The Rebel: A Second Chance Hockey Romance (Looking to Score Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Rebel

  About the Book

  Playlist

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  What to Read Next

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  The Rebel

  Copyright © 2021 Kendall Ryan

  Developmental Editing by Allusion Publishing

  Copy Editing by Pam Berehulke

  Cover Design and Formatting by Uplifting Author Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  About the Book

  I never thought I’d see her again.

  We shared one hot night together back in college before our paths took us in different directions.

  But now, the most brilliant and beautiful woman I’ve ever met is back in my life. And the chemistry I remember? It’s more combustible than ever.

  Except…our fling is forbidden and must exist only in secret. Her rules, not mine.

  I can’t be her forever. I’m not that guy, and even she knows it.

  But I can’t stay away from her either. I’m determined to claim not just her body but her heart, even if that’s the one thing she’s vowed not to give me.

  Playlist

  “Pardon Me” by Incubus

  “Bittersweet Symphony” by the Verve

  “River of Deceit” by Mad Season

  “Drive” by Incubus

  “Wish You Were Here” by Incubus

  “Blurry” by Puddle of Mudd

  “Don’t Look Back in Anger” by Oasis

  “Shimmer” by Fuel

  “Today” by the Smashing Pumpkins

  “Hemorrhage” by Fuel

  1

  * * *

  EDEN

  “Don’t look now,” my best friend, Gretchen, says with a knowing smirk. “Here comes trouble.”

  Don’t I know it?

  Alex Braun is six feet of hockey god with a side of naughty trouble. Problem is, I like being a little naughty. When it comes to him, anyway. What good girl doesn’t have a little streak of bad inside them?

  But one stolen, perfect kiss aside, I’m still not sure Alex actually even knows who I am.

  And who am I these days?

  In high school, I was the governor’s daughter. The first daughter of a wealthy, conservative family, I was smart and driven and unflinching in my beliefs.

  Now, though? Three years in at Sutton, the small Boston university that has become my new home . . . I’m changing, and so is my family.

  My dad is no longer governor. No, that ended horribly with a scandal involving his secretary, and my parents are no longer married. And me? Well, the itch to do something reckless is right there, clawing at me from just below the surface. I want to do something that’s for me and me alone.

  And Alex Braun is at the very top of that to-do list.

  Gretchen knows this, which is why she’s currently elbowing me in the ribs as Alex steps into the crowded living room.

  Parties on frat row aren’t usually our thing, but the hockey team won their game tonight, which meant they’d be out celebrating. Which meant the chances of running into Alex again were excellent. So I dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a cute black tank top, curled my hair, and dragged Gretchen out with me.

  Alex lifts the cup to his mouth again, taking a long drink. One of his teammates practically mauls him, and Alex’s perfect mouth breaks into a happy smile.

  I’m transfixed by his chiseled jaw. Straight white teeth. Messy dark blond hair. Mischievous nature.

  “Tonight’s the night,” Gretchen says, and I nod.

  “Yeah,” I mumble, momentarily struck inarticulate. The nerves swimming inside my belly are part excitement and part fear. The fear of rejection is strong, rearing its ugly head whenever I imagine going up to Alex and telling him what I want.

  And what I want is him.

  Our kiss last weekend at a party similar to this one has replayed through my head all week. Alex is responsible for a lot of crushes all over campus, but I felt something that night, a spark between us. For one brief, shining moment, his eyes met mine, and I was no longer the boring coed with straight As and too many responsibilities. I was someone fun and daring and desirable.

  For him, it was nothing more than some stupid dare, but for me, it was much, much more. Goose bumps rose on my skin, and my heart pounded out an uneven rhythm.

  Alex’s mouth was shockingly erotic, hot and commanding, and my knees literally trembled. I reached out, pressing one hand into his firm shoulder for balance, needing the support if I had any hope of remaining upright. His tongue touched mine in confident, measured strokes, and I let out a little hum of satisfaction.

  Which is really no surprise. Alex has a certain reputation on the hockey team. The guy can score. His room practically has a revolving door of gorgeous girls all looking for one thing—a hot night of fun. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m no different.

  Over the past week, I’ve done some digging and learned that Alex is on a full athletic scholarship for hockey, that he’s a top recruit, and is expected to be drafted into the NHL next year instead of finishing his senior year at Sutton.

  Which means I need to make my move quickly, before he moves on.

  Plus, I’m not the type of girl to sit around and wait for things to happen. I’m more of a grab-life-by-the-balls type. At least, I am lately. After my dad’s fiasco, I learned that nothing lasts forever, and it’s best to take what you can, when you can.

  But my window of opportunity is shrinking right before my eyes.

