Page 34 of The Wildest One

LOL. I hear you …

Jolie

Have a safe flight, Beck, and good luck at your game tonight.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” Landon asked as he took the seat beside me, attempting to bypass the security screen on my phone and see what I was typing.

I shoved my cell into my pocket and reclined my seat, securing the headphones over my ears even though a song wasn’t playing. I’d muted it once Jolie’s text came through. But because there were multiple cameras on this plane—probably one pointed at me now—I wasn’t going to get into it with Landon.

This was a conversation for when we were alone.

“The redhead from the bar,” I whispered, blocking my lips with the back of my hand so they couldn’t be seen or read. “The one who stayed in my room.”

“You’ve got it bad for her, don’t you?” He kept his voice down—he knew what was at stake.

“Bad? No. But I had a hell of a time with her.”

He pulled at the knot of his tie, loosening it a little. “So, you’re telling me it was worth going up to her and talking to her? Which means you’re happy you listened to me and I saved you from making one of the biggest mistakes of your life.” He waited. “Come on. Tell me I’m a genius.”

I punched his arm. “Asshole.”

“Let me fucking gloat for a second. You know I’m right.”

I shook my head while I looked at my friend. “All right, motherfucker. I’ll let you gloat, but only for a couple of seconds, and then I’m turning up my music and focusing on our upcoming game.”

He banged his head to a silent rhythm. “She was that good, wasn’t she?”

I held the back of my neck, my fingers meeting the stiffness of my starched shirt, my brain concentrating on only one thing—and that thing had nothing to do with our upcoming game. “Yeah, man, she was.”

EIGHT

Jolie

“Get up and get dressed. I’m taking your ass out.”

Ginger stood in the middle of our room, extending her hand in my direction, her attempt at pulling me out of bed. Except I didn’t have any fingers to give her—all of mine were holding Beck’s sweatshirt, my nose buried in the fabric, inhaling his spicy smell that had soaked in.

“Jolie, come on. Please get up.”

I had known this was coming, so my response, “Go without me,” was already prepared.

“Ha!” She flopped down beside me. “Listen to me, girl. We’re going to the hockey house. Whether I have to put makeup on you myself and dry-shampoo your hair into a ponytail, you’re coming. I’m not going without you.”

I groaned, “I’m most definitely not going to the hockey house.”

“Please?” She rubbed my knees, almost shaking them. “You’ve been moping in this room since you got back from Beck’s hotel this morning. You didn’t eat lunch. You didn’t eatdinner. I get that you’re all up in your feels, but you’re going to snap out of it and have some drinks and get him off your mind.”

“I’m not moping.” But I was moping. I couldn’t help it. Waking up to a Beck-less room and a note and his sweatshirt and the slapping realization that he wasn’t coming back had been a real kick in the gut. “I’m watching the game.”

LA at Washington wasn’t a game I’d normally care about. I had no interest in any team other than Boston. But Beck had changed that, and seeing him on the ice tonight weirdly made me feel closer to him. It made the sting of his absence and the hollowness in my chest feel less intense.

But the game was just a temporary fix. Beck wasn’t coming back—not in the way I’d just experienced over the last three nights.

“Babe, the game is almost over. There’s, what”—she turned toward the screen—“two minutes left?”

I hugged his sweatshirt closer to my chest. “So?”

“And you don’t even like LA.”