Ryker Page 5

  Of course, I couldn't let Chad see my computer screen, even though he signed a nondisclosure agreement. I wasn't about to take the chance of this leaking, so I told him that I was going through some Excel spreadsheets over last week's team stats that were confidential.

  And now the day is coming to a close and the only thing I have left to do is submit to the sit-down interview with Chad. Then I can go home and watch my men play.

  I lead Chad back to my office, which I made no effort to clean up. He looks around with interest at the cluttered mess and waits patiently while I clear off one of the chairs for him to sit. I take my own chair behind my desk and rub my neck muscles, which are starting to get stiff from the long day of work. I was in at five this morning and I haven't stopped once since I started.

  "Just give me a second to go over my notes," Chad mumbles, and then I'm forgotten as his head tilts down and his finger slides across the screen of his tablet. I take the opportunity to check my messages on my phone, responding to a text from my father that he wished I was there. Even though he's not the GM anymore, I expect he'll still be attending all the games.

  I start to power down my phone, but a quick glance up and I see Chad still isn't ready for me. My fingers hesitate and I try to talk myself off the ledge. I'm only asking for trouble by even considering this.

  Fuck it.

  I tap on the text icon again and I pull up Ryker's cell number in the To box.

  Why do I have his cell number?

  Because I programmed it in there two days ago after our yoga session. It was silly and useless because there is no reason why I should ever be calling him. GMs don't deal with players unless it's to welcome them to the team or to usher them out the door. But after our yoga session, I couldn't help myself.

  As the students started to leave, I busied myself with rolling up my mat, sipping on my water bottle, and putting on my shoes. Melissa spent a few minutes talking to Ryker, but she left with disappointment on her face. I think she may have been expecting him to ask her out or something.

  Ryker loitered, and when we were alone in the studio, I asked him, "Well...what did you think?"

  "I liked it," he said, his voice low and sexy. And I imagined that he was saying he liked the way I was touching him as I showed him the poses.

  Then he threw me for a loop. "Want to go grab some coffee or something?"

  Something strange happened to me. Something unlike anything I've ever felt before.

  Euphoria swept through my body, a wave of pure joy crashing over me. It felt eerily similar to the way I felt when I was first selected to the national team to play in the Olympics. A feeling of validation and pure, adrenal excitement as my heart started racing. It's like I had been asked to the fucking prom.

  So I promptly declined his invitation, because there is no way an invitation for coffee by one of my players should ever make me feel that good. That spelled immense danger for me.

  Ryker took it with good nature. He thanked me for the invitation to yoga and said he might try it again.

  After he left, I berated myself for turning him down. I felt wretched and mean. I even reasoned to myself that I may have dented his confidence, and I couldn't do that to my star goalie.

  When I got home, I immediately logged into the server at the office and pulled up his employment file. I even went so far as to punch in his phone number into my phone, intent to call him and rectify my mistake. I once again rationalized that I needed to soothe the sting I must have dealt to his pride.

  You know...for the benefit of the team and all.

  I never did dial that number, though. Because even as I was having all of these insane thoughts that seemed to come from the hormonally challenged and fruity woman side of me, the rational side of my brain held my hand hostage. It wouldn't let me tap the Call button.

  It did, however, concede to let me put that number into my contacts.

  Just in case of an emergency, you know?

  I'm tired. I'm going into my twelfth hour of work for the day. I'm irritated that I couldn't travel with the team today. I'm annoyed that I'm sitting here waiting for this reporter to go through his notes. And I'm pissed that I'm even struggling with myself about Ryker.

  I. Cannot. Be. Involved. With. Him.

  It's that simple.

  Except...I'm the type of person who's known for bending the rules.

  Hell, throwing the rules out the door.

  I'm a pioneer. A risk taker. A box breaker.

  I answer to no one but myself.

  My fingers fly over the screen as I craft my message. I move quickly before the rational part of me tries to take control.

  Good luck tonight. Get us a shutout and I'll buy you a cup of coffee.

