Ryker Read online

  With my hands tucked into the pockets of my skirt, I grin at my dad. "You don't have to ask. I'm ready."

  "That's my girl," Brian Brannon says with heartfelt affection and pride in his Irish green eyes--second generation, of course.

  His words are short and tidy. Just three of them, but it's his tone of voice and the emotion in his eyes that tell me all I need to know about a father's love for his daughter.

  "Want some advice?" he asks casually as the elevator rolls to a stop and the doors slide open.

  "Sure," I say as I pull my hands free and follow him out, the sound of my heels clicking in unison on the industrial tile floor with my father's Ferragamo loafers.

  "Be yourself," he says simply as we walk side by side to the team meeting room. It's a stadium-style room that the team meets in, usually to watch game film, but sometimes for relaying of information as a group.

  "Be myself?" I ask skeptically. "That's all the great Brian Brannon has to say to me?"

  "Yes...be yourself. Don't go in that room and for one minute try to mold yourself to their expectations. I didn't offer you this position to do the same exact job I did. I gave it to you because I want you to be better at it than I was, and you're going to be because of who you are, not who they want you to be."

  I tuck an arm through my father's, feeling the strength he exudes at the ripe age of fifty-eight. I can't help the smile on my face as I lean toward him and give a squeeze. "It's amazing I didn't become a narcissistic, self-centered asshole with as much pumping up of my esteem that you do on a daily basis."

  Dad snickers. "As if you could ever be anything that was less than perfect."

  We turn right at the end of the hall and the door to the meeting room comes into focus. But for the slight flutter in my belly, there's nothing internal to indicate how momentous this occasion is.

  To me.

  To the league.

  To this team.

  At just thirty-one years old, I'm getting ready to be named as one of the youngest general managers in the league. As a woman, someone like me among these ranks is unheard of, and I'm not going to be given a free pass just because I'm Brian Brannon's daughter. While I think my father is about the closest thing to God as you can get, there are many out there who will think he's gone off his rocker by stepping down and appointing me as GM.

  Many will think he's showing favoritism to a family member.

  Some will think he just doesn't care about this team anymore.

  Perhaps a few will even think he's just lazy and doesn't want the headaches that come with being a president and CEO of a professional sports team, as well as the general manager.

  They'd all be wrong, though, and I sincerely hope they believe him today. If not, fuck it. I have a job to do and skeptics, chauvinists, purists, and otherwise backward-thinking assholes aren't going to stop me from achieving my goals.

  To turn this team into champions.

  There's a rustling of bodies in their seats as we walk in. I follow my dad to the podium, giving a smile and nod of my head to Coach Pretore sitting on the end in the first row. I think I have him won over, but I can't be sure until I actually get in and get my hands dirty.

  My father has never been one for pomp, sugar coating, or long segues. He cuts right to the chase. "I know you all have seen the news stories and I hate that it was leaked before I could talk to you. As of today, I have officially stepped down as the acting general manager of the Cold Fury."

  No one utters a word. Not a sound is made. This tells me that indeed, everyone has already heard the news.

  "I'm appointing my daughter, Gray Brannon, in my place."

  And there it is...a distinct rustling sound as bodies shift in their seats. My father continues on, making firm and clear statements about my qualifications.

  Graduated Princeton when I was nineteen.

  Got my MBA from Kellogg at twenty-one.

  Ph.D. in statistics from Berkeley at twenty-four.

  Genius level IQ of 142.

  Okay, Dad...that's a little much. Get to the good stuff.

  As I half listen to my father talk with pride about my two Olympic medals while playing for the U.S. women's ice hockey team--one silver, one gold--I let my eyes roam over the group. The two front rows are composed of the coaching, equipment, and training staff. The players sit in clique-type groups based on what lines they play on. This isn't by design, but I'm betting more because they have a unique bond and camaraderie. They almost have a sixth sense that enables them to read each other while on the ice.

  My eyes pass over Ryker Evans, our team's goalie, and then snap right back to him. He's not watching my father but rather me, and I find myself unwillingly sucked into those silver-gray eyes. It happens every time I look at him, whether it's in person or he's giving an interview on TV, which is again proof that I am indeed a woman.

  His lips tip up in acknowledgment of me and his eyes radiate congratulations. He gives me a nod of approval and then slides his gaze to my father, who is now lauding my scouting efforts for the Cold Fury. I've been the senior scout for the past two years and have scored some great players for the team.

  I don't immediately move my own gaze on, but rather take an unfettered moment to appreciate Ryker's bold handsomeness. He's called the Brick Wall in this league because he's big. I mean really big for a goalie, but he's still one of the most agile net minders I've ever seen. And still speaking as a woman for just a second, he has the face of a GQ cover model. In fact, I think he's actually graced their cover twice if memory serves me. Dark hair, liquid silver eyes, and a beard of what looks like no more than three days' growth that never gets shorter or longer, even during the playoffs. I'm quite sure when he's ready to retire he could have a second career as a model if he was so inclined.

  As it stands, however, I am far more interested in Ryker Evans for his athletic abilities than his face and I consider him to be one of my greatest acquisitions as a scout. I thought that even when our playoff hopes were crushed during Ryker's first game in a Cold Fury jersey when he failed to stop a penalty shot, securing for us a big fat loss. I thought he was still a fantastic prospect even when the organization's CFO, Bill Bowman, berated me in a staff meeting for insisting on such a pricey acquisition to the team.

  I remember that day with actual fondness. Bill got all red in the face as he ranted at me, and my father just leaned back in his chair at the head of the conference room table and let me take it all on my shoulders. My father never fought my fights once I became an adult and I loved him for it. It meant he respected me.

  It didn't matter that it was wholly unfair to put that loss on Ryker's shoulders. The fact is, the team--as a whole and with our regular starting goalie, Max Fournier--blew a three-game lead in the playoffs against Atlanta. Ryker came in cold off the bench when Max suffered a season-ending knee injury and was immediately placed in the net to face off against one of the best players in the league for a penalty shot.

  And when he missed it, he became the pariah of the Cold Fury team.

  At least for a little while.

  But right now, it's kind of hard to be the outcast when you have a .936 save percentage.

  Yes, now my boy is back. He's become a team leader--a man the younger guys look up to. He's killing it on the ice, and I believe nothing is going to stop him this season. I can see it in his eyes, the tilt of his chin, the set to his shoulders. Ryker Evans, the Brick Fucking Wall, is going to lead this team--my team--straight into the playoffs. He has something to prove and that's fine by me...whatever motivates him best.

  "--which means that the only one who has to prove herself to you is Gray. I'm not even asking you to give her a chance because I know she'd never ask that of you either. I'm just telling you to watch and judge her on her own merits."

  My dad steps away from the podium and gives me a wink. He sweeps a hand out, indicating that I now have the floor. I didn't have any expectations that I was going to be greeted with open arms. I didn't expec
t applause, wolf whistles, or even metaphorical banging of hockey sticks to welcome me. In fact, I got more than I ever anticipated just from that quick nod of approval from Ryker Evans.

  That's fine by me.

  Just makes this all the easier for me as I step up to the podium and prepare to cement my place in history.

  "I'm not big on inspirational speeches. It's not my job to motivate you to greatness the way it is for Coach Pretore. My job is to ensure that he has the necessary tools with which to bring home a championship for this organization. I'm not being boastful when I say that we have what it takes right now--sitting here in this room--to win the Cup this year. I say that with confidence because I recruited a good chunk of you men. Not one of you needs to peek under my skirt to know I don't have a big pair of hairy balls like you. But I'm here to tell you, just because I'm wearing a skirt, do not underestimate me. You do that for me, and I will make you part of a hockey dynasty."

  I hear a snicker from the back of the room and I see Claude Amedee has his face down trying to hide his grin. Clearly, what I said was made into a whispered joke among a few of the players, because the guys sitting around him all are trying to look innocent with fake smiles plastered on their faces. I don't even pay it any mind. That was something I prepared for.

