My father was a miracle worker.
That day, Tuesday, was incredibly busy and insane at the offices. We had to talk to the police again, field calls from other team managers, make sure this spectacle didn’t put a hold on the other trade deals, and of course deal with the public media frenzy over it. I gave a small press conference Tuesday afternoon whereby I spent all of ten seconds assuring the public I was fine and back to work, and then talked for the next ten minutes about our playoff hopes. I minimized Claude’s attack and put the attention back on our hockey team.
All was right in the arena of public opinion.
Ryker stayed relatively low key on Tuesday. We texted back and forth a few times checking in with each other, but per my dad’s request, we didn’t want to do anything that would put the attention on the two of us. This didn’t sit well with me. I had been bugged mightily over the fact that Ryker was just so ready to give up his career so we could be together. At first, I thought it was an incredibly rash decision and wondered how he could do something like that for a woman he’d only been with for three months.
But then I thought about everything I knew about Ryker. His dedication and loyalty. The way he loves deeply and surely. His joy and the way he just masters his life as if it’s effortless. He has such confidence in himself and doesn’t waste time on second-guesses once he’s given something careful consideration.
He has practically every character trait that I aspire to have, and I realize he’s actually my role model. He’s my lover, but he’s also my role model.
My father told me as we sat in the hospital what Ryker told him. About why he would give up his career.
That I deserved my chance more than he did.
It’s something that I might have agreed with him on just a few days ago. But when I saw the way Ryker saved me, protected me, was willing to give up his life to fight a knife-wielding maniac, it made me realize I didn’t deserve that chance more than he did.
It made me realize I just had to work harder to find a way that we could both have what we want, and if I couldn’t, then I was prepared to give up everything up for him. I just knew in my gut that it was the right thing to do.
My father and I talked long into wee hours of the next morning. The next night, we talked some more. We discussed the future and my goals. We’ve had those talks before, but they always focused on education, business, hockey, and career decisions. Now I was thinking about love and relationships and children, and my dad actually liked that.
It was weird…and yet, not weird.
My father helped me seek clarity, and by Wednesday morning we figured out what needed to be done.
“We” figured it out, because I would not be sitting here in this middle row right behind the goalie net if it wasn’t for my father and his brilliance.
Now, I have no clue if this is going to work. If both Ryker and I will get all that we want, and hopefully more. But if it doesn’t, the worst that will happen is I’ll lose my job. The best that will happen in any scenario is that I will have Ryker.
And then my moment is upon me. It’s put up or shut up.
The red light goes on in the official booth between the penalty boxes indicating a TV timeout. This gives me two unfettered minutes to get my message across.
I take off my hat, shake my head, and fluff my hair a bit. I pull the rubber band off my poster board and unroll it. I stand up from my seat and step up to the glass, right behind the goalie net.
Ryker is doing what he always does during a TV timeout. It’s a testament to how hungrily I watch him during a game, knowing all of his little patterns and rituals. He’ll skate a few small figure eights in front of the net, his head bowed and tapping his stick against his leg. He’s taking a moment to mentally prepare for the next round of action.
But then he does exactly what I expect him to do. He goes for a sip of water, which has him turning for his net, atop which the water bottle sits. I raise the sign high above my head, press it to the glass, and watch him. I wait for him to make that inevitable scan of the crowd behind the net, maybe looking for a little kid so he can come up to the glass and give him a fist bump.
He raises his head, arm outstretched for the bottle, