Ryker (Cold Fury Hockey 4)

I keep a slight eye on Ryker in the mirror and he performs all of the poses like he's a natural. Yes, he's a big guy, but he has a graceful way about him. A calm surety in his movements. He's one of the most confident men I've ever met and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that's one of the reasons I'm so attracted to--I mean fascinated by him.

Class goes by all too quickly and it only takes a few moments for everyone to get packed up and hand out goodbyes. Ryker waits for me, casually leaning up against the wall. He's put on his shoes and pulled the windbreaker over his head. We had a slight dip in the temperature today and he dressed accordingly.

I did not because I was rushing around trying to get out the door, so I don't have anything but a light cotton sweater that I slip on. It exposes one shoulder and won't do much to protect me from the cold, but it's just a quick jog to my car. It's a bit unnerving as he watches me put on my socks and tennis shoes, finally hoist myself up from the floor, and walk toward him.

My eyes go straight to the wound on his face. "What happened?"

"Tripped and fell," he says with a grin, but I can tell he's lying.

"Tripped and fell?"

"On a banana peel."

"Those make you slip, not trip."

"It was a big banana peel," he says with his lips quirked in amusement and his gray eyes light and sparkling.

"So you're not going to tell me?" I ask with a pointed look.

"It's nothing," he assures me as he turns toward the door, expecting me to follow him.

Indicating the conversation is over.

"Has a team doctor looked at it?" I press him as I follow behind, through the studio door and out into the parking lot.

"Terry has."

Stubborn man. Tight-lipped man. I try one more time. "Does it hurt?"

"Only when I'm forced to talk about it," he says, and I want to stomp my foot with frustration. Instead, I almost run into his back when he comes to a stop beside a black BMW 745i and opens the passenger door. He looks at me pointedly and motions his hand toward the seat.

My eyebrows go skyward. "This is your car?"

"No, Big Bang," he says sarcastically but with a twinkle in his eyes. "I walk around parking lots and open random car doors for the fun of it."

"The Big Bang is a fascinating theory," I say. "It's supported by solid data. Hubble's work proved that galaxies are indeed drifting farther apart, which lends credence to the idea of cosmic expansion after a finite beginning to space. Although it's very removed from my doctoral studies, and you have to practically be an expert on general relativity to truly understand the principle, I suppose you sort of see me perhaps creating a cosmic expansion of our hockey universe. It's a very clever play on words to give me that nickname."

Ryker just stares at me, eyes crinkled with amusement. "I have no clue what in the hell you're talking about. I call you Big Bang after the TV show The Big Bang Theory."

His eyes widen expectantly while he waits for me to get it.

I don't.

"The Big Bang Theory on CBS?" he asks as if I didn't hear him the first time.

"I don't know what that means."

Ryker now throws his head back and laughs. A deep-chested laugh. A sexy laugh. When he looks back down at me, shaking his head with amusement, he puts a large hand on my shoulder and pushes me toward the open car door. "It's a TV show about these really brilliant scientists. Geniuses like you. So absorbed in their work they don't understand pop culture unless it's about superheroes and comic books. The fact you don't recognize it as pop culture just couldn't make this any more hilarious."

I kind of hear what he says. I try to make sense of it, but frankly...I'm sort of concentrating on the feel of his hand against the bare skin of my shoulder, because he chose to touch me at the spot where my sweater hangs off me and there's only the spaghetti thin strap of my top peeking through.

I want to be offended over his nickname and the fact he's laughing at me because I don't know some stupid TV show, but I can't really do that either because the touch of just his hand on my shoulder is mind-boggling. I'm a woman of sharp focus, superior retention abilities, and quick thinking. One of the reasons for my success is because I'm unflappable. Things roll right off me and I'm always able to stay in tune with the crux of any matter.

But one simple touch of Ryker's skin on mine, and I become a bumbling idiot. I willingly let him push me down into the black leather front seat of his car, and I let him continue to chuckle over my nerdiness.

It's only after he withdraws his hand and shuts the door on me that I start to regain some mental clarity. What in the hell am I doing in his car? We agreed to go get a coffee. We should have just driven our own separate cars and met there. This feels too much like a--

Nope. Not even going to think that word.

Ryker gets in on the driver's side, looks over at me, and chuckles again. Without him rendering me the village idiot by his touch, I cross my arms over my chest and say, "It's not that funny."

He turns the car on and we both reach for our seat belts. "I'm sorry. No more laughing. I promise."

As he pulls out of the parking spot, I make my token protest. "We should have driven separate cars."

"And yet I feel like we should ride together. It's just more time where we can talk, right? Much better idea."

Hmmm. That makes sense. I guess.

"How did your interview go on Monday?" Ryker asks. "Sports Elite, right?"

"How did you know about that?" I ask, astonished.

"Your dad came down to the locker room as we were getting ready for the game Monday night to wish us luck. Said that you couldn't make it because of the interview. He's really proud of you."

I smile and dip my head. God, but I love my father. The most wonderful and influential man I will ever have the privilege of knowing. He single-handedly raised me after my mother died when I was four, and even though he was running a professional hockey team--based first out of Hartford, Connecticut, and then Raleigh after the team moved--I never suffered for it. I was always his main priority in life, as I am today. I know that would be true even if I was a high school dropout who bagged groceries for a living. To me, and I'm sure to him, it's just a bonus that I fo

llowed in his footsteps and want to be involved in his hockey dynasty.

And because thinking of my father makes me gooey, it loosens my tongue a bit. "The interview went fine. The reporter shadowed me all day and then we had about a forty-five-minute Q&A. His questions were thought provoking, but I have no clue how he'll spin the article."

"Who was the reporter?"

"Chad Sykes."

"He's a decent guy. Interviewed me a few times. He'll be fair, but he'll offer both sides to the debate that's waging over your appointment."

"I wouldn't expect otherwise," I tell him truthfully.

We talk some more about the interview while Ryker drives us to the closest coffee shop. He handles his car with the same assurance that I've seen him exhibit in the few times I've dealt with him. During our contract negotiations, he was as cool as a cucumber. He knew he was being released from the Eagles because of what happened between him and Sutter, and his options were limited, yet he didn't jump at my first offer. Or my second or third. He sent his agent back and forth with me to iron out a deal that forced me to pay a little more than I wanted, but on the flip side, I only cut a two-year deal with him. I needed to be prepared to unload him if my metrics were wrong.

Ryker actually takes us to a local pastry shop that also serves coffee and tea. After we place our orders, he pulls his wallet out and hands some cash to the woman behind the register. I immediately knock his hand back and hand her my credit card.

"I'm paying," I tell him with a no-nonsense look. "This is a business meeting and I can write this off."

"It's my bonus, remember?" he says with a grin.

"Well, I did say I'd buy you a cup of coffee. Not a chocolate croissant and a blueberry muffin," I tell him as I eye the tray that she hands to Ryker.

"I'm hungry," he says simply as he takes the tray and seeks out a table while I sign the credit card receipt.

Once we're seated in a back corner, Ryker digs into his breakfast and I sip my own coffee. There's a few other patrons in the shop, but for the most part we're being ignored.

"Want a bite?" Ryker asks as he holds the chocolate croissant out to me.

I groan. "I wish. Stuff like that goes straight to my hips."

"You're full of it, Big Bang," he says with a grin, and pushes the croissant closer to me. He gives it a slight wave and the smell of chocolate wafts my way. "Just a little taste."