Page 55 of The Wildest One

“Huh?” I searched her eyes.

She nodded toward my hand. “Come on. Drink up.”

“Why are we leaving? I thought you loved it here?”

“I do.”

“And I thought you were going to have me keep downing these”—I raised my glass—“until my anxiety was gone?”

“Plans have changed. We’re going elsewhere to make that happen.”

“Why?”

As her chest deflated, she briefly closed her eyes. “Just trust the process, okay?”

“Seriously, what has gotten into you?”

Every time I shifted or looked over my shoulder, she would mimic me and try to block me or shake me to keep my attention on her.

“Is there something behind me you don’t want me to see?”

I attempted to turn, but she did everything in her power to stop me.

“I don’t understand what’s happening—” I didn’t let her control my movements this time, and I peeked in the direction she was trying to have me avoid.

Oh God.

Now it made sense—why she had been acting that way.

My entire body froze.

Except for my heart.

That was beating to the point where I could feel it in my throat.

A wave of redness was covering my skin, not just my cheeks—I was positive I was flushed all the way down to my toes.

And the air—it was gone from my lungs.

Beck Weston.

Here.

And only feet away from me.

My eyes were already locked on him, but they dipped, taking him in, remembering, but also getting an immediate refresher.

His trimmed, well-groomed beard—since preseason was just starting next week, he had months and months of growth ahead of him. Those talented lips. His riveting hazel eyes. His thick neck, a gold chain dangling just below it, and his muscular chest, covered in tattoos, which were hidden by a black button-down. His shirt was fitted enough that it showed the outline of muscles in his arms and the flatness of his stomach.

But it was his face I couldn’t stop staring at. A face I’d seen in my dreams. That I’d looked at on social media. That I’d watched on TV.

That I’d stared at from the stands when LA last came to Boston and played in our arena.

“Ginger …” I whispered.

“Babe, I know.”

I didn’t know where she was standing—I was far too focused on Beck—but I heard her directly in my ear.