  "We have three home games this week so I'm going to be scheduling meetings with each of you individually. The purpose is twofold. First, I want you each to have an opportunity to sit down with me and tell me your concerns. No holds barred, total honesty, no repercussions. Second, we're going to go over goals, and by that, I'm going to tell you what each of you needs to do to maintain your position on this team. I abhor tardiness, so don't be late."

  More snickers from the back of the room as I turn from the podium and I'm greeted by my father's warm eyes. I know it's killing him not to throw a glare at the offenders, but he'd never disrespect me that way. He knows that I have to handle myself with them and earn the respect.

  All of my degrees, IQ points, and Olympic medals don't mean shit to these guys. They will want to see results and I intend to give them just that.

  Chapter 3

  Ryker

  It's impossible to get comfortable on this couch. Whoever designed the executive office suite seemed to forget that big, burly dudes play on the team, as evidenced by the low-slung, European-style couch done in dark gray that's as hard as a rock and practically pushes my knees to my chin.

  I flip idly through last week's Sports Elite, reading with some interest the predictions on the college football National Championship game. Even though they're underdogs, my money is on the Buckeyes. I'd also bet my entire paycheck that next week Gray Brannon's face will be on the front cover. I can see the headlines now.

  CAN A WOMAN RUN A HOCKEY TEAM?

  It's all anyone is talking about on every major sports outlet, and, frankly, I'm fucking sick of it. There seems to be a general consensus that she's going to fail merely because she sits down to piss. That seems to be the attitude of the players too. I've heard more than one guy come out of his meeting with Gray Brannon grumbling about her ideals and methods. Over the last two days as they've all met with her one by one, I try to press them on specifics, yet not one of them can give me a concrete complaint. Again, most are just focused on the fact that Gray is a woman.

  Claude Amedee actually was bitching about her in the weight room yesterday. When I asked him exactly what his problem was with her, he said--I kid you not--"I read an article that said she never wants to get married and have children. I mean...how is that even natural?"

  I felt like I'd fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole and emerged just shy of the eighteenth century. But I didn't get into it with him. I don't get into it with any of them. They're entitled to their opinions, as am I. As long as we all keep our eye on the prize.

  "My money is on the Buckeyes," I hear, and I glance up to see Gray Brannon looking down at me. Her green eyes flick to the magazine in my hand and then back to me with amusement. "Urban Meyer is one of the greatest coaches of all time. Everyone seems to underestimate his return."

  "Agreed," I say as I toss the magazine down beside me and unfold my frame from the couch. I hold my hand out to her and she takes it in a firm handshake. "Congratulations are in order. Your dad made a gutsy move, but I'm sure it was the right one."

  Gray tilts her head and gives me a small smile of acceptance. I'm not sure, but I think I see a measure of gratitude as well. She squeezes my hand briefly before releasing it.

  "You have faith in me." She says it as an emphatic statement with just a tiny touch of wonder.

  "As you had faith in me last year."

  "And still have faith in you," she finishes with a smile, and then turns. I follow her down a short hall, right past her father's office, which is empty and darkened, back to her office where she did all of her scouting work. I'm familiar with it because I stuck my head in to say hello to her when I came to discuss the terms of my contract with her father and my agent.

  "Thought you'd upgrade to a bigger office," I say as we walk in and I notice it's just as overflowing with piles and piles of papers as it was the last time I was here.

  "Nah," she says dismissively as she sits down behind her desk. "I'm comfortable here."

  Stacks of documents and folders cover her entire desk. Binders line her shelves and books pepper the floor. It's a complete and utter mess. Total chaos, and yet I get the feeling that this is the only way that Gray knows how to operate.

  I pick up a pile of books from one of her chairs and set it on the floor. She gives me a sheepish grin as I sit down. "Sorry...just some reading for tonight."

