The Rebel: A Second Chance Hockey Romance (Looking to Score Book 1)

by Kendall Ryan

  “Baby. Slow.” I clench my jaw, gripping one of her hips in my hand.

  “You like it?” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

  I groan again. “Too much.”

  Eden begins to move. She’s incredible, and I alternate between cursing and kissing any patch of bare skin I can reach—her breasts, each wrist, the pad of her thumb that she presses into the heat of my mouth.

  It’s easy to lose myself in the moment—our ragged breathing, her throaty noises, the wet sound of where our bodies are joined. Sex has never been this good before.

  She brings one hand between us to touch herself, and the sight of that is so erotic, so hot.

  “That’s it,” I say to encourage her, teasing her nipples as she rides me—faster now.

  I don’t just want to make her feel good, I need it, and I love the idea that she’s using my body to get herself off. Potent male satisfaction rips through me when Eden grips me tight and breathes out my name.

  Her orgasm goes on and on, finally triggering my own release. I bury myself deep, and my cock jerks once as I lean up and press my face into her neck, whispering how perfect she is. She brings her arms around me, holding me close, and for maybe the first time in my life, I know what it feels like to be loved.

  Eden doesn’t have to say the words. Maybe she’s afraid . . . hell, I am too. I’m terrified about what will happen in the light of day.

  Can she be with me? Really be with me without upsetting some balance in her personal and professional lives? Does she even want to?

  I don’t have answers to the many questions swirling inside my head. All I know is that this moment is perfect, and I don’t want it to end.

  23

  * * *

  EDEN

  Three little emails. That’s all that stands between me and my evening off.

  Today has moved at a snail’s pace, but that’s probably only because I’ve been anticipating seeing Holt later. It’ll be at a seven-year-old’s party, but I’ll take what I can get.

  Lucian’s son is celebrating his birthday today, and most of the team is going. I wish I could fast-forward to then, when I’ll be sipping wine and trying to subtly flirt with Holt in front of the players. But I can’t. I can only tackle the work I have in front of me.

  I sigh, rubbing my temples where I can feel a headache forming. Okay, Eden. You can do this.

  I click to open the first email, a message from the president of one of our top sponsors. He wants to set up lunch next week.

  Easy. I forward it to Aspen, asking her to fit it into my calendar. That was painless.

  The second email, however, is not so simple. My vision blurs as I scan through multiple paragraphs of questions about media policies for next season, then reflexively reach for my phone, opting instead to hide from work in my text thread with Holt.

  We’ve been texting on and off all day, which is doing me exactly zero favors in the focus department. Still, flirting and discussing what presents are fitting for a seven-year-old is way more exciting than media policies.

  I pick up where we left our discussion on G.I. Joes, and it’s not until I hear the ping of yet another email arriving in my inbox that I realize I’ve lost focus yet again.

  Ugh. I’ve been chronically distracted ever since Holt and I started our . . . whatever it is that we’re doing. It’s not a relationship, but with our first official date under our belt, maybe it’s not out of line to say that he and I are a thing.

  However you classify our situationship, one thing is for sure—Holt Rossi is occupying more of my brain than work is lately. It’s not such a bad thing considering how much I was eating, sleeping, and breathing all things Boston Titans up until recently. If I didn’t step back and let myself be a human being, I probably would have imploded by now.

  Still, there’s a fine line between stepping back and slacking off. I still have a team to run, which sometimes means taking care of boring tasks like answering sponsor emails.

  My phone buzzes in my hand, and against my better judgment, I welcome the distraction again. It’s a text, but not from Holt, unfortunately.

  It’s from my mom, and it sounds slightly panicky. SOS! Can you swing by after work?

  I gnaw on my lip, mentally budgeting my time. Two minutes ago, I told Holt I’d be at Lucian’s party by six, and Mom’s house is easily a thirty-minute drive out of the way. But if the situation is as urgent as her text would suggest, I might need to leave the office early. Emails can wait until tomorrow. I’m not sure if I can say the same for whatever is going on with Mom.

  With my mind made up, I focus on my phone, my thumbs flying across my keyboard. Sure thing, Mom. I’ll be there soon.

