Ryker (Cold Fury Hockey 4)

"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?