  I practically smash my finger down onto the screen to send the message and the familiar whoop sound of the outgoing text does little to ease the furious pace of my heart. There's a good chance that Ryker is reading the message right this moment, as he's probably on the team bus headed to the D.C. Breakers' arena.

  Panicked to even think what he might think about my message or how he might respond, I turn the phone off and toss it onto my desk. I raise my face to see Chad staring at me.

  "Ready?" he asks.

  "Ready," I affirm.

  Chad leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. He props an elbow on the armrest and taps a pen against his jaw while he studies me, almost as if he's trying to find the best way to get to my jugular.

  Finally, he gives me a knowing smile and says, "You're very unique to the professional hockey world, Miss Brannon, because you're a woman in a traditionally male role, and because you're using groundbreaking methods with which to manage this club. I'm curious...if you were to die tomorrow, what would you prefer to be known for?"

  I give him a smile and lean back in my chair. I dressed casually today in designer jeans, riding boots, and a simple white blouse. I feel comfortable and confident.

  "Let me tell you a story, Mr. Sykes. I had an interview four days ago. Right here in this office and a lovely young female reporter asked me some very good questions. It was for a woman's magazine and I loved being able to tell the story of how I'm breaking gender boundaries. But then that young woman asked me what was my beauty care regimen, citing that the readers of their magazine would want to know."

  Chad stares at me, fascinated.

  "Want to know what I told her?"

  He nods eagerly.

  "I told her to get out of my office. I told her she had thirty seconds to clear it or I'd have security escort her out."

  Chad bends over his tablet, types a few notes, and then looks back up at me with respect. But still he chides me, "If that's supposed to scare me, you have to know I'm still going to ask you questions about your role as a woman."

  I laugh and give him a nod of acknowledgment. "I'd expect no different. Just so you know, you ask the wrong kinds of questions about me being a woman, and you'll be asked to leave."

  "Fair enough," he says with a chuckle, but then his eyes immediately turn serious. "I have a theory. My theory is that most people don't think a woman can do this job because they don't understand what a general manger does. Let's educate them. I've watched you today, but you tell me what you consider to be your role in this organization."

  I like it. It's a damn good question and it is absolutely a chance for me to educate the morons who don't understand. "You've watched me today, Chad. I can sit here and talk for hours about operating this organization, because let's not forget, I'm merely running a business. It's why I have my MBA. I manage budgets, oversee operations, and make decisions that affect our P&L statements every year. Anyone, man or woman, can do that. But that's boring. Who wants to talk about that?"

  "Not me," Chad quips with a smile.

  I return it and say, "I gather information. I'm competing against twenty-nine other GMs to make my organization the best. So I watch, I absorb, and I collect. I try to find out every scrap of information that wi
ll help me put together the best hockey team imaginable and I try to get to that information first."

  "Statistics," Chad merely says.

  "Yes," I agree. "I use analytics to drive personnel decisions."

  And now we're really getting down to business in this interview.

  --

  I watch as the timer counts down.

  In my silk pajamas, tucked into my bed, my eyes glued to the forty-two-inch TV mounted to my bedroom wall.

  Three, two, one.

  The Cold Fury players swarm the ice, surround Ryker, and give him rubs on top of his helmet. He got a shutout, and part of me is thrilled by the prospect of having coffee with him and terrified that he'll turn me down. He hasn't responded to my text at all, and I have no clue if he just hasn't seen it or doesn't want to get involved.

  Maybe I imagined the desire I saw in his eyes.

  Maybe I'm taking his open-mindedness about me as the general manager and projecting things that just aren't there.

  The camera zooms in on the Cold Fury as the announcer goes over some of the game highlights. I can't see Ryker's face as his teammates congratulate him but I know he's smiling.

  And I'm smiling as I look at his mask. It's charmingly juvenile, but in a good way.

  Every goalie in the league has a custom-painted mask. And it can be whatever they want.

