She stepped up to the desk. “Hi, booking for San Antonio Surge.”
The clerk’s face lit up like he’d been waiting for that line all night. “Welcome! You folks were amazing this morning. My nephew was at the clinic.” He tapped the keyboard, smiled, and returned with a single keycard.
Holly blinked. “Just one?”
The clerk checked the screen again, his thin lips pouting. “Uh, looks like… three rooms total. Four players sharing a double each, one for the coach.”
“Of course Coach gets his own room,” I muttered.
“I’m not a player,” Holly explained. “There should be a separate booking for media staff.”
He winced, but it was so clearly for show more than any real kind of pain over her dilemma. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This is the booking we have.”
She exhaled, rubbing her temples. “I’ll pay for my own room. Whatever rate you have, I don’t care.”
“Nothing left.” He shook his head. The pout was back. “We’ve got a tournament in town. Every room’s booked.”
I took the key from her hand before she could take the negotiation any further. “Don’t be weird about it. It’s fine. We’ll share.”
“Hunter—”
“Come on. We both need to crash. We’ve got a six a.m. call tomorrow.”
“I’ll find another hotel. There’s got to be one close.”
“And what, drive around St. Louis at one in the morning until you find a vacancy sign?” I raised an eyebrow. “Bad idea.”
She hesitated, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the key in my hand.
“Tell you what,” I said, trying to sound lighter than I felt. “We’ll raid the minibar. You can drink the tiny bottles of vodka, and I’ll take the tiny pretzels.”
That earned the faintest laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Resourceful in a pinch,” I corrected.
She finally gave in, muttering something under her breath that sounded like a threat, but she followed me down the hall anyway.
We stopped outside the door. The hallway was narrow, lit in the sickly glow of travel fatigue. Holly leaned against the wall while I slid the keycard into the reader. For a second, neither of us moved.
She crossed her arms, eyes drifting toward the faded carpet. “You really think there’s a minibar worth raiding in a place like this?”
“I like to believe in miracles.”
That earned the smallest laugh, soft and tired. She reached for her overnight bag, and as she brushed past me to the door, her shoulder grazed mine. Nothing much, but enough to pull every nerve into a state of blazing wakefulness…
“You’re still only getting the pretzels,” she said.
“Deal.”
The lock clicked open. I stepped aside to let her in first. She started talking, something about the morning call sheet, but her words trailed off almost instantly.
I followed her into the narrow entryway. She’d stopped just past the threshold, frozen mid-step, mid-sentence.
Her bag slipped from her hand and thudded to the floor. I came up beside her, tracing her line of sight.
One bed. Center of the room. Too small for the silence that followed.
21
