It didn’t help that Frank used the opportunity to launch back into a tirade about why bringing Ryker to the team was a bad decision.
“I told you he wouldn’t fit in here,” Frank blustered. “For God’s sake, he was being let go from the Eagles because he punched a teammate. And now…looks like he’s doing it again.”
“He had good reason,” I pointed out calmly. “He just found out Sutter was screwing his wife.”
Frank ignored me and turned to my father. “Brian…it’s time to make a change. Max is back at practice and looking strong. He’s young and healthy. Evans won’t hold up for the rest of the season at the level he’s playing at. Trust me…he’s going to start tanking and our playoff hopes will go right with him.”
My father stroked his chin a moment, and for a bleak second I thought he was going to side with Frank. But how could I have ever doubted him? He merely looked at me, then back to Frank and said, “You need to take that up with Gray. She’s the general manager.”
God, I wanted to throw my arms around my dad and hug the shit out of him. But I kept my cool and professionalism, instead telling Frank that we would discuss it back at the office tomorrow. I also told him that I would handle this directly with Alex tonight. The game was starting and I really needed to think hard about all of this.
“Why didn’t you tell me this happened?” I ask Alex with a level voice. My guts may be churning with lavalike anger right now but I know how to calmly address a situation.
“I had no clue there was a photo taken. There was no one there other than the bartender and it never occurred to me that he would have done that.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
Alex’s face turns gravely apologetic because he understands that as captain, he has a duty not only to his teammates but to the management as well. He of all people knows what it’s like to deal with an image problem in the public eye.
“I’m sorry,” he says contritely. “I should have said something to you. I knew Claude wasn’t going to do anything about it and I dressed Ryker down for it. I thought I handled the problem.”
“And yet here I am dealing with it,” I say curtly as I stand up from my chair. I can get where he’s coming from, and I suppose as team captain he had thought it was handled. It lessens my anger against him, and now I’m left just being pissed at Claude and Ryker.
Ryker more so since I asked him point blank what happened and he lied to me by omission.
“You had a great game tonight,” I praise Alex before turning away and heading toward the elevator.
As I walk, I send a quick text to Ryker.
What’s your room number?
I can imagine what he must be thinking when he reads this text. I’ve purposely been distant with him since that kiss in the coffee shop. The same kiss that I continually play over and over again in my mind because it was just that perfect.
He said we could be friends although he wanted more.
He was willing to wait.
When he texted me on Saturday, asking me out to coffee again, I had to almost physically restrain myself from texting back my agreement. I couldn’t meet him because I was afraid of what I might say.
Afraid of what I might do.
So I politely declined and I haven’t heard from him since.
Until now.
His return text simply says 7056.
—
When the door swings open, I almost expect Ryker to have a sensual look on his face. I almost expect him to kiss me and I’m disgusted with myself that I’m strangely disappointed he doesn’t but instead gives me a curt nod and steps back for me to enter. “I can tell by that look on your face that you know already,” I surmise, thinking Alex must have given him a heads up.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice flat. “The look you’re seeing on my face is my I’m-pissed-we-lost-a-game look.”
For a brief second I admire him even more as a player. Because although I suspected as much, it’s clear he takes every win and loss deeply to heart. Tonight’s loss wasn’t on him either. Other than Alex scoring a goal, the rest of our offense looked sluggishly amateur. It was a team loss for sure.
But I push that aside and instead hold my phone out to him so he can see the screen. His eyes flick down, then he lets out a sigh and turns away from me. “I take it you’re pissed.”
“Pissed is not the word I’d even use to describe how I’m feeling,” I grit out as I watch him take a mini bottle of bourbon from the honor bar.
He holds one up to me and I shake my head. Ryker shrugs his shoulders and unscrews the cap before tilting it up to his mouth and sucking it down in one powerful swallow. He looks at me thoughtfully as he lets out a slight hiss through his teeth over the burn of the liquor.
Ryker just stares at me, offering no explanation. No apology.
My blood pressure starts to rise again. “I asked you last week what happened to your face and you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie,” he says tiredly as rubs the back of one shoulder.
“You didn’t tell me what happened when I asked, and that is a lie,” I throw back at him.
Ryker sets the empty bottle of bourbon on the bar and walks over to his bed. With another drawn-out sigh, he turns and sits on the edge, legs spread slightly apart. He’s still in his suit…well, at least the gray dress pants and light blue oxford shirt. The jacket and tie lie carelessly on the floor.
“I told you he wouldn’t fit in here,” Frank blustered. “For God’s sake, he was being let go from the Eagles because he punched a teammate. And now…looks like he’s doing it again.”
“He had good reason,” I pointed out calmly. “He just found out Sutter was screwing his wife.”
Frank ignored me and turned to my father. “Brian…it’s time to make a change. Max is back at practice and looking strong. He’s young and healthy. Evans won’t hold up for the rest of the season at the level he’s playing at. Trust me…he’s going to start tanking and our playoff hopes will go right with him.”
My father stroked his chin a moment, and for a bleak second I thought he was going to side with Frank. But how could I have ever doubted him? He merely looked at me, then back to Frank and said, “You need to take that up with Gray. She’s the general manager.”
God, I wanted to throw my arms around my dad and hug the shit out of him. But I kept my cool and professionalism, instead telling Frank that we would discuss it back at the office tomorrow. I also told him that I would handle this directly with Alex tonight. The game was starting and I really needed to think hard about all of this.
“Why didn’t you tell me this happened?” I ask Alex with a level voice. My guts may be churning with lavalike anger right now but I know how to calmly address a situation.
“I had no clue there was a photo taken. There was no one there other than the bartender and it never occurred to me that he would have done that.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
Alex’s face turns gravely apologetic because he understands that as captain, he has a duty not only to his teammates but to the management as well. He of all people knows what it’s like to deal with an image problem in the public eye.
“I’m sorry,” he says contritely. “I should have said something to you. I knew Claude wasn’t going to do anything about it and I dressed Ryker down for it. I thought I handled the problem.”
“And yet here I am dealing with it,” I say curtly as I stand up from my chair. I can get where he’s coming from, and I suppose as team captain he had thought it was handled. It lessens my anger against him, and now I’m left just being pissed at Claude and Ryker.
Ryker more so since I asked him point blank what happened and he lied to me by omission.
“You had a great game tonight,” I praise Alex before turning away and heading toward the elevator.
As I walk, I send a quick text to Ryker.
What’s your room number?
I can imagine what he must be thinking when he reads this text. I’ve purposely been distant with him since that kiss in the coffee shop. The same kiss that I continually play over and over again in my mind because it was just that perfect.
He said we could be friends although he wanted more.
He was willing to wait.
When he texted me on Saturday, asking me out to coffee again, I had to almost physically restrain myself from texting back my agreement. I couldn’t meet him because I was afraid of what I might say.
Afraid of what I might do.
So I politely declined and I haven’t heard from him since.
Until now.
His return text simply says 7056.
—
When the door swings open, I almost expect Ryker to have a sensual look on his face. I almost expect him to kiss me and I’m disgusted with myself that I’m strangely disappointed he doesn’t but instead gives me a curt nod and steps back for me to enter. “I can tell by that look on your face that you know already,” I surmise, thinking Alex must have given him a heads up.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice flat. “The look you’re seeing on my face is my I’m-pissed-we-lost-a-game look.”
For a brief second I admire him even more as a player. Because although I suspected as much, it’s clear he takes every win and loss deeply to heart. Tonight’s loss wasn’t on him either. Other than Alex scoring a goal, the rest of our offense looked sluggishly amateur. It was a team loss for sure.
But I push that aside and instead hold my phone out to him so he can see the screen. His eyes flick down, then he lets out a sigh and turns away from me. “I take it you’re pissed.”
“Pissed is not the word I’d even use to describe how I’m feeling,” I grit out as I watch him take a mini bottle of bourbon from the honor bar.
He holds one up to me and I shake my head. Ryker shrugs his shoulders and unscrews the cap before tilting it up to his mouth and sucking it down in one powerful swallow. He looks at me thoughtfully as he lets out a slight hiss through his teeth over the burn of the liquor.
Ryker just stares at me, offering no explanation. No apology.
My blood pressure starts to rise again. “I asked you last week what happened to your face and you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie,” he says tiredly as rubs the back of one shoulder.
“You didn’t tell me what happened when I asked, and that is a lie,” I throw back at him.
Ryker sets the empty bottle of bourbon on the bar and walks over to his bed. With another drawn-out sigh, he turns and sits on the edge, legs spread slightly apart. He’s still in his suit…well, at least the gray dress pants and light blue oxford shirt. The jacket and tie lie carelessly on the floor.
