Page 4 of The Rival (Looking to Score 2)
Gretchen’s gaze wanders to the cluster of broad-shouldered hockey players who are chuckling at some inside joke and ignoring us. Which is just as well—one less person I have to make idle chitchat with.
The idea of me dating one of the Titans is so laughably absurd, that my broken little heart nearly lets the comment slide by without so much as skipping a beat.
“No, I—”
“They’re ready for us,” Holt says, cutting in. He pats the security guy’s shoulder before stepping over the threshold, waving for us to follow.
Time to swallow that ever-present lump in my throat, blink back the tears, and smile like I really mean it.
We head inside and the music overwhelms me, thumping in my ears. I follow along down a long hallway and through a door bragging VIP ONLY.
“Gretchen is grabbing drinks. Did you want something? Go catch up with her,” Eden says, assuming the natural role of boss in our relationship.
I throw her a dorky salute and turn on my heel toward the crowd gathering around the circular bar. But Gretchen isn’t at the counter I squeeze up to. I order a gin and ginger ale anyway—I’m going to need a little buzz to get me through the night.
What do I do now? Head back to Eden and Holt and resign myself to my fate as a third wheel? Try to make friendly conversation with one of the not-so-gentle giants I work with?
I take a sip of my drink, which turns out to be a lot more gin than ginger ale. Okay, so a lot of buzz to get me through this night.
My phone vibrates. Thank goodness. I could use a distraction. It’s a text from my mom.
Hey, baby girl. Wondering if you and Dale are coming home for the weekend like we talked about. Let me know.
Okay, not at all the distraction I was looking for. Irrational tears well in my eyes when I see my ex’s name.
“Fuck,” I whisper, wiping at my wet cheeks with the back of my hand.
I knew I should have told my family right away about our breakup. I freaking knew it would bite me in my stupid butt, not getting it over with. Dale’s words come back to me.
“I met someone else. We have chemistry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”
My feet move of their own accord, carrying me toward the restrooms, where I squeeze past the line to tuck myself in the corner by the fire escape. I’m kind of an expert at crying in public, and faking a phone call has always been my go-to move.
Angling my body away from any prying eyes, I tuck my phone against my cheek to hide my somber expression. I have zero intentions of calling my mom back tonight. I just need to look busy while I gulp some much-needed deep breaths and try to compose myself.
“Are you okay?”
I blink open my wet eyes to see that I’m standing in the shadow of a tall figure. “Fine, thanks.”
“You sure?”
“U-um, sorry, I’m on a call.”
“With who?”
I ignore the persistent stranger, my despair bubbling into a seething rage. Why can’t a girl cry at the club in peace?
“Seems like an asshole,” he says, droning on. “Won’t let you get a word in.”
I spin around, ready to fend off whatever bullshit flirtation this brainless idiot is trying to pull off, but my words catch in my throat.
My stranger is none other than Alex Braun. Starting center Alex Braun. New team player, Alex Braun. PR menace and my boss’s ex-boyfriend, Alex Braun. Don’t even get me started on that loaded history.
What the hell is he doing here?
“It’s my mom,” I manage to say.
“Your mom, huh?”
Ugh. I swipe away one lingering tear from my cheek before I open my mouth again, intending to continue the pretense, but I instantly give up. After all, I’m busted, and I don’t even have the energy or desire to make this encounter anything different from what it is.
“Fine, you caught me.” I drop the phone in my purse with a huff like the useless prop that it is.
“’Bye, Mom.” Alex smirks, leaning against the opposite wall, his wing-tipped shoes brushing my black booties.
He’s one of the few men who opted for a slightly more casual look tonight, no suit jacket to hide the corded muscles of his forearms, visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down. He tilts his head to the side, his startingly blue eyes tracing a slow line down my body.
“So, why are you hiding in a corner, Aspen?”
I didn’t realize he knew my name. Yes, we’ve been introduced, but I guess any time a professional athlete actually remembers your name, it’s a little jarring.
I take a slow breath, still pulling myself back together. Or at least trying to. “I’m not hiding. I’m recouping.”
“Recouping?” He grunts, angling a thick, dark eyebrow. It’s like he just knows.
