Page 64 of The Rival (Looking to Score 2)
Alex gives me a solemn look.
“I’d better go,” I tell him.
With one last look of longing, I turn on my heel and head for the staff elevator.
I think that short exchange was meant to be the conversation where we clear the air between us for good. But I’ve never felt foggy. And though I have a sneaking suspicion that Alex is still standing there, watching me walk away, I keep my eyes locked on what’s ahead of me.
Keep moving, Aspen. Just keep moving forward.
26
* * *
ALEX
We’ve won our first six games of the season, and tonight, the entire team is ready to celebrate. Saint is hosting a party at his place—just a low-key get-together for the team and their significant others.
I finish getting ready and grab the bottle of expensive champagne I’ve had chilling in the fridge. Because I have another thing to celebrate tonight too. The sexual harassment lawsuit I was stressing over finally got dropped today. My name has been almost completely vindicated in the press too, now that the truth is out. Hallelujah. I also found a new agent after firing Kyle the douche.
“Thanks for coming,” Saint says, greeting me at the front door when I arrive twenty minutes later.
“Thanks for hosting.” I hand him the bottle of champagne, and he nods.
“Come on in. Food and drinks are in the kitchen. Help yourself. PlayStation tournament in the basement, and cigars out on the deck.”
“Okay, cool. Thanks, man.”
Saint’s been there for me these past few weeks, ever since I admitted to him the depth of my feelings for Aspen . . . and got that awful tattoo.
I definitely want to check out this PlayStation tournament, but first I need something to drink, so I head to the kitchen. Tate and Reeves are seated at the island, munching on appetizers.
“Hey,” I say, tipping my chin in their direction before scoping out the beer situation.
The yellow label on one bottle sends a jolt down my spine. It’s the same brand Aspen and I enjoyed last summer at that brewery in Ottawa. I grab a Budweiser instead and twist off the top.
“Dude, you’ve got to try one of these,” Tate says to me, holding out a paper plate.
“What is it?” I take a step closer.
“Heaven in your mouth. That’s what it is.”
I grab one of the appetizers from the plate—it appears to be bacon and puff pastry. And when I chew, I catch a hint of fig too. It would have paired wonderfully with that grapefruit IPA. Instead, I choke down another swig of Bud.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Tate and Reeves carry the conversation, and aside from some well-timed grunts and the occasional nod, I’m barely hanging on.
I didn’t expect to see Aspen tonight. But she arrived a few minutes ago, tagging along with Eden and Holt. Ducking her chin to avoid meeting my eyes, she shuffled past the kitchen where I’ve planted myself near the food—because the rookie was right, these bacon-fig things are amazing.
But one look at Aspen, and I’ve forgotten how to breathe, much less chew.
At least she showed up single. I wouldn’t have handled it very well if she’d walked in on some other guy’s arm.
Even though I’m trying to participate in whatever topic it is that Tate and Reeves have moved on to, I’m distracted. I can overhear Aspen telling a story to Eden, and I’m dying to know what has her so animated. I steal a look every few seconds over to where she’s standing by the couch.
“I wanted to reevaluate every life choice I’d ever made,” Aspen says with a wave of her hand. “Seriously. It was one of those moments where I wanted to just leave quietly, hanging my head.”
Eden chuckles, and shame burns hotly through me.
Could she be talking about our summer together?
God, I hope not. But what if she is? What if she doesn’t have any of the fond memories I do about our time in Canada?
The idea of that cuts deep. But the only way to know is to talk to her. First, I’m going to need something stronger to drink.
Fortified by a few sips of expensive whiskey, I’ve talked myself into going to say hello. But since Aspen’s no longer in the living room, I go off in search of her.
First, I check downstairs. A few of the guys are lounging on sectional sofas, playing video games on Saint’s giant flatscreen. And Eden is down here too, talking to Lucian and his wife, Camille. But no Aspen.
Next, I decide to check outside on the back deck. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. Even with the soft landscape lighting and nearly full moon, it’s pretty dark out here.
Holt and Saint are sitting in cushy club chairs, finishing cigars. And Aspen is leaning against the railing of the deck.
