by Kendall Ryan
“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.”
“Did you?”
He shrugs. “I got through some of it.”
“And did it help?”
“I don’t know. It’s about these three guys who team up to help make this horse—Seabiscuit, that was an underdog, a horse no one thought could win—into a champion.”
“I’m familiar with the gist of it,” I say, recalling seeing the movie many years ago. “But why did your therapist recommend it?”
I’m also curious about why he sees a therapist, but that conversation feels a bit too heavy for a moment like this. He’s already exposing part of himself in offering me the book. Just knowing he’s trying to help—well, it makes me sympathetic.
Holt blows out a sigh, rubbing his palm along the stubble on his jaw. It makes a soft, scratching sound that I know I’ll be thinking about for the rest of the night.
“She said I had to let more people in. Not be so self-reliant. You know, like the guys in the book. It takes all three of them to get the job done.” He stares down at the cover, flipping through the pages for a long moment before finally meeting my gaze.
“So, did you?” I ask. “Let more people in, that is?”
The smallest smirk forms on his lips. “Not really, no.”
I can’t help but laugh. “At least you’re honest.”
When he passes the book to me, I run my thumb along the well-worn spine, inspecting the back cover. “So, what are you saying?”
“I guess I’m saying that you don’t have to do everything yourself. It’s up to the entire organization. The coaching staff. The players. It’s up to the marketing department. Up to the fans to show up. You have to rely on them. If you fail, you fail together.”
A nervous chuckle escapes me. “How comforting.”
“The point is, the only thing you can control is your own actions,” he says, his voice gentle. “Control what you can and let go of what you can’t. Trust your team to do their part.”
It’s quiet between us, a comfortable silence in which we do nothing but stare into each other’s eyes. His are so expressive, clouding and clearing as his mood shifts. Right now, they’re a soft gray, the color of an old comfy sweatshirt I used to have back in my Sutton days.
Everything about Holt is like a perfectly preserved memory that I’m desperate to slip back into, just like that sweatshirt. Even though my brain is constantly screaming at me to be professional, my body has other ideas. He’s just so handsome. And protective of me. That combination is dangerous and really does something to a girl.
“I was worried about you, you know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “After the emergency room visit.”
I slouch back into my seat, folding my arms over my chest. “I was fine.”
“I texted you,” he says. “On the plane. You never responded.”
“I know,” I whisper to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
More silence, and this time, it’s not so comfortable. It’s heavy with all the unspoken words that are begging to be said, the ones we’re both avoiding. But if ever there was a time to be vulnerable with him, it has to be now.
I move from the couch to the spot next to him on the bed, close enough to breathe in the scent of mint and eucalyptus and man. “Can I admit something to you? Something not work-related?”
“Anything, Eden.”
I swallow hard, hoping he really means that. Because I think part of why I’m so twisted up inside is because of this man right here.
“I haven’t really been able to stop thinking about that night we shared,” I admit on a whisper, steadying my gaze on the hotel logo on my slippers.
I pause, turning back to assess his reaction, but he’s silent, his soft eyes attentive. I’m hoping he’ll say something in return, but when he doesn’t, I resort to rambling, desperate to fill the quiet.
“I know it’s crazy and it was so long ago, and we were practically teenagers back in those days, but I just can’t—”
Holt doesn’t give me the chance to finish that thought. Instead, with a shift of his weight on the bed, he closes the short distance between us, breaking every invisible boundary with one press of his full lips against mine.
One kiss. That’s all it takes for me to throw every doubt, every rule I’ve set for myself, out the window.
In this moment, I curse my twenty-one-year-old self for ever leaving this man’s bed. Because the way he kisses me—gently, deeply, sweeter than I’ve ever been kissed before—is something I never want to run away from.
He sucks gently at my lower lip, running his tongue along it and sending a rush of endorphins surging through my system, the kind that make me act against my better judgment. Suddenly, my hands are gripping his shoulders, pulling him in until we’re toppling back, his body moving over mine in a slow, greedy grind.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs against my throat. By the way he trails wet, open-mouthed kisses down to my collarbone, though, he’s showing no signs of slowing down.
“Do you want to stop?” I ask breathlessly.
“Fuck no.”
I can feel his smile against my skin as he nips gently at my jawline, spurring a gasp to fall from my lips. He chuckles, and a flutter beats in my chest at the sound.
God, that laugh. It could bring a woman to her knees. It has before, in fact, and it might again.
“Maybe just this once?” I say, my voice small but hopeful. We’ve done this before. Sort of. What’s once more?
But instead of his low, rich voice in reply, a different voice answers. A soft, feminine voice from outside the door.
