Chapter Fifteen
Lindsay
I tried to stop myself from doing something foolish that’d make staying in check that much harder, I really did. But I’d been so sure that Ryder would hate me—I hated myself a little for how I’d dropped the bomb on him the other night at the party. No easing him into it, just trying to cause maximum damage before he could reject and hurt me because of who I’d been. Then there was the other thing…
Confession #10: I’m having the hardest time staying away from Ryder Maddox. I like who I am when I’m with him. I like actually having a…dare I say it—friend?
It’d been a long time since I had a true friend, one who knew the good and bad and didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t perfect. Maybe that was on me. It was entirely possible I’ve projected how I felt on how someone looked at me or reacted and read them wrong. Either way, I wasn’t quite ready to embrace being solo for life with the exception of a cat or five.
I turned to Ryder right before I reached the door to my apartment. He looked even bigger tonight, the streetlight illuminating his profile. My heart skipped a beat when I remembered the way he’d placed his hand on my neck and tipped my face to his, gentle with an edge of possessiveness. The way he’d said he wouldn’t let Brett talk shit about me, like he’d end him if he did.
I swallowed and forced words past my dry throat. “I’m never sure what state my apartment will be in. My roommates and I don’t really talk.”
“Sometimes I think my roommates and I talk too much,” Ryder said, but the affection in his voice made it clear that he liked his roommates, big mouths or not. And since I’d hung around Dane, I knew there was a big mouth involved. Despite trying not to like any hockey players, the guy had a certain charm.
Ryder had an entirely different thing going on, more magnetism and steely determination, with a surprising mix of chivalry thrown in for good, irresistible measure.
Damn hockey players. They’d be much easier to hate if they’d stay in the boxes I’ve checked them into.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to judge you based off messy apartment or roommates. But your food? Now, that’s another story.” He reached out and squeezed my shoulder, shooting me a teasing grin.
“Be careful, gringo, or I’ll make it so hot you won’t have feeling in your mouth for a week.”
“How could you be sure that I lost feeling in my mouth? Are you volunteering to—”
I slapped a palm over his lips before he said something that tempted me to do some in-depth exploring of that sexy mouth. This was exactly why inviting him over had been a bad idea.
“What? I was just going to say ice my tongue.” The words came out muffled, but the twinkle in his eye was way too clear.
The safe play would’ve been saying thank you for helping me study with a fruit basket. Or, like, a calculator and a notebook. Math nerds liked that kind of thing, right?
But when I spun to unlock the door, he chuckled, his breath stirring my hair, and all I could think about was spending more time with him. After a couple of lonely nights, I didn’t want to stare at the TV alone until I decided it wasn’t too pathetic an hour to go to bed.
Once inside, I gestured to the couch and told him to make himself comfortable. He looked at the couch—which was surprisingly clean—and back at me. “I’ll help in the kitchen.”
“Haven’t you heard that too many chefs spoil the broth?”
“I pride myself on proving people wrong,” he said. “But I’ll leave the chef-ing to you.”
Since he had that determined expression on his face, I shrugged and headed to the kitchen, dropping my backpack on the floor near the counter. I surveyed the contents of my cupboard, looking for ingredients to make something fast and yummy, and cursing myself again for going the spontaneous route.
I grabbed the jar of jalapeños and a can of shredded chicken, checked that I had sour cream—peeling back the lid to make sure it wasn’t expired or moldy—then grabbed the block of mozzarella. “Wanna shred the cheese?”
“I’ve never wanted anything more,” Ryder said, his deep voice somehow turning it into the most wicked-sounding sentence ever.
I tossed the block at him. With lightning fast reflexes he caught it midair, adding a wink in my direction.
My stomach relocated to my chest and I forced myself to focus on cooking. Within a few minutes, I had ingredients simmering in a skillet, the spicy aroma filling the air. I added a splash of lime juice and then spooned the mixture onto a flour tortilla.
“Whoa,” I said, when Ryder was still shredding cheese. I put my hand on his to stop the last inch from being fed into the grater. “You were really serious about how much you wanted to shred cheese.”
His gaze met mine. “I never joke about cheese.”
I bit back a smile, but then I went ahead and let it loose. On the bright side, I wouldn’t have to shred cheese for a month. On the brighter side, it gave me an excuse to sorta hold hands with Ryder.
After spreading cheese over the top of my creation, I smooshed another tortilla on top and browned both sides. A few minutes later, Ryder and I sat on my couch to dig into dinner. I subtly studied him, watching to see what he thought of my chicken quesadillas, and how well he handled the jalapeños.
He licked sauce off his thumb and I got lost in the motion for a moment. “Damn, girl, you can cook.”
“Why do you say it like it’s so shocking?”
“I… You just…”
I bumped his shoulder with mine. “Relax. I’m just busting your balls.” He opened his mouth. “And if you say something about your balls now, I’ll actually bust them, and it won’t be funny, I assure you.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” A mischievous glint entered his eyes. “But if I were going to, I’d say thank you from the bottom of my balls.”
A snort-laugh escaped, completely unappealing, but it made Ryder laugh, too. “The peppers aren’t too hot?”
“I’m a fan of hot. I might need half a gallon of water, though.”
I grabbed a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and then returned to the couch. Ryder’s phone rang and he slid it out of his pocket, glanced at the display, and then frowned and shoved it back in.
Politeness made me refrain from asking who could put that kind of scowl on his face, but just barely.
Since he seemed tenser than he had before the mysterious phone call, I took it upon myself to bring back the lighter, joking Ryder. “So, what do you like to do besides…?”
He raised an eyebrow. “The sport that must not be named?” I nodded, and he ran his hand along his jaw. “Is it sad that I don’t really know?”
“Well, you have math.”
His eyebrow arched higher. “Math comes naturally. I don’t consider solving problems a hobby.” He shrugged. “My dad put me in skates and handed me a stick as soon as I could walk, and that’s been the focus for as long as I can remember. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. But it’s always been that, gym time, and more of that.”
“You can say hockey,” I said.
“But then you’ll run away screaming.”
I rolled my eyes and gave his arm a little shove.
He grinned, shoved the last bite of his quesadilla into his mouth, and then wiped his hands together. “I played guitar for a while during high school, and sometimes I thought I might have a future as a rock star.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Not really, but it was a nice escape from the pressure of hockey.”
Despite telling him he could use the H-word, I still flinched a bit. I’d conditioned myself to hate hockey so I wouldn’t slip back into old habits, even if it didn’t always prevent me from backsliding a bit.
Ryder’s expression hardened. “Then of course my dad made me quit, because he thought it was interfering with my time on the ice, even though I only played in my room at night, when I was exhausted and needed to stop thinking about hockey for two fucking seconds. He told me if I wasn’t on the ice, I should be visualizing the next game. He played for the NHL, and he expects me to follow in his footsteps.”
“That explains slapping skates on you so young. Talk about a lot of pressure.” Whitney’s article had detailed the many demands on athletes at the college level, so I knew them, but there was a difference between reading it and seeing the toll it took on a guy I was starting to care about.
He shrugged. “It was, but it did get me to where I am. I always regretted quitting guitar, though, and I told myself I’d never let him take away something I loved again. Which is why when he told me majoring in math as a backup was the same as giving myself permission to fail, I told him I was doing it anyway. It’s the smart move. You never know when your career might be cut short, whether it’s an injury, or a trade, or whatever. Maybe I’ll never use it, and maybe I’ll teach math after I retire from the NHL. Who knows? I’d rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”
“Speaking as someone who’s benefited from your tutelage, I can confidently say you’d be an amazing math teacher if you ever wanted to go that direction. I totally get where you’re coming from, too.” I bit my lip. “While we’re confessing secret career desires and backups, I want to edit novels. That’s why I majored in English, but I minored in journalism, just in case. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the work I do at the newspaper, but it’s not my passion. I want to take a great novel and make it more amazing, and see it all packaged and pretty on a bookshelf.”
“A girl with as much passion as you should do what she loves.”
“Easy to say. Harder to find a job—especially one that pays right off the bat. That’s why I wanted to put my eggs in more than one basket, and having a backup isn’t giving yourself permission to fail, it’s giving yourself permission to succeed with options. It sucks that your dad can’t see that.”
“That was him on the phone. Whenever he calls, I know I’m going to hear about how I’m not training hard enough, or playing like I should, or who knows what else. He obviously didn’t get the memo that he’s not my coach anymore. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t appreciate everything he’s taught me, and the doors that’ve opened because of him, but sometimes…” Ryder shook his head. “Never mind. This really isn’t what I want to be talking about. Let’s switch to a happier subject.”
“When I tried to say never mind earlier, you didn’t let me get away with it.”
“Yeah, but I’m bigger than you.”
I crossed my arms. “And I’m scarier.”
Ryder studied me for several seconds, as if sizing me up for scariness, so I put on the best stank face I could, which only made him laugh.
“That’s it,” I said. “You and me. Thumb wrestle, right now.”
He held out his hand. I kind of thought he’d laugh it off, but since I never was one to back down, I took it. We did the mandatory countdown. When he immediately pinned my thumb, I lurched up and pushed my body weight into him, twisting out of his grip.
“Cheater!”
“Sore loser.” Apparently I was in junior high tonight. Add the major crush I was nursing and I might as well go back to being fourteen and flirting with hockey players that were way too old for me. Of course, Ryder was borderline too young.
Suddenly he wrapped both arms around me and yanked me to him. Keeping my arms pinned, he moved his lips by my ear. “Who’s what now?”
I tried to break free, but it was like trying to break a massive chain. After a moment or two of struggling, I gave up and sagged against him. His hold changed, one arm going loosely around my waist.
He slowly curled the fingers of my right hand into his and then tucked his chin on my shoulder. “I’m not afraid of you, Lindsay Rivera. And I don’t give a damn who you used to be—just in case you were worried.”
I opened my mouth to insist I wasn’t, but the words lodged in my throat. I twisted my head to look at him. I could see the stubble lining his strong jaw, and I wondered if it was weird to be turned on by the Adam’s apple in a guy’s neck?
Did I care?
“Do you really think we can be friends?” I asked, my voice just above a whisper. “That we can keep from crossing the streams?”
“That depends,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through me and sending my heart racing. “Are you going to be this fun and easy to talk to when we hang out as friends? Like actually embrace it?”
“Hey, if math and I can form a peace treaty, surely fun and I can work things out.”
His laughter skated across my neck and he tightened his grip on me, his fingers curving around my waist. All my blood rushed toward that spot, hoping and waiting for more, despite telling my body not to go there. Friends was one thing. Crossing lines was another, one I still had to keep myself from doing for my own protection, regardless of the way the guy set my body on fire.
“I’m not quite ready to give up on friends or fun.” He pressed his lips to the back my head, not kissing, but simply resting them there—and yet my skin hummed, from the point of contact all the way down to my toes. “Or you.”
I turned into his embrace, resting my head on his shoulder and bringing our joined hands to my chest. “Over this past week, I’ve come to the same conclusion about you.”
A grin spread across his face. Then he whispered, “Just when I think I’m out…”
“He pulls me back in,” I finished.