  Ryker got a new mask this year, a tribute to his two girls who I know through the grapevine--that would be Coach Pretore--came to live with Ryker full time this summer. He has their names on the left side of the mask surrounded by custom-painted holographic hearts that seem to contract and swell when he moves. As the light catches the graphic design, it's almost as if the hearts are a pulsing symbol of his love for his daughters. I'm normally not affected by gooey shit like that, but for some reason...it sort of gets me right in the center of my chest.

  I click the TV off and roll out of bed, deciding on a late-night snack of some kettle popcorn. I know I should abstain and get my ass into bed, but I'm actually wired right now. I'm hyped up on the dangerous path I've put myself on with Ryker and yet I can't seem to stop myself.

  I know Ryker is separated from his wife because she cheated on him. I know this because it's what caused Ryker to flip his shit and break the nose of his teammate who was the one boning her. That led the Boston Eagles to look at releasing Ryker from his contract, because he was more expendable than Sutter.

  Now that I think about it, I should probably send flowers and champagne to both of them for having an affair, because that landed me the hottest goalie in the league.

  After I make my popcorn and get a bottle of water, I head back into my bedroom, intent on watching a movie. I hope it will occupy my thoughts enough so I can get drowsy and fall asleep.

  Just as I set the bowl of popcorn on my nightstand, my phone lights up simultaneously with my ringtone of Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack."

  It's Ryker.

  My heart rate skyrockets and that euphoric excitement sizzles through me again. Like a fucking schoolgirl.

  I snatch the phone, take a deep breath, and hope I sound casually cool. "Nice shutout."

  "I was just calling to see what time tomorrow you wanted to meet up for coffee."

  Pleasure skitters through me over how he's taken control. Of how he's showing me at this very moment that he wants to see me. Hell...he can't even be more than five minutes off the ice.

  "Where are you?" I ask.

  "Standing outside the locker room," he says in a low voice, and it's clear he doesn't want to be overheard. "So let me know where you want to go tomorrow. The team plane lands around 10:30 A.M., I think."

  "Tomorrow?" I blurt out in astonishment. "No, I can't tomorrow. I have a crazy full day. No room at all in my schedule."

  "Then when do you have time?" He's so calm and sure of himself, while I feel like I'm getting ready to fracture into a million pieces.

  "Maybe we shouldn't be doing this," I stammer, succumbing to fear and rationality.

  "Getting coffee?" Ryker asks with a chuckle. "It's just coffee, Gray. People have it together all the time."

  "But--"

  "Besides, I consider it to be like an incentive bonus. You said if I got a shutout you'd take me out for coffee. It's time to pay up."

  He can't see me and I'm glad, because a satisfied smile creeps onto my face. I'm happy he's pushing me, because if it were up to me, I'd listen to my common sense and hightail it far away from Ryker Evans. But then again...it's just coffee, right? No implication of anything further. Nothing more than an employer and employee coming together to chat over coffee.

  Easy.

  "How about Wednesday morning, you come to yoga and we'll get coffee after," I offer. And the invitation back to yoga is completely permissible because I'm interested in his health and training and has nothing to do with me being able to ogle him up close.

  I'm so going to hell for these thoughts.

  "All right," he says, and I hear relief in his voice. It tells me he was just as leery about my reaction to this as I was to him pushing it. "See you on Wednesday, Big Bang."

  And then he hangs up.

  Chapter 7

  Ryker

  We walk back into the hotel a little before one A.M. and I have a good buzz going on. Zack and I, along with Alex Crossman and Garrett Samuelson, the two best players on the team, had all gone out for a late dinner and drinks following the game.

  We ate little and drank a lot, celebrating our win over the Breakers with a shutout.

  I was personally celebrating my date with Gray Brannon.

  And it is a date, no matter how much shit I spouted to her about "it's just coffee." If it was "just coffee," she wouldn't have been so freaked about it.

  As we walk through the lobby, we hear a raucous roar from the hotel bar and I can see several of our teammates in there laughing.

  "Come on," I say as I start heading that way. "Let's have one more beer for the road."

