What if he is? What if one of the players was on vacation in Greece and I?—
No.
I pull up the roster of players again and scroll through.
None look familiar.
Except Holt.
And my god, he’s handsome. He’s not smiling in hisofficial team photo, but his eyes are. And it’s not just any eye-smile.
It’s an eye-smile that says he’s a beast on the pitch—not the field, as I’ve been told numerous times at work this week—and a gentleman in the streets and still-to-be-determined in the sheets.
“No, it was definitely not one of the players,” I tell my sister. “And even if it was, we could only communicate because we both spoke Italian, so he definitely wouldn’t be playing for the Pounders. I think. Right? Do any of the guys on the team not speak English?”
“They all speak English. Well enough to communicateI want to hook up with youanyway. But didn’t you get pregnant in May? The season was still going on. None of our guys would’ve been overseas.” She angles a look at my computer.
I hit the lock button on my keyboard so she can only see the log-in screen and not what I was researching.
She looks at me.
My entire body goes hot.
Not just my face. My entirebody.
Miranda gives me thespill it all nowlook.
“Youcannottell a soul,” I whisper and wish once again that we could have this discussion in a way that couldn’t be overheard.
She crosses her heart, then holds out a pinky. “Secret to the grave.”
“I’m living in Holt Webster’s house,” I whisper. “He’s the guy I was—am—house-sitting for. But more like cooking for now. Since he’s on crutches.”
She blinks at me once.
Then twice.
She starts to gasp but finishes the gasp doubled over in laughter.
I sag back in my chair. “So it’s not as bad as I think it is? If you’re laughing this hard, it can’t be as bad as I think it is.”
“Oh no,” she says between chortles. “You’re fucked. Or he is. More likely he is. Dad’s gonna lose his effing mind. Holt’s fired. He is so fired. And it’s not funny. It’s really not. But if I stop laughing, I’ll start crying. Tell me you’re lying.Pleasetell me you’re making this up.”
“I didn’t know who he was. One of the catering staff told me he played lacrosse. The night we met. He was doing security at the event where I puked on Abby Nora’s brother-in-law.”
“Ziggy. Copper Valley doesn’t have a lacrosse team. At least, not on a professional level.”
“I was a little distracted trying to get a new life together to care to look that up. My options were continuing to bleed money staying in a hotel, continue to let Mom and Dad cover the hotel, move in with Mom and Dad and Naked Tuesdays, or house-sit for a guy who was going tolacrosse campfor six weeks.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think?—”
A bark in the hallway interrupts me.
I stare at my door.
Miranda does too. “Was that Jessica?”
