Ryker (Cold Fury Hockey 4)

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.