  Gretchen and I watch as a perky blond member of Kappa Nu approaches Alex. He smiles at her as she speaks, his gaze lowering from her lips to her ample breasts. Her mouth twists into a smile, and then she takes one of his big hands and tugs, leading him across the living room and up the stairs. And Alex follows like a puppy.

  My stomach drops to my knees.

  Gretchen meets my eyes with a worried look. “Shit.”

  I shrug, trying not to let her see my disappointment. “It’s fine,” I lie.

  It’s irrational, but the flare of rejection stings. Coupled with my family’s fall from grace and the high expectations for me to succeed, it’s too much.

  I’ve imagined Alex and me as a power couple. Him the athletic sports star with the big smile and f
un-loving attitude, and me with the brains and drive and connections. He’d see what a perfect match we’d make and abandon his fuck-boy ways. Every guy’s gotta grow up sometime, right? And if Eden Wynn isn’t the kind of girl you settle down with, then who the hell is?

  My mantra is in my last name—Wynn at all costs. It’s what I do.

  Gretchen is still watching me with a worried look.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m going to find something different to drink.” My voice comes out steady, but inside, I feel anything but. I feel like I’m spinning out of control, like I’m on one of those tilt-a-whirl rides at the carnival.

  Gretchen’s expression darkens but she nods. I’m not quite sure she believes me, but I don’t care.

  Hurrying, I make it up the stairs in time to see Alex and the girl disappear into a bedroom. My heart hammers out a painful rhythm. This isn’t how I wanted tonight to go.

  The door doesn’t close all the way like I expect it to, and my feet stop moving, stuck here in the center of the hallway. I don’t dare move because I’m certain the creaky wooden floorboards will give me away. The music from downstairs is only a distant thumping sound up here, which means I can hear the faint rustling of clothes.

  “Jesus,” Alex grunts.

  I hate myself for it a little, but I dare to take one cautious step closer, then another, until I can see through the crack in the door.

  The sight isn’t one I expected. I thought there would be a passionate display of groping each other, arms wrapped around bodies, and kisses so hot you could feel them deep down in your soul. That’s the kind of kisses I’ve fantasized about sharing with him all week long.

  Instead, Alex stands like a statue carved from stone, muscular and unmoving except for his chest, which hitches with quick, shallow breaths. His gaze is downcast, focused on the girl on her knees between his parted feet. Her hands work quickly at undoing his belt buckle. I hear the clank of metal, and my heart squeezes.

  I can’t see it from this vantage point, but it’s obvious the second she gets his cock free. Because her head bobs, and he releases a strangled sound.

  “Fuck.” He groans, squeezing his eyes closed and fisting her hair.

  I force a breath into my lungs and stagger one step back.

  “Spying?”

  The deep rasp of a masculine voice in the hallway startles me and I whirl around, my heart in my throat.

  “No.”

  The word leaves my mouth at the same moment I register who’s joined me in the hallway. Holt Rossi.

  If Alex is the golden jock, then Holt is the brooding loner. He’s imposing and powerful, and standing here before him, I feel a little unsteady. He’s huge, with a broad chest. Wide shoulders. Chiseled jaw. And he looks ticked off.

  “I was looking for something else to drink. The beer is awful.” It’s not a complete lie.

  “The drinks are in the kitchen.” He gives me a reproachful look, but after another beat, he nods toward the hall. “Come on.”

  For reasons unknown, I follow him. Maybe it’s because he believes my lie. Maybe it’s because I really don’t want to see and hear my crush getting a blow job.

  Holt and I had English composition together freshman year, and two classes together sophomore year. In one of them, we were assigned partners for a semester-long project. Then he declared his major—criminal justice—and our shared classes stopped. This year, I’ve only seen him a handful of times. His hair is longer and he looks like he forgot how to shave, but his eyes are still the same dark gray, expressive with a hidden depth I’ve never quite understood.

  He unlocks a door, and I follow him inside. It takes me a minute to realize we’re inside his bedroom. It’s a small room in what appears to be a converted attic, with wood-paneled walls and a sloping ceiling that makes him duck as we enter.

  “You live here?”

  He nods. “Moved in last semester. Free rent.”

  “Why would Theta give you free rent?”

  I know he’s not in the fraternity. I’m pretty sure he’s against what all fraternities stand for—fun, camaraderie, and brotherhood. Holt Rossi doesn’t like relying on anyone but himself.

  “Because I tutor the underclassmen, and I do all the grounds maintenance. Lawn care, snow removal, et cetera.”

  I nod. “Gotcha.”

  Holt grabs a silver flask from his dresser and holds it out to me.

  I certainly don’t want whatever mystery liquor is inside. I’ve never been a big drinker, but since I lied and told him I was up here searching for something to drink, I don’t want to blow my cover.

  I accept the flask and take a small sip. It’s surprisingly smooth, but the burn of whiskey lingers on my tongue.