  "You mean for the short elevator ride up to our rooms?" Alex corrects me.

  "Whatever," I mutter. "It's a night to celebrate."

  We manage to work our way up to the bar amid backslaps and high fives from teammates. I order beers for me, Zack, Alex, and Garrett, and because I'm feeling overly celebratory due to my upcoming date, I buy the entire team another round. Beers are poured and handed out, drunk men raise the pint glasses in cheers and victory, sloshing the frothy goodness all over the place. My teammates come up one by one and thank me for the beer and for the shutout. I get noogies, ass slaps, and our equipment manager, Raul Mendleson, who is a crusty old fart, even mimed humping my leg in gratitude--I kid you not.

  It's a good time with my drunk mates, but as always seems to happen, some people can't handle inebriation as well as others.

  And I'm talking about myself primarily.

  It starts when Claude Amedee comes up to me, looping an arm around my shoulders and squeezing me affectionately. As one of our younger defensemen, he's a big dude and we almost see eye to eye in the literal sense, although I think I have him by about an inch.

  "Man...you were killing it tonight," Claude says while he stares at me happily. His eyes are glazed and his words are slurred but that doesn't stop me from clinking my glass to his, which encourages him to drink more. "We need to celebrate while we can because this team is going to fall to shit."

  Even though he's so drunk he's slurring and maybe shouldn't be taken seriously, I can tell that because of his lowered inhibitions, he's spouting some deep-seated resentment.

  "What do you mean?" I ask him, my hackles rising.

  I know what he fucking means, but I want to hear him say it.

  "Never mind," he says with a happy, drunk grin and squeezes my shoulder again. "I just wanted to thank you for the beer. You are the man, Brick."

  I nod my head at him and he spins away from me, lurches to the bar two feet away, and starts talking to Sam Larson and Mikkel Erat, two of the other younger defenseman. I sh
ake my head and turn back to Zack, Alex, and Garrett, joining in on their conversation, which oddly is about kayaking for some reason.

  A lot of the players start filtering out of the bar, and as it approaches two A.M., the bartender finally takes last call. Zack and Garrett head up to bed, but Alex stays with me and we have one more beer while casually leaning up against the bar. The only other players left are Claude, Sam, and Mikkel, and all of a sudden, it just seems a little too quiet without the underlying roar of twenty big hockey players all talking at once.

  "--and I'd love to wipe that haughty look off her face," Claude sneers as he takes a sloppy gulp of beer.

  My skin tightens and I slide my eyes to Alex. He just shakes his head with a disgusted look on his face and leans his elbows on the bar. His look to me is clear...let it slide because he's a drunk asshole.

  I roll my head from side to side, trying to loosen the sudden tension in my shoulders.

  "She thinks she's better than us because of all her degrees," Mikkel says in his heavy Swedish accent, which oddly is more understandable when he's drunk.

  Claude nods his head vigorously and almost falls over from the movement. "Exactly, dude," he says while dramatically pointing at Mikkel. "It's why I want to knock that look off her face. I bet she wouldn't look so high and mighty if I shoved my dick down her throat."

  My fists clench and I straighten up to my full height. Mikkel and Sam both laugh hard, and it eggs Claude on.

  "She may not know shit about hockey, but damn...she is a fine piece of ass," Claude chortles, and grabs on to the bar for stability.

  The back of my neck prickles with my hair standing on end and my face flushes hot. I think Alex says something to me but it really doesn't penetrate.

  It doesn't penetrate because my eyes are lasered onto Claude and I see something dark and ugly filter into his eyes. His voice doesn't sound so slurred and he practically snarls with menace. "I should take that fine ass of hers and fuck it hard. Make that bitch learn her place."

  Fury such as I have never known seems to take over my body. My eyesight dims along the peripheral edges of my vision and all sound becomes muted except for the singularly disgusting noise of Claude laughing darkly over his proclamation. I push off from the bar, everything feeling super slo-mo to me. Even Claude's evil laugh comes out of his mouth slow and distorted, like it's being filtered through mud.