  Leaning to the side of my chair, I glance down at the books again.

  Statistical Models: Theory and Application

  Strategic Management for Results: Practical Strategies for Sustainability

  A Theory of Games and Economic Behavior

  "I don't know whether to be impressed or terrified," I tell her honestly, and as I raise my eyes back up to her, I'm actually thrown off-balance when she tosses her head back and laughs. I'm not jolted by her sense of humor or the easy banter that we have going back and forth. I'm actually struck a little stupid by the full lips bordering an absolutely perfect set of teeth and sparkling green eyes that come to rest on me.

  It's a moment for me...unconditionally defining.

  It's a moment I'll look back upon and will say to myself one day, this...right here. This is the moment that it struck me that Gray Brannon is a fantastically beautiful and sexy woman, and that she's actually...touchable?

  I mean...yeah, I always knew she was attractive. How could she not be, with a smokin' hot body and angelic face? It's something that I always noticed, because hey, I'm a guy and we notice shit like that. But honestly, before this moment, I think I've always looked at Gray first as an immensely talented businesswoman and a brilliant as hell hockey savant. A woman that as I came to know more about her, I found a deep well of respect for her accomplishments and talent. While I've hardly seen her since she recruited me almost nine months ago, I've followed her accomplishments.

  And I'm telling you that anyone--man or woman--who underestimates her is going to have their ass handed to them.

  But now, as she laughs with candor at me--with me--who cares, she's just fucking stunning.

  "I think you should be impressed, Ryker," she says with waning chuckles. "I think our opponents should be terrified."

  I shake my head slightly to clear it, because while as a man I will never apologize for checking out a gorgeous woman, this is business, not pleasure, and I need to quickly get past the fact that Gray Brannon is a woman who would interest me greatly on a personal level. The thought of what those lips--

  No, not even heading in that direction.

  "I'm going to go out on a limb here," I drawl as I nod down toward the books, "and say that you plan on using that ginormous brain of yours to analyze our organization and our opponents, then translate it into so
me seriously witchy strategy."

  Gray leans forward, places her elbows on her desk, and steeples her hands. Her eyes are both serious and mischievous all at once. "I'm thinking your brain pan is pretty large itself, seeing as how you were able to understand my management philosophy in just under ten seconds and a glance at a few old textbooks, when it's taken me the better part of an hour with each of your teammates to explain what I envision."

  "Maybe you should have used smaller words with them," I quip as I prop an ankle over my knee.

  "Maybe if they weren't looking at my tits the entire time, they would have listened better."

  I actually can understand where my teammates are coming from. Gray Brannon has a fantastic-looking set from what I've been able to tell on past stolen looks, but to my credit, my eyes never drop there once today.

  "So, you said the other day that these meetings were twofold. To give us a chance to voice our concerns to you, and for you to tell us what we need to do to keep our jobs on the team."

  Gray gives a mock wince. "That sounds really hard-ass when you say it like that."

  "But you are a hard-ass, aren't you?" I make sure I give her a genuine smile when I ask that, because I don't mean for her to take offense. Any general manager in this business, male or female, has to have thick skin, brass balls, and a concrete ass, so to speak.

  She doesn't answer my question. Completely ignores it and instead asks me, "Do you know why I wanted you to come to the Cold Fury?"

  "Because of my history...my experience."

  "No," she says emphatically as she pushes her chair back, turns to the shelf behind her, and plucks a binder off. She turns backs to me and hands it across the desk. As I take it, I see my name in navy blue lettering down the spine. Giving it a nod, she says, "I didn't give a shit about your history and experience. I didn't care that people were calling you old and washed up. I didn't care that Bill Bowman didn't think you were worth five cents, even when he pointed out to me that our starting goalie, Max Fournier, had a better goals against average and save percentage than you had."

  I clamp my teeth together to keep my jaw from sagging and stiffen my spine, because damn...that's harsh. Not that I can't take it, because fuck...much of it's true, but now she has me wondering...why in the hell did she want me on this team?