Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
It was that he looked cozy, comfortable, like he would crook that smile at any second, showing you his dimple and pulling you under one arm before he kissed your forehead.
Just as that thought hit me, Holden’s eyes snapped to where I watched him through the window.
I tore my gaze away, trying to catch up with JB’s conversation as my cheeks flushed and my heart raced. What the hell is wrong with me? I idly wondered, but I swatted that thought away like a gnat, too.
“…for Holden. And then—”
“Sorry, what was that?” I asked JB, blinking back to our conversation.
JB arched a brow with a smile. “I said, we should line up a pre-game deep tissue for Holden. Do you disagree?”
I paused like I was considering, like I really had to think about it. “No, I think it’s a good call. He may not be playing, but he’ll be tense from the sidelines. It definitely couldn’t hurt.”
“My thoughts exactly. I’ll put Tanner on that while you and I handle the active players.”
I tried not to slump with my disappointment that it wouldn’t be me giving that massage. “Perfect.”
Then, Holden boarded our bus, climbing the steps slowly with his headphones still in place.
It took every effort to keep my eyes on the clipboard where JB pointed as he went over the rest of the team’s notes, especially when I caught scent of Holden, that familiar spice of his body wash striking my nose and zapping me back to the night we kissed.
His joggers brushed my shoulder as he passed.
And I swore I felt his hand through the pocket squeezing my arm — just a little, just enough to make me tilt my chin down over my shoulder and glance back at him.
But he kept on walking, all the way to the back, and when he plopped down in a seat, he looked out the window — not at me.
I swallowed, wondering if I’d misread last night, if he was upset with what I’d done. He’d been the one to break our kiss last week, and we both knew it couldn’t happen again.
And yet…
I had no explanation for my behavior last night other than the fact that he’d driven me to the brink of insanity with just one fucking kiss. I’d seen him standing in his window.
Watching me.
And that power had tipped me over the edge of rationality.
Chills had raked over me when I unclasped my bra, when I saw his breath hitch even through the soft glow of the streetlight that cast him in an eerie shadow. I didn’t even know how much he could see, but I knew he didn’t look away.
Still, he hadn’t responded to my text after I’d pulled the blinds shut, and I had no idea how he felt about what happened between us — the kiss, or anything since.
I looked for any sign that he was as consumed with thoughts about me like I was about him. I longed to know he felt the same torturous burn that I did, that sense that we couldn’t do anything more without risking a full-on fire.
But the overpowering instinct to light a match, anyway.
When we made it to the South Hartford Stadium, I stood beside JB as we watched the team file off the buses, letting each of them know when and where we wanted to see them. I held my breath when Holden trailed down the steps, when he moved toward us with power and focus rolling off him in plumes.
Every player looked to him for their energy cue, some of them stopping mid-laugh while horsing around once he stepped off the bus. They fell in line behind him, channeling his calm essence, and he nodded to some of them while clapping others on the back. It was fascinating to watch, the way just one touch or glance from him could change a player’s entire demeanor, could wipe the stress off their face and give them the space to take a deep breath.
Even injured, Holden was captain, the team’s leader, their king.
He didn’t look at me once.
By some miracle, we pulled out the win.
It was a miracle not because the game was particularly brutal — which it was — or that the score was close the entire game — which it also was — but because South Hartford’s fans made every second of play time absolutely miserable.
They were loud, vulgar, and a level of rude I didn’t know existed. I’d been shocked by how deafening they’d been when we ran through the tunnel, booing and slinging out harassing threats. They didn’t chant the usual NBU sucks!, either — they were personal. They targeted Riley as a girl, called out Kyle for his social media stunts, and even preyed on Clay for the terrible things he’d gone through with his family last semester.