“Room service.”
My stomach leaps into my throat as I shoot up in bed, pushing Holt as far away from me as possible.
Holy awkward.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he reassures me, rearranging himself in his joggers before heading for the door.
A young dark-haired woman dressed in black smiles as she wheels in a silver cart, oblivious to the situation she just interrupted.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to make myself as small as possible on the bed, hoping my robe will let me blend in with the white duvet. Once our food is set up, Holt slips the girl a few bills from his wallet, thanking her before locking the door be
hind her.
“So, uh . . .” He shoves his hands into his pockets, smiling at me shyly. “I guess we should eat?”
After a long pause, I burst out laughing and Holt grins, and all the tension in the room dissipates. Even the most awkward moments are made a little bit better by his presence.
With the awkwardness out of the way, we relocate to the small table in the corner and digging in. Between bites, we talk about music, and he sends me the playlist he had on in the car the other day, making me promise to listen to it before the game tomorrow.
“It’ll hype you up,” he says, muscling the cork out of our bottle of rosé. “I promise.”
Once our glasses are filled, I lift mine in the air, arching a brow in his direction. “What should we toast to?”
“To letting people in,” he says with a smile, and before I can agree, he clinks his glass against mine, making it official.
The wine goes down smooth and easy. A little too easy, maybe, because after a lively debate about which nineties bands are the best, we’ve both finished our glasses.
Holt listens to me talk about the team, to my ramblings about save percentages, goals, and assists, then listens when I complain about the sports commentator who seems to have it in for me. And he grins when I help myself to a little more wine and say fuck it to all of that.
This is the most laid-back I’ve seen him since, well, ever, and his calming energy has had quite the effect on me. The wine probably helps, but I shouldn’t have any more. One last sip, and I set my glass aside.
“Are you done?” he asks.
I nod, eyeing the wineglass. “I think so.”
“Finish it.”
“We have a big day tomorrow, remember?” I shake my head. “And you’re way bigger than me. Your tolerance is higher. You finish it.”
He lifts the glass and eyeballs what’s left in it, swirling the light pink liquid around. “If I do, can I kiss you again?”
My heart squeezes. Doesn’t he already know the answer? “You can kiss me again either way.”
With a grin, he takes a sip from my glass and then offers it to me. I take one last swallow and he sets the glass aside.
Moments later, he’s guiding me up from my chair, his big hands lifting me by the hips into the air. I squeal, and we land on the sofa, where just an hour ago, I sat to keep my distance from him. Now, distance is the last thing on my mind.
His lips find mine again, more desperate and eager than before, his tongue moving over mine in hot, hungry strokes. I grip his shoulders, moaning into his mouth as his hands venture down the front of my robe in search of my belt.
“Can I?” he asks, his voice raspy with need.
I nod, and he tugs the knot loose, unwrapping me slowly, like a fine piece of chocolate he wants to savor. It’s been too long since I’ve been naked with someone, much longer since that someone has looked at me this way, his wild eyes drinking in every inch of my skin.
I’m not wearing any makeup, and my hair is damp on the ends from the tub, but it doesn’t matter. The way Holt looks at me… this is the sexiest I’ve ever felt. When he sinks to his knees, my breath catches as his palms run gently up my thighs.
Good God in heaven, this is really happening.
A hot, ragged breath pours from his lips, warming my core and commanding every nerve ending in my body to stand alert. When I finally dare to look down at him, he’s looking up at me, eager to solve the puzzle in my eyes again. Only this time, there’s nothing to solve.
I want him. I need him. And if he doesn’t touch me right this second, I’m going to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.
“We can stop if you want,” he whispers, pressing a kiss into my inner thigh, the scruff of his jaw scratching gently against my sensitive skin.
But he’s wrong. You can’t stop a storm once the clouds start gathering. You can’t stop a wave from breaking once it’s crashing toward the shore. And I can’t—I refuse to—keep us apart tonight. Not when he’s so painfully close to the neediest part of me. Not when I want him this much.
“Like hell we can.” Panting, I grip the back of his head and guide him right to where I want him.
His warm lips find my clit, and I release the strangled moan I’ve barely been holding back. Ho. Ly. Fuck.
My head falls back against the couch as his expert mouth works me over, sucking and licking in ways that make my whole body quiver. My hands grapple for a solid grip on the couch cushions but eventually land on his shoulders.
“God, Holt,” I say on a ragged breath. “I’m so close.”
No sooner have the words left my lips than my orgasm rips through me in hot, pulsating waves. It takes me a long while to come down from my high, almost a full minute before I can manage a single word.
“Shit.”
He snickers softly, joining me back on the couch and running his big hand along my thigh. I instantly spot the stiffness in his joggers, which he doesn’t bother trying to hide.
Looping a thumb into his waistband, I press a kiss to his lips. “Mind if I return the favor?”
“Only if you want,” he says, tipping my chin up so his gentle eyes can meet mine, and I can see just how much he means every word. “We don’t have to do anything more than you’re comfortable with. Just like last time.”
“And just like last time, I want you.” I sweep a finger beneath his waistband, and a low hum of pleasure escapes my lips at the knowledge he skipped the boxers tonight.
“Didn’t have time to put underwear on when you texted me,” he says sheepishly.
“Just less to take off,” I purr. “So, can I?”
“Fuck yeah.”
I help him out of his joggers, centering myself on the floor between his big, parted thighs. He grips his base, giving himself a few precursory strokes, and good God, Holt has gotten bigger over the years in more ways than one.
Slowly, I replace his hand with mine, moving it just the way he taught me so many years ago. A tight grip on his base, a slow drag of my hand up his shaft up and over the tip. My memory doesn’t fail me, and neither does my form, based on the way Holt groans my name.
“Jesus, Eden,” he chokes out. “That’s so fucking good.”
When I bring my mouth to his wide shaft, words fail him, and my only warning that he’s close is a series of short, needy grunts. Over and over, I guide my lips to meet my hand, feeling him grow tenser and tighter until he lets out one exasperated moan, finishing in wet, hot spurts in the back of my throat.
“F-fuck,” he stutters, pushing one hand through his hair as he blinks up at the ceiling.
His broad chest rises and falls quickly at first, then slower with time as he regains composure. When he finally smiles down at me, there’s a stormy glint in his night-sky eyes.
“Get up here, you.”
I scramble up onto the couch next to him, and he tugs his pants back up while I tie my robe again, then nestle into the crook of his shoulder. Just for a moment. Long enough to remember how well we fit together, how perfect and familiar this is. And then I force myself to say the words I so desperately don’t want to say.
“You should probably go back to your room.”
He dips his chin in a nod, giving my arm a quick squeeze. “Sure. We don’t need anyone seeing me come out of here this late or anything.”
“Exactly,” I say, but there’s a sadness in my voice that can’t be denied.
Still, I walk him to the door, pressing onto my tiptoes to place one last kiss on his jaw before he goes.
“Thanks for the book,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs.
14
* * *
HOLT
When the team loses their game in Detroit, the only person I feel for is Eden. I couldn’t give two shits about the grumpy cluster of hockey players sitting glumly in the visiting team’s dressing room inside the Detroit arena.
I wonder about how she’s doing, but she’s currently meeting behind closed doors
with Les, which is why I’m biding my time with the guys, when all I want to do is check on Eden. She knows as well as I do, the best way to get revenge on her vocal critics is success—which means winning games. She was so worried last night, but what I told her is the truth.
It’s the players’ jobs to score goals and win games. Eden’s job is to run the franchise and handle the finances, something she’s uniquely prepared to do, given her education and training. I’m hoping it’s only a minor setback in what will end up being a very successful season for her.
Although, I can’t help but wonder if what’s been happening between us distracted her from her role in some way. But that couldn’t be it, could it? Things last night spiraled out of control—in all the best ways—but we haven’t had any time together today, so I can only imagine what she might be thinking.
Does she regret it? I feel a lot of things about last night, but regret isn’t one of them.
“That Sharpe fucker needs to go down,” one of the players grumbles.
Patrice Sharpe is one of the most celebrated members of Detroit’s starting line. He scored twice tonight, ruining the Titans’ chances for a comeback since they couldn’t seem to get the puck to the net at all in the third period. It was a joke. They looked like shit. But like I said, the last thing I feel is sympathetic. Most of them are overpaid divas as far as I’m concerned.
Saint stands and tosses a damp towel in a large basket in the center of the room. “It’s in the past. We’ve got to put it out of our heads. Got another chance tomorrow.”
He isn’t the captain, but as I look up and glance around the room, I can see that though he’s young, he’s respected by the team.
A few more thoughts are shared on their loss, but I have little interest. I watch the door on the side of the room, waiting for it to open, but it doesn’t. Most of the guys have filtered out of the room. Alex Braun remains, and so do Saint and the heavily bearded Reeves. I try to focus on something on my phone, but I’m on edge and irritated.
“We can’t afford to be distracted like that again,” Saint says with a cocky smirk.
“You fuckers were entertaining those puck bunnies well past midnight,” Reeves grumbles. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that.”