  I power down my computer and grab my coat from its hook on the back of my door on my way out.

  “I’m leaving early,” I call out to anyone who might be listening, shoving my arms into my coat sleeves. “Something just came up.”

  Les, working diligently from his cubicle near the window, arches one bushy gray brow at me. “Is it something with Holt?”

  My breath stills in my chest, and I hope my flinch isn’t as visible as it feels. “What? No.” I wonder why he’d assume that. Maybe I haven’t been as careful as I thought.

  A small smile forms on Les’s lips, causing a ripple of wrinkles to appear across his kind face. “You don’t have to be secretive about it, Eden. I know you a little better than that. It’s clear there’s something going on between you two.”

  Damn him for being so perceptive. And damn my brain for coming up with zero adequate responses right now. I’m just standing here, slack-jawed, blinking at him like an idiot. Thankfully, we’re the only two left in the office. Aspen left an hour ago for a dentist appointment.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Wynn,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s no big deal. Really. It’s sweet. And you shouldn’t worry about what other people think anyway.”

  My cheeks go warm as the tension releases from my shoulders. Les’s approval is far from the be-all and end-all, but knowing someone in this office isn’t repulsed by the idea of me having a thing with the head of security does wonders for my nerves.

  “Thanks, Les,” I say, my posture straightening. “But really, this isn’t about Holt. I just got a weird emergency text from my mom. I’ll be in early tomorrow, okay?”

  He pats the top of his desk with one hand and gives me a thumbs-up with the other. “No problem. I’ll hold down the fort the rest of the afternoon.”

  I thank him one last time before rushing out the door and straight to the parking garage.

  Thirty minutes of frantic driving later, I’m turning up my mother’s private drive, the sculpted hedges blurring as I pass.

  It’s been several months since I’ve been out to Brookline to visit her, and she’s made more than a few changes to the landscaping in that time. Or rather, her gardener has. Each time I visit, there’s some new extravagant addition—a topiary shaped like a dolphin, a marble fountain, even a miniature butterfly garden. This time, I count three new rosebushes planted near the side gate.

  I step out of my car and rush up the slate walkway, then take the porch steps two at a time before pressing a finger against the doorbell. Penny, my mother’s shih tzu, alerts the house to my arrival.

  Two full minutes of high-pitched barking later, there are still no signs of my mother, and I’ve developed a list of worst-case scenarios long enough to stretch back to my condo. I decide to take a note from Mom’s playbook and let myself in from the cold.

  “Hello? Mom?” My worried voice echoes through the vaulted ceilings, bouncing off the white marble pillars of the foyer.

  “Sorry, sorry,” her distant voice calls from upstairs. “Be down in a second, honey. Just putting some finishing touches on my outfit.”

  Relief floods my system. She didn’t fall or hurt herself or anything. The woman is just accessorizing.

  As promised, she descends the staircase moments later, her sle
ek gray bob bouncing with every step. “Eden, honey, thank goodness you’re here. Be honest with me. Am I too old to wear this?”

  She does a slow, deliberate spin, arms out to showcase her beachy outfit—a flowy cream blouse paired with turquoise capri pants. It feels awfully summery for the biting October weather we’re currently experiencing.

  “Not too old, but you might be too cold,” I say. “It’s barely fifty degrees outside.”

  “Not in the Bahamas.” A giddy smile breaks out on her face, the stacks of silver bracelets on her wrists clinking as she claps her hands. “I just booked the cutest little bungalow for the next three months. The perfect way to get away from the cold for the holidays, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, sure,” I say absently, swallowing the hurt building in my chest. What a way to find out I won’t be spending the holidays with my mother this year. “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.” Her expression is one of pure glee. “My flight leaves at seven a.m., which is why I needed your expert fashion advice right away.”

  “Right,” I murmur, pulling my phone from my pocket to check the time.

  Her text sounded so urgent, but playing spectator to my mother’s vacation fashion show is no reason to be late for my goalie’s son’s birthday party tonight. When I pocket my phone again, I look up to find my mother frowning at me, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

  “You can’t put your work emails away for ten minutes to visit with me before I leave for three months?”

