Spotlight (Holland Brothers, #4)

by Rebecca Jenshak

Wait. She’s staying in the room next door. I run back out to the hall and pound on the door next to mine. It flies open and a housekeeper gives me a soft smile. “Can I help you?” she asks. I look past her to the empty suite. “Sir?” “No. I’m… Thanks.” I run a hand through my hair and walk back to my room. I call down to the front desk, but all they can tell me is she already checked out. Defeated, I drop onto the couch. I pick up the wine glass with her pink lipstick smudged on the rim. She’s gone and I didn’t even get her name.

“Tell Aunt Brina hi for me, and Uncle Archer that I’ve learned how to sign all the letters of the alphabet, and Uncle Brogan that I’ve been practicing my touchdown dance.”

I think Gigi is secretly hoping I’m going to meet one of Archer’s teammates, fall madly in love, and give her a dozen more babies. She’s still offering to take Greer so I can go out and meet people any chance she gets. My mind flitters back to the last time she watched Greer while I went to New York with Ruby. Brown eyes, a playful smirk, rough hands. My stomach flips at the memory of him. I met someone. And was promptly reminded why I stopped dating. He snuck out while I was sleeping. I’ve done the walk of shame before, but it never felt as awful as waking up that morning and realizing he’d left without a goodbye. I mean, how embarrassing that he had to leave his own room to get away from me?

I turn up the music in my car and try to reclaim the happy, excited mood from earlier, but my thoughts keep drifting back to that hotel room. I have replayed that entire night from start to finish so many times. Each time I do, I look for the clues. I mean, sure, he was ridiculously hot and charming, but he didn’t seem like a phony. I guess good phonies never do seem that way. A billboard near the exit catches my attention. Brown eyes. Playful Smirk. My heart lurches and I blink a couple of times. I swear that looked just like him. I turn my head to get another look, but I’m already past it. “Okay, you’ve officially lost your mind,” I say to myself with a small chuckle as I get off the freeway. Now I’m seeing him on giant signs? I’ve reached a depressing low.

At the restaurant, I spot our group immediately. Archer and his teammates stand out – taller and broader than everyone else. My nerves are back, but as soon as I spot Sabrina and the blissed-out smile on her face, I relax. “Congratulations!” I say, embracing her tightly. Her laughter tinkles next to my ear. “I’m so glad you’re here.” We pull back and she gives me a once-over with an appreciative nod. “You look hot.” “So do you.” Then again, she always does.

Her fiancé, Archer, steps up next to her, sliding one arm around her waist as he tips his head at me. “Hey, Olivia. Glad you could make it tonight.” “Me too. Greer wanted me to pass on her congrats and let you know she’s mastered signing the alphabet.” “Is that right?” His smile lifts higher and hazel eyes twinkle with admiration. Archer is deaf. He wears hearing aids, but he also signs—something Greer has thrown herself into learning ever since she met him. I don’t know how he did it, but Archer won over my daughter in record time. It usually takes her a while to warm up to men.

“She’s very excited to show you the next time she sees you.” “I can’t wait to see it. Tell her I’ll drop by the studio after her class on Wednesday.” “She’ll love that.”

I must have reverted back to being nervous because Sabrina laughs softly and says, “Let me introduce you to some of the guys. They’re not as intimidating once you get to know them.”

The guys laugh, but a few tip their beers in his direction. My gaze travels around the circle. Almost as if on cue, each of the guys looks from the happy couple to me. “What did I say? Best behavior tonight,” she scolds them playfully. Grabbing my hand, she tugs me farther into the center and begins to introduce the guys. Some of the more well-known Mavericks players I recognize, like Cody St. James, Merrick Thomas, and of course Sabrina’s brother Brogan Six. He lifts a hand above the crowd to wave at me. I mirror the action, but then Sabrina is pulling me away to another group of guys.

I take a small sip as Sabrina begins to introduce me to Archer’s brothers. Knox, the motocross rider, Hendrick, the former NFL player. I can see the resemblance in them and Archer. I smile and then glance over at the last Holland brother. “And this is Archer’s youngest brother, Flynn.” I glance over at the last man in the circle with one of those friendly, too-bright smiles reserved for first introductions. I’ve heard a lot about Flynn. He’s a professional baseball player that has been crashing with Archer and Brogan after he was cut from the Twins. Sabrina has mentioned him a few times, and I even saw him once, briefly, when I stopped by the apartment. He was passed out on the couch so we didn’t speak, but the point is I know of him,

Eeeppp!!!!

Which is probably why my stomach lurches so violently when I’m met with familiar brown eyes. I stare at him the way you might an optical illusion—waiting for the man in front of me to morph into someone else. Because this guy? I know him. The playful smirk I remember twists with recognition and shock. “This is my best friend, Olivia,” Sabrina says. Her voice sounds far away like she’s in a tunnel. Or maybe I am. I hear Hendrick and Knox’s greetings, but I can’t seem to look away from the guy I have thought about every day since New York.

Lol

I open my mouth to say… something… anything, but nothing comes out. Did he know this whole time? That night was he laughing and waiting for me to recognize him? Was it all some joke to him?

“Olivia,” Flynn says my name slowly like it’s part of a puzzle he’s just figured out. He extends a hand. “You have to be kidding me,” I say under my breath but loud enough that Sabrina hears. A wrinkle forms between her brows as she looks from me to Flynn and back. “You two have already met?” “Flynn was crashing at our place that night we watched Greer,” Archer reminds her. “Oh, right.” “That’s not it,” I say, then shake my head and look directly at Flynn as I say, “I mean, no, we haven’t met.” Flynn pulls his hand back, that playful smirk returning, like he’s amused at me pretending not to remember him. Oh, I remember him, but we haven’t met. At least not officially. Flynn Holland is the guy from New York. Correction, he’s the asshole from New York.

I can’t take my eyes off her. Olivia. Holy shit. It’s really her. I take a step forward and her body stiffens. So many things rattle around in my brain. I don’t know where to start. Questions I want to ask her, things I want to say. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Those bright blue eyes glint like cut sapphires as her gaze goes from confused to shocked – possibly pissed. At me? I’m not sure. “Am I missing something?” Archer asks, dark brows raised. Without speaking, he signs, What the hell? “We have met,” I say to her. “Maybe you don’t recognize me in the dim lighting.”

Instead of dignifying my comment with a reply, she attempts a weak smile at Sabrina. Unfortunately for her, no one is letting the awkward moment drop. “In any case, nice to meet you.” I extend my hand toward her. Her stunning blue eyes flick to my palm and up. “Flynn, is it? You look more like a Richard or a Dick.” Claws out. Meow. I’m grinning at her and she’s looking back at me like I am the spawn of Satan.

“Who wants champagne?” Sabrina asks. “Love some,” I say without looking away from Olivia. Her gaze narrows, but she doesn’t break my stare. Everyone else politely moves toward the bar, leaving us as close to alone as we’re going to get in this crowded place. “I can’t believe it’s you. Didn’t I say I’d seen you before?” I ask, shaking my head with disbelief. “And you said⁠—” “Maybe in another life,” she finishes the statement for me and for a second, her angry demeanor softens. “I need another drink,” she says, staring off into the distance like she’s in a haze.

When she’s drained the entire glass, she finally angles her body toward me. The earlier fire is back in her gaze. “Was New York some kind of joke? Did you know who I was the whole time?” “What? No.” Is she for real right now?

I consider telling her that if I had known who she was, I would have already tracked her down. That night has lived rent-free in my head ever since. It isn’t often that you meet someone and connect with them like we did. I wouldn’t call it love at first sight, but I would say it was a hell of a lot more than lust at first sight. “I had no idea who you were,” I say, my tone low and serious. “But I’m really happy to see you again.”

“I’ll bet.” “I’m so for real right now. I must have thought about you a thousand times since that night.” That number is low, but I can already tell that she’s hesitant to believe anything I say. Less seems better.

“Sorry, what?” I ask. She’s so damn pretty it’s distracting. An exasperated scoff leaves her mouth, and she mutters, “Unbelievable.”

“Wait,” I say, voice closer to pleading than I’d like. “Can I get your number or take you out sometime?” “Seriously?” “Uhh…” “I don’t think so.” She takes a step and so do I. “Why not?” I ask. “I don’t date.” “Ever?” “Not since the last dozen attempts.” “Because none of them could get you off?” I ask quietly. Her face flushes. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I told you that.” “Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Look. I like your brother and Sabrina is my best friend, so let’s just forget about New York and everything we said and did there, and try to enjoy tonight for them. Okay?” “Not likely.” Exasperation flashes across her features. “I’ll see you around.” This time I let her leave. I stare after her and feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth. “You can count on it.”

“Good to see you again,” Tripp says to me. “How’s the arm?” Instinctively, I make a fist with my right hand and squeeze until I feel the muscles contract all the way up to my shoulder. “Rested and ready to get back out there.” So ready. The sooner I do, the quicker I can prove myself. “I’ll bet.” Tripp’s grin widens. “The Mustangs are lucky to have you.” Merrick lifts his beer toward me. “Here’s hoping you can pull them out of their slump.” “Slump?” Tripp’s brows rise. “They haven’t had a winning season since the eighties.” “Nineteen seventy-six,” I say. An awkward silence hangs around the circle. The Mustangs are the worst team in the league, but they were the only one willing to take a chance on me, so I feel something like loyalty to them.

“Well, I, for one, am stoked you’re sticking around. I missed you, little bro.” Brogan places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, then shakes me like a ragdoll.

“I’m excited to have a reason to use my season tickets,” Cody says. He’s the Maverick’s quarterback and has a more serious vibe about him than the others. “And I’m sorry about how things went down with the Twins. That was some impressive pitching for being pulled up at the last minute. Not a lot of guys could handle that kind of pressure.” “Including me,” I say,

“Don’t even sweat it. You’ll get another shot,” Brogan says, ever the optimist. “Yeah, for sure,” I add, trying to mimic his optimism—except I don’t feel it. “I’m going to grab a drink.” Instead of heading to the bar, I go out a side door to the outdoor patio to have a few minutes of peace. My steps slow when I spot Olivia. She doesn’t see me and her voice filters out softly. “Five. Four. Three. Two.” She pauses. “Two and a half,” I say.

“Sorry. I came out here to get away. Seems great minds think alike.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “Mind if I join you?” “It’s all yours. I was just leaving,” she says. “Stay. I have so many questions I’ve wanted to ask you since New York.” “Is that why you ran off while I was sleeping?”

“Something came up. I went downstairs for a few minutes and when I came back, you were gone.” “Which is where I’m going now. Bye, Flynn. It was…” She falters like she’s struggling for the right word, “interesting seeing you again.”

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. That’s my only thought as I get a tour of the Mustangs training headquarters. I have been inside a lot of baseball facilities in my day. None as small or run-down as this one. Which isn’t really a fair statement. It’s clean and appears well taken care of, but it doesn’t have any of the sparkle and extravagance that other teams flaunt. I can tell the walls were recently painted and the floors shine with new polish, but it’s obvious that no real money has been put into the club since… maybe ever.

“How’s the arm? Did you take some time off after the end of the season?” JT fires questions faster than I can answer them. He stops in front of an older man coming out of a small office. “This is Earl,” JT introduces him. “You need something around here, he’s your guy.”

Is that Grandpa??

“Hello,” I say. Earl looks like every TV sitcom grandpa. Gray hair, a light tan, creases around his eyes and mouth, clean-shaven. He’s wearing an off-white, short-sleeve dress shirt with a pocket on the left side. His pen and glasses are tucked inside, and he smells faintly of spearmint. “I’m the facilities manager,” he says as he extends a hand. He has a warm smile and a firm grip. “Nice to have you. Some arm you’ve got, kid.” Kid. Everywhere I go it seems people are hung up on my age, like a few years makes a difference in my abilities.

It is Grandpa!!

But Earl oozes a friendliness that keeps the word from annoying me too much. “Thanks, I appreciate it,” I say, squeezing his hand before I pull my arm back. “If you need anything, anything at all, holler.” He flashes another smile that I feel myself mirroring. “Yeah, I will.” He tips his head to me in acknowledgment before walking off.

“Microwave, refrigerator, water cooler.” JT points to each and then taps a finger on a clipboard hanging on the wall. “Sign-up is here. Whenever you get a chance, you can put yourself down for a few days.” “Sign-ups for what?” “Throughout the season, we all pitch in to make sure there is always food around for the team and staff,” he says. “My wife makes the best coffee cake muffins. You want to get in early on my days because they go fast.” What in the potluck hell? I’ve fallen a long way from the catered food and delicious cafeteria options I had access to with the Twins. “You don’t want to eat anything I make,” I say. “A lot of the single guys bring in donuts or order pizza or something.” He waves it off, so I do too. One year. That’s it. One amazing season and I’ll be out of here.

Dont be rude Flynn

“Want to throw me a few?” JT asks. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, but the enthusiastic look on his face has me nodding. His grin widens. He leans down and plucks a baseball off the ground, then tosses it to me. My fingers smooth around the ball and that familiar sensation of comfort spreads through me. While I grab my glove out of my duffel and head up to the pitcher’s mound, JT gets in his gear. We play catch for a few minutes, while I get warmed up. It feels fantastic to be out here.

“Warm yet?” JT asks as he throws the ball back to me. “Getting there.” “All right, then. Let’s see that fastball.” JT punches his glove and squats down behind home plate. I pull my shoulders back, stretching my muscles, then tip my head side to side. I throw the first pitch, a fastball just like JT wanted, but at only eighty percent. He catches it and tosses it back. We do it three or four more times until my arm is loose, and this feels like any other field, with every other team. There’s a familiarity in baseball, probably in most sports. Everything changes as you move from team to team, but everything is somehow exactly the same. The sun pricks the back of my neck as I get into a zone. JT nods that he’s ready, and I wind up and give him everything I’ve got. It feels good. No. It feels fucking fantastic. It’s the first pitch I’ve thrown in months that wasn’t in front of coaches and general managers—people picking apart my every move so they could decide whether or not I was right for their team.

After a few pitches at full speed, JT stands and lifts his mask with one hand. His grin stretches across his face as he yells, “You’re putting on a clinic.” I don’t immediately understand his meaning but then follow his gaze to right field where guys have stopped what they were doing to watch. I get it. I’m the new guy and they all just want assurances that I’m not going to come in, throw like shit, and cost them a bunch of games. Although honestly on this team, winning any games would be an improvement over their previous seasons. When they realize we’ve noticed them, they go back to playing catch. I’ve got the bug now. I don’t want to stop. “Got time for a few more?” I ask, hopefully. His nod is immediate. “Definitely.”

“Was that the best you’ve got?” he asks. Shit. Maybe I’m still lobbing softballs. I reach up with my right hand and rub the back of my neck as I flounder for an answer. He laughs, then pulls his glove off his right hand and holds his palm out in front of him. He opens and closes it a few times, staring at it with an expression I can’t make out. “Even when you were holding back, I’ve never felt anything like that,” he says, voice filled with wonder.

He forms a fist with his hand and then hits me with it lightly. “You throw like that all season and we’re going to be unstoppable.”

“What have you been up to since the season ended?” I ask, kicking one foot up onto the coffee table. “Not much. Sleeping in, working out, helping Sabrina at the dance studio.” At the mention of his fiancée, Archer’s expression goes soft. Helping at a dance studio for kids doesn’t sound like the most exciting way to spend his months away from the rigorous schedule of professional football, but if it makes him happy, I guess that’s all that matters. “Speaking of Sabrina.” He gives me a sideways glance that makes me want to squirm in my seat.

“You didn’t tell me that you saw Olivia in New York.” There’s no question in his statement, but I know at least a dozen are swimming in his head. “I didn’t know it was her,” I say. He gives me the same disbelieving look she had. Am I absolutely kicking myself that I didn’t take one look at her and instantly place her?

“I’m serious.” “All right.” His voice lifts an octave. “How does Sabrina know her?” “They worked together at Lilac Lounge when Sabrina danced there,” Archer says.

“So, what happened?” he asks. “Eh…” I run one hand over my jaw. Archer groans. “Please tell me you didn’t hook up with her.” “What if I had?” “She’s Sabrina’s best friend.” “O-kay.” I don’t see how that changes anything. “I love you like a brother, but⁠—” “I am your brother,” I interject. Grinning, he continues, “You’re young and having fun and I totally get it, no judgment here, but she isn’t the kind of girl you hook up with and then ghost.” “First of all, ouch.” I level him with a glare. “I don’t do that.”

“And second, I would never ghost Olivia. She’s…” My words trail off as I try to come up with an adjective to describe her. Stunning. Feisty. She doesn’t hold back her emotions or thoughts, and I find that incredibly sexy. My brother is still looking at me like he thinks I’m full of shit. “Fine, yes, I’ve hooked up with women and never texted them back for a repeat, but I never make promises that it’s anything more than a one-night thing. I don’t know where I’m going to be in six months or a year, so it’s nicer than stringing them along for months and then hopping town.” “Yeah? Is that how you’re selling it?” He arches a brow. “How nice of you.” “Fuck off.” I laugh,

“It doesn’t matter. That isn’t what happened with Olivia. I met her by chance at the hotel and we stayed up all night talking.” “Just talking?” “Mostly talking.” He groans again. I could put him out of his misery and tell him I didn’t hook up with her, but this is more fun. “Lighten up.” I elbow him. “Just promise me you won’t do anything that I’m going to have to apologize for later. Sabrina likes you, but she will still plot your death if you hurt her best friend.” “I will be a perfect gentleman. Just like my big brothers taught me.”

I’m smiling as I walk along the sidewalk, exchanging hellos and good mornings. It isn’t until I get closer to Plot Twist that my stomach clenches. While our store is empty, this one is bustling with people already. “How?” I whine quietly. My steps slow as I approach. There is a line to get inside. Again, hooooooow?!?! Two women stand at the back of the line, grinning and careening their necks to see to the front. “What’s going on?” I ask them. “That hot new baseball player for the Mustangs is here.”

“Hot new baseball player?” I ask, mostly to myself. I walk around the line to the front and then push my way through the door to get inside. “Excuse me. Sorry. I’m not butting in line. I promise,” I say when I get more than a few dirty looks. I’ve never been inside Plot Twist, and it feels a little like crossing into enemy territory, if I’m honest. The bookstore is smaller than ours and has a more dated feel, like a library or your grandfather’s den. The lighting is dim, and the color scheme is all wood and dark colors. I glance around for Walter, the store owner.

When I don’t see him, I go back to scrutinizing the space. The shelves are packed too tightly with books, and the table displays are basically just piles of books with no clear indication as to why they were bunched together. The signage denoting each section, historical, non-fiction, sports, fiction, children, look like they were handwritten. To be fair, the penmanship is artsy and beautiful, but it still strikes me as something a bargain store would do instead of a place that won best bookstore the last two years.

Music plays from the speakers, something classical but lively. The line of people snakes through the right side of the store past recipe books and through the minuscule romance section. Without thinking, I search for my sister’s books. I’m not all that surprised when I don’t find any. We have pretty much covered that market. Our Ruby Madison books come signed and with anecdotes about the author. Things like, “she wrote chapter twenty-two right over there in that chair” or “I was with her when she got the call that this one hit the New York Times Bestseller List!”

Finally, I spot the front of the line. Under the handwritten SPORTS sign a man stands in front of the bookshelves. He has a Sharpie in his right hand and his left is draped around the shoulders of a little boy wearing a Mustangs jersey. No, not a man. Flynn Holland. He’s dressed in a long-sleeved gray shirt and jeans. He has this effortlessly handsome way about him. Sporty, casual, but undeniably attractive. I gawk at him for several seconds while he takes a photo with the boy who can’t stop glancing over at Flynn with wide-eyed admiration.