Page 61 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
My laugh falls from my lips without warning. I love this carefree side to him.
As we walk, he tips his chin toward the box in my hands. “Let me carry that.”
“I’m perfectly capable of carrying a ten-pound present,” I say, clutching the box to my chest. “Plus, I don’t want you taking credit for my gift.”
He cracks a half smile that sends a warm, buzzy feeling reverberating through me. “Fair. Come on, I’ll show you where to put it. And where to find the rosé.”
“I just came from my mother’s house, so yeah, wine would be greatly appreciated right now.”
I follow Holt up the driveway and into Lucian’s sprawling backyard, which is decorated for the season with more pumpkins than I’ve ever seen within the city limits. There are a few familiar faces, mostly players, gathered around picnic tables that must have been brought in for the occasion, and in the distance, the giddy squeals of first graders spill from a giant castle-shaped bounce house.
I drop my present on the table with the other brightly colored boxes, trying not to chuckle at the poorly wrapped G.I. Joe-sized box that is almost definitely Holt’s.
“Let’s get you a drink before I turn you loose to the team,” he says, leading me to an outdoor bar on the patio.
Despite it being a seven-year-old’s birthday party, there’s no shortage of adult beverage options. I select a bottle of rosé, pouring myself a generous glass before locating Lucian and his wife, Camille, across the yard. They appear to be in conversation with Tate, the rookie, but when Lucian spots me, he immediately pivots away, his eyes bright with excitement.
“You made eet,” he says with a grin, pulling me in for a hug that takes me totally off guard.
Maybe French-Canadians are just more affectionate than we Americans are, or maybe the team really is starting to accept me. I’m hoping it’s both.
“Happy to be here.” I smile, then scan the yard for any sign of a newly minted seven-year-old. “Where’s the birthday boy?”
Lucian juts a thumb toward the bounce house behind him. “Zee kids have hardly left that thing. We will have to deflate eet to get them out.”
Tate snorts. “Dude, for the love of all things safety, please do not trap your son and his friends in a deflated bouncy house.”
“Speaking of safety.” Price St. James appears out of nowhere, slapping a hand on Holt’s back. “You’re not here as security, man. You’re here as a friend. You don’t have to be guarding the boss all night.”
Heat creeps up my neck and flushes my cheeks. “Hi, Saint, nice to see you too. But I appreciate the extra layer of safety.”
It’s not a total lie. Being close to Holt makes me feel safe for all sorts of reasons. It’s not just that he would never let me get hurt. He would also never be the one to hurt me. Unlike Alex, who has just appeared with a beer in his hands and a frown on his lips. Someone doesn’t appear to be in much of a partying mood.
“Hey, Eden, did you scope out Holt’s wrapping job?” Tate nods toward the gifts table, suppressing a smirk. “I thought the Titans hired a security firm, but I think this dude might be a professional DIY-er.”
Holt grunts, but before he can get a word in, he’s interrupted by Saint’s cackling laugh.
“DIY? What the fuck does that mean, dude?”
“Do it yourself,” Tate says calmly. “What, you’ve never been on Pinterest before?”
The guys break out into some ridiculous argument about whether Pinterest is only for women, throwing around jokes like they’re racking up points and earning plenty of laughs from everyone. Well, everyone but Alex. I haven’t seen him smile once since I arrived. Not that it matters much to me. His bad mood is only my problem if it impacts his game.
“All right, is enough,” Camille finally announces, clapping her hands. “Is time for presents.”
As Lucian and his wife round up the kids, the rest of us take our seats at the picnic tables. There are limited spots, and I certainly don’t mind fitting four people to a bench, allowing me to cozy up close to Holt by necessity.
We’re close enough that he can ask me in a quiet grumble, “Is my present wrapping really that bad?”
I bite my tongue, suppressing a smile as I give his giant thigh a quick squeeze. “Sort of. But you make up for your wrapping inadequacies in so many other more pleasurable ways . . . so I like you anyway.”
It’s a quiet, silly comment, but it’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud. I have feelings for Holt. And the more I turn the words over in my head, the more I know they’re true.
24
* * *
HOLT
“You want another one, man?” Madden looks over at me with a concerned expression.