  I bite back the words I so desperately want to say. You can’t give me more than twelve hours’ notice that you’re leaving the country for the holidays? Instead, I heave out a sigh, finding my calm. I don’t have the time or energy to pick a fight with her right now.

  “I wasn’t working, Mom. I was just checking the time. Is there anything besides fashion advice you needed from me?”

  “Yes, actually,” she says with a huff. “I was hoping you’d watch the house and take care of Penny while I’m gone.”

  She gestures to the ten-pound ball of fluff at my feet, and I crouch down, treating Penny to some much-deserved scratches behind her floppy little ears. She makes a happy snuffling sound and licks my palm with her tiny pink tongue. I love this little fur ball, but she’s barely two years old, and much more of a handful than I have time for right now.

  “I can’t be driving back and forth from Boston to Brookline during the height of hockey season.”

  Her frown deepens. “I don’t live that far from the arena, Eden.”

  “It’s almost thirty minutes each way with traffic,” I remind her, scooping Penny up and pressing to my feet. “And half the time I’m traveling with the team to away games. I have a career now, Mom. I can’t just drop everything anytime you need me.”

  “Oh, so you care more about the Titans than your own mother.” Her words are biting and overly dramatic.

  “You know that’s not true. You’re being ridiculous.” My phone buzzes twice in my pocket, and I don’t have to look to know it’s a notification reminding me of my plans tonight. “I have to go, Mom.” Much to her disappointment, I place Penny in her arms. “I have a work thing.”

  “You don’t have a game tonight,” she says sternly.

  I’m actually surprised she even knows that. “No, it’s a social event with the team.”

  She sighs, smoothing the fluffy white hair on Penny’s head. “You hear that, Pen?” she coos to her pup. “My own daughter would rather hang out at a kegger with a bunch of Neanderthals than me.”

  “It’s not a kegger, and they’re not Neanderthals,” I say evenly, trying to hide the annoyance in my voice. “It’s the goalie’s son’s seventh birthday party. As for Penny, there are multiple apps for finding reliable pet sitters.”

  She scoffs in disbelief. “What, so I’m just supposed to let some stranger watch my precious girl?”

  I open my mouth to reply but quickly shut it, pushing back the truth. It’s too painful to admit that I’m not much more than a stranger to her anyway these days. She clearly has no knowledge of what my life is like, how all-consuming my career has become. But I’m not having that conversation with her right now. Not while I have places to be and she’s about to go AWOL for three whole months.

  “I guess I’ll have to bring Penny with me, even though she hates to fly,” she mutters.

  “I love you, Mom. Travel safe.”

  With a quick hug, I’m back out her door and into the car, feeling even more off-kilter than when I arrived. I can’t press the ignition button fast enough, eager to put my mom’s house in the rearview.

  Soon, I’ll be among friends. And it’s strange to admit, but they’re starting to feel more like family than my own family does.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, I pull up behind the line of cars parked outside of Lucian’s house in Cambridge.

  I’m a smidge late, but I’ll bet the mini table-hockey game I wrapped in bright green wrapping paper will be an adequate apology. I wasn’t sure if it was too on-the-nose to get the son of a goalie a hockey game, but Holt assured me it was the perfect present.

  Speak of the devil, I’ve hardly exited my car when I spot him walking my way. He’s got on a Titans shirt beneath a black bomber jacket and dark-washed jeans he fills out way too well.

  Just seeing him soothes the tension left over from my visit with my mom, and I wish more than anything I could pull him in and kiss him like I did the last time we were together—hard and wild and without abandon. But there are too many people we know less than a hundred feet away, so when he reaches my side, he leans in for a quick, gentle press of his lips to my cheek, fast enough to go unnoticed by any onlookers.

  “Glad you made it.”

  I smile at him, all the unpleasantness of my day fading away. “I never thought I’d see the day . . . Holt Rossi wearing a Titans T-shirt?”

  His lips part and he shakes his head. “Only because the owner is this really cool, really hot chick I know. And I was hoping it would win her over, if you must know.”

  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 a
ny 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.