Page 31 of Golden Goal

He scoffs. “Soup? Soup’s not a meal.”

“Yes, it is. I add crackers, which makes it a meal.”

“Fine, your favorite meal is soup. What kind of soup?”

“I’m basic—chicken noodle.”

“Still don’t know if it counts as a meal, but I’ll let it slide.”

He smirks at me, and I can’t help grinning. I like this—seeing this side of him. The more relaxed side. I also like this friendship we’re forming. I know I’m crossing the line with one of my patients, but working for the Storm isn’t the same as working for a private practice. Here we all spend so much time together, friendships are bound to form where they wouldn’t usually, i.e. between patient and doctor. Which makes this perfectly fine.

“Favorite snack?” he asks.

“Easy. Sour gummy worms. What ab—“ The question dies on my lips as the power turns back on, and Hadley comes strolling out of Holt’s bedroom with Hazel in her arms.

“Everything okay?” Holt asks her.

“I think she’s hungry,” she says.

And that’s my cue to leave. “I’m going to head back to my apartment. Thank you for letting me stay and hang out.”

I uncurl myself and get to my feet, fold the blanket, and place it back on the back of the couch. When I turn around, Holt’s standing so close to me my hands land on his chest. His muscular, warm chest. I want nothing more than to trace all the muscles I know he has.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I should step back, stop touching him, but I can’t. He inhales sharply, and I raise my gaze to meet his. We stand like that for a few seconds before he blinks, breaking eye contact, and the lust I swore I saw is gone. He clears his throat, and that breaks me out of my trance. Taking my hands off him, I force myself to take a half step back, and then a full step away from him.

Why am I even affected by him? He’s one of my patients. My neighbor. A friend. That’s all he can be. I’m just tired. That’s all this is. I’m seeing things that are clearly not there. Thinking things I wouldn’t be thinking in the light of day.

“Night,” I stammer, as I turn and all but bolt out of his apartment.

It’s not until I’m back home that I take a deep breath, willing my heart to stop racing. It takes me a while to fall asleep, and when I do, Holt fills my dreams. Which doesn’t bode well for me.

A knock on the doorframe of my office has me glancing up from my notes to see Hunter standing in the doorway.

“What’s up?” I beckon for him to come in.

“I won’t take a lot of your time. Wanted to invite you for Thanksgiving next week.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “If you don’t have any plans. Mads and I are hosting this year and wanted to extend the invite. Everyone who doesn’t already have something else planned is invited.”

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, considering his invitation. “That’s nice of you to invite me, but I don’t want to impose. I’m sure you have a lot of the team coming.” I give him a small smile.

“Doc.” He shakes his head. “It’s no imposition. Please come. I wouldn’t be inviting you if we didn’t want you there. Sutton is going to stop by, Ansley will be there too, I think some of the coaching staff, and of course, Coach will be there.”

He pulls a small piece of paper out of his pocket and sets it down on my desk. “There’s our address and all the details. No need to bring anything except yourself and your appetite. There will be lots of food options, but if you have any special dietary needs, let me know.” He raps on my desk a few times before turning and walking out of the office.

I stare at the doorway for a few seconds before reaching down to pick up the piece of paper he left. I sigh. It was nice of him to invite me, but it feels weird to go to a player’s home for Thanksgiving. A holiday you usually spend with family. I know Hunter said other staff would be there too, but it still feels odd to me. Maybe it’s because I’m new to the team and haven’t formed that familial bond yet. Maybe by next year I’ll have similar relationships with them to what they all have with one another, and I’ll feel more comfortable going. But this year, I’ll stay squarely in my comfort zone at home.

Alone.

For Thanksgiving.

I’m curled up on my couch mid-morning on Thanksgiving—with a book I’ve been meaning to read, and a cup of iced coffee—when there’s a knock at my door. I furrow my brow as I get to my feet, and pad over to peer through the peephole and see who it is.

“Hey,” I say when I open the door.

Hadley greets me with a huge grin. “Happy Thanksgiving. Well, American Thanksgiving since we celebrate in October.”

I chuckle, remembering that she and her brother are Canadian. “Happy Thanksgiving.”