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24

Bridger

T he house is buzzing when I step through the front door. Ryder and Ford are battling it out on NHL 24 in the living room, the sound of buttons clicking rapid-fire and their trash talk spilling into the hallway. Steele lounges on the couch, a textbook open on his lap. I have no idea how he’s able to tune out the chaos that surrounds him. In the kitchen, Hayes and Riggs are deep in an argument about which protein powder reigns supreme.

Steele glances up as I stop in the living room. “Hey. What happened to you earlier? I thought we were grabbing lunch this afternoon.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “I got caught up talking to the tech department, hoping there was something else they could do. Maybe give me some insight.”

Steele closes his textbook with a snap before jerking a brow. “And?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

He straightens, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Are you kidding me? We’re just supposed to let this keep happening?”

“Apparently,” I say, my jaw tightening. It feels like I’m hitting a brick wall at every turn.

My phone buzzes, and my pulse kicks up as I yank it out of my pocket. Holland hasn’t responded to any of my texts this afternoon. After everything that’s gone down between us lately, I thought things were slowly changing. That we were… Hell, I don’t even know what I thought. Clearly it was wrong. Her silence has me feeling like we’re right back to square one.

Instead of Holland’s name flashing across the screen, it’s my father’s.

Great. Just what I need.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and exhale sharply. “Have you seen Holland?”

“Nope, not since this morning.” Steele stretches his legs out and crosses them at the ankles. “Should we slap her face on a milk carton?”

I level him with a look. “You’re hilarious.”

He smirks, unfazed, but before I can press him for more, there’s a knock at the door. It swings open before anyone can answer, and Lilah steps inside. She flashes me a smile before her attention shifts to my cousin.

The second he sees her, he sits up straighter. “Hey,” he says, his tone softer. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a date with that basketball guy.”

“Cameron,” she corrects.

“Whatever,” Steele mutters, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“My plans fell through at the last moment.”

Steele’s gaze sharpens as he tries to play it cool. “Huh. That’s too bad.”

I snort. “Is it, Steele? Is it too bad that her date didn’t work out?”

He shoots a glare at me. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Weren’t you looking for Holland? Maybe you should continue your search somewhere else.”

Well, shit. He’s got a point.

“Right.” I roll my shoulders. “Maybe I’ll stop by her place.” Then, looking at Lilah, I smirk. “Tell Cameron I say hello.”

She grins. “Will do.”

As I climb the stairs, I glance over my shoulder to find Steele flipping me the bird. With a chuckle, I shake my head. That guy is in so deep with Lilah, he can’t see straight.

Once I reach the landing to the second floor, I pull out my phone and hit Holland’s number. Just as it rings, a muffled chime comes from inside my room.

That’s weird.

I push open the door and freeze when I find Holland curled up in my bed, cocooned in my comforter like a burrito. Her normally bright skin is pale as her lashes rest against her cheeks. Her hair is a mess around her face, and she looks so damn vulnerable that it sends all my protective instincts surging to the surface.

I carefully step closer. “Holland?”

She stirs slightly as her eyes crack open. “Yeah?” Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“What’s going on?” I crouch beside the bed, brushing my fingers over her forehead. Her skin is hot to the touch. “Jesus. You’re burning up.”

With a shift, she tries to wave me off. “I feel shitty,” she mumbles.

I let out a harsh breath, frustration mingling with something heavier in my chest. “Why didn’t you text me?

“It’s not that big of a deal, and I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me?” I bark, trying to rein in my temper. “You’re lying in my bed, looking like you’ve been run over by a truck. You should’ve told me what was going on.”

She blinks, her expression dazed. “You had a test.”

I drag a hand through my hair. “And? I probably could have emailed the professor and taken it tomorrow.”

A weak smirk ghosts over her lips. “Now you don’t have to worry about it.”

I huff, torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to wring her neck for feeling that she always has to be so damn strong.

“Stay put,” I finally say. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, burrowing deeper into the covers.

I practically jog downstairs and head straight for the kitchen.

Riggs looks up from his phone. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“Holland’s sick,” I mutter, rummaging through the pantry. “She’s upstairs in bed.”

Ryder raises a brow. “Want me to run to the store and grab anything?”

“Nah, I got it,” I reply, grabbing a can of chicken soup.

After heating it up, I pour a glass of water, scoop up the pain meds, and start back up the stairs.

When I return, Holland has kicked off the comforter and turned her face toward the pillow. I set the tray on the nightstand and settle beside her, spooning up a small amount of soup. “All right, you’re going to need to sit up if this is going to work.”

She groans but slowly pushes herself up. “I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, well, tough. You need to eat.” I hold the spoon out to her.

Her glare is weak at best. “I can do it myself. I’m not a child.”

I raise a brow. “You sure about that? You kind of look like one at the moment.”

She swats at my arm, but there’s no real strength behind it. “Shut up.”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

She jerks her shoulders. “This morning. I had a handful of gummy bears.”

My jaw clenches. “Just have a little bit. It’ll make you feel better.”

Her eyelids droop as she murmurs, “You’re really bossy, know that?”

Something tightens in my gut. “Please, Tate. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Once she manages a few bites and takes the meds, I shift beside her, resting against the headboard. It’s a surprise when she leans her head on my shoulder.

“You don’t have to stay,” she says softly. “I know you have practice.”

“It’ll be fine. I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. “Someone’s gotta stay and make sure you don’t pass out.”

She chuckles weakly, the sound barely audible. “Thanks. I think you were right about the soup. It helped.”

My lips brush the top of her head. “Hey, what are fake boyfriends for?”

Her lips curve into a small smile as her eyes flutter shut.

It’s always a surprise when she drops her guard. Even if it’s not entirely purposeful.

Holland is tough.

Fiercely independent.

It’s one of the things I like most about her. The girl can give just as good as she gets.

But right now, she’s letting me take care of her.

The strangest part of all this is that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.