His Secret Santa: A Phoenix Club novella

Chapter 5

"The cafeteria is this way," Jamie said when Holden headed for the side exit doors that led out to the football field and the covered bleachers.

"You go ahead," Holden mumbled. "I'm not hungry. I'll be out at the bleachers."

"It's freezing outside."

Holden looked out the window in the exit door. The snow came down thicker and already covered most of the ground. "I have a coat." He pushed open the door and exited the building, walking across the concrete to the bleachers, his shoes crunching in the thin layer of snow.

The bleachers sat on top of a row of outer classrooms, all of which were empty during lunchtime. Holden climbed the steps to the first set of bleachers, then made his way up to the middle benches and sat down. He took out the folded paper and stared at the cheerleader's name, his gut knotting tighter. Why her of all people? He had secretly—or not so secretly—hoped to draw Lincoln's name. Why? He didn't know. Maybe to have his attention, if only for a moment when he gave him the gift?

You're kind of pathetic, you know that? He did know. Practically groveling for the quarterback's attention. Silently begging the guy to give him a look or a smile—or just notice him at all. It was understandable at first, four years ago when his crush was fresh. But now, after being ignored all this time... it was embarrassing to still crave his attention to this extent.

You're graduating soon—time to grow the fuck up and let go of this ridiculous fantasy.

If he needed someone to fantasize about, the Santa stripper from the club was a great candidate. Holden at least had real experiences with him, something tangible to fantasize about... and even the slim hope of it maybe happening again.

With Lincoln Pratt... he had nothing real.

"Time to move on," he whispered, not expecting the sudden ache that clenched his heart. His feelings for the quarterback were not genuine—how could they be? After four years of going to school with the guy, he still didn't know him. You're not falling for him—you're falling for the fantasy of him. Everything that affected him on an emotional level... he had made up in his head and injected into his fantasies. None of it was authentic.

Someone walked out onto the snowy football field. Holden went still, his pulse slowly climbing. Lincoln. The quarterback was alone and took slow steps, his hands crammed into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched, and head down.

Beneath the roof of the bleachers, shadowed in the gloom, Holden didn't think the guy could see him if he looked his way. Lincoln paused in the center of the field and turned his face up to the falling snow. When he lowered his head again, he dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and took a deep breath.

Was he... crying?

Or just wiping snow out of his eyes?

His entire demeanor suggested tears. It looked like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders, nearly crushing him.

Or you're making something out of nothing. Blowing it all out of proportion.

Thinking the quarterback was going through something personal... did that make him more relatable? More human and less... godlike? But regardless of whether he was struggling with some emotional turmoil, it didn't draw Holden any closer or open any doors for him. Lincoln Pratt wouldn't be coming to him for comfort or as a confidant. It wouldn't even cross his mind. The guy had plenty of others to comfort him.

That fact became increasingly clear when McKenna Peterson appeared and approached Lincoln. They spoke for a moment before embracing. Lincoln hugged her hard and buried his face in her long blond hair.