titans organization, I’m going to crumple. I have to trust others to do their part, and focus on what’s in front of me.
And today, that’s giving a speech to a bunch of eager ten-year-olds on skates.
I’ve got this. I’m a Wynn, and Wynns don’t fail. Always Wynn, no matter what.
I repeat the family mantra in my head as I slip into a pair of black booties and my camel-colored topcoat, giving the jeans and sweater I wore to lunch a bit of a professional edge. Not that these kids would mind if I showed up in an oversized hockey jersey, but this outfit makes me look as unstoppable as I feel right now.
While I’m applying a fresh coat of lipstick, my phone buzzes with another calendar reminder. Only twenty minutes until speech time. Time to hustle. Luckily, there’s barely a heel on these booties, and I’m in the parking garage and slipping into my SUV in no time, rehearsing my speech in my head as I back out of the garage.
“Ever since I was a little girl, hockey has been an important part of my—”
Crunch.
My stomach lurches back against my spine at the sound of metal crashing against metal.
Oh God, no. Not right now. This can’t be happening.
I squeeze my eyes shut, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth. But I can’t hide from what I’ve done forever, so I pry one eye open, then the other, turning cautiously to peek over one shoulder to assess the damage.
Shit. I hit the freaking garage door. Way to go, Eden.
A string of curse words pile up in my throat as I climb out of my car to inspect the damage on the garage door. I’ve seen worse, but I’ve also sure as hell seen better. When I click the button on the fob provided by the condo building to open the door, there’s a harsh gear-grinding sound, but no movement.
Looks like my SUV isn’t going anywhere, and neither am I. So much for my speech to the next generation of Titans.
My stomach churns with a nauseating combination of frustration and anger, mixed with a heavy dose of self-doubt. Just when I was starting to feel confident in my role, I go and do something completely stupid. I can’t even back out of my own parking garage without screwing it up, and I’m supposed to be in charge of a pro hockey team?