  When I pass the flask back to him, Holt brings it to his mouth, placing his lips where mine were a second ago as he takes a long pull. The thought of it sends a small flash of something foreign racing through me, and I look away.

  His bedroom is sparsely decorated with a twin-size bed on a metal frame, no headboard, and a single pillow. I sleep with at least six pillows. Excessive? Yes, but I like what I like.

  His dresser is tall and narrow. One of the drawers sags like it’s been pulled from its frame and never quite settled back in the same way again. A desk sits under the small round window, groaning under the weight of textbooks and an ancient laptop.

  For the first time, I wonder about Holt, about his history, about what kind of things he likes to do, what type of girls he dates.

  If I’m the well-bred society type that people assume me to be, then Holt Rossi is the opposite. From a working-class family and here on a merit scholarship, I’ve heard.

  It’s only natural that I should wonder about him. Right?

  “You’re not his type.” Holt’s deep voice pulls me from my thoughts again.

  “Huh?”

  “Braun.”

  I lift one shoulder, trying to look disinterested, but Holt’s words slice straight through me, stealing the air from my lungs.

  When he passes me the flask this time, I accept it eagerly, grateful for the distraction. I take a longer sip, letting the whiskey warm a path inside me.

  “Why wouldn’t I be his type?” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Because.” Holt shrugs, taking the flask back and draining it. “You’re a good girl. You give off girlfriend vibes. And I’m pretty sure Braun is allergic to monogamy.”

  His words sting, but I have to admit that, somewhere deep inside, they make sense. If it’s true that Alex will be entering the NHL draft next year, why would he want to be saddled with a college girlfriend?

  Holt pulls out the chair that’s tucked neatly into the space in front of the desk and offers it to me. I lower myself onto it while he takes a seat on the end of his bed.

  Whereas Alex is athletically handsome in a rugged, hockey-player kind of way with his thick thighs, bulky forearms, and messy hair, Holt gives off a hot bad-boy vibe. He’s tall, even bigger than Alex, and judging by the rough stubble on his jaw, his face hasn’t seen a razor in weeks. But his eyes are kind, warm like melted honey. I’ve always liked his eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say at last, realizing Holt’s still watching me like a butterfly captured in a net. “It won’t be happening. Not now.” I look across the room to the door where, only a few paces away, Alex Braun is probably fucking some lucky/poor girl’s throat.

  Holt’s tone softens. “He doesn’t deserve it, you know that, right?”

  I can’t figure out how he’s so perceptive. How he seems to know what I’ve been planning with Alex tonight. Not that I’d ever admit it to him.

  “It?” It is a crass way to refer to someone’s virginity, and my tone more than hints at my annoyance.

  “Your devotion,” Holt says to clarify, one dark eyebrow raised.

  I straighten my shoulders. “Oh. Right.”

  Holt clears his throat and looks away. I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed for me or simply giving me a
moment. I release a slow exhale and try to collect myself. My hands are still shaking.

  “You have any more of that?” I tip my chin toward the flask on his dresser.

  Holt’s mouth lifts in a crooked smirk, and I think it’s probably the closest to an actual smile I’ve ever seen from him. He doesn’t give off any warm and fuzzy vibes, but at the same time, I feel safe with him.

  I recall sophomore year, after studying together in the library, he insisted on walking me back to my dorm when we realized it had gotten dark outside. He waited on the stoop, even though it was raining and he was without an umbrella, as I unlocked the door. He didn’t move from that spot until I waved at him from my second-story window. Then he dropped his chin and shouldered his heavy backpack before he stalked away.

  “Sure.” He rises from the bed and opens the top dresser drawer, producing the bottle from which I assume the flask was filled.

  When he hands it to me, I twist off the cap and take a sip. I can already feel myself growing warm and slightly tipsy.

  “So, what’s your story?” I ask.

  “My story?”

  I shrug. “Your major. Life plans . . . you know.”

  I already know his major, but I don’t want to seem like a creeper. I also know he works part time as a bouncer at the off-campus bar called the Tavern, a regular weekend hotspot. He checks IDs at the door and breaks up fights when things occasionally get too rowdy.

  Holt shifts his weight. “There’s not much to tell. I grew up in a small town in New Jersey, a few hours outside of New York. And I got out as soon as I could.”

  “Family?”

  He makes an annoyed sound. “I guess you could call them that. No one I’m close with.”

  I nod. Despite the image the Wynns like to give off, I know what it’s like to come from a dysfunctional family. “My home life was tough too. Probably not like yours, but still . . . tough.”

  Holt doesn’t shrug or laugh off my discomfort when I say this. I’m certain he knows I come from money, and that my dad was the governor, so he could laugh in my face if he was so inclined. He could pat me on the head and patronize me about my little privileged life . . . but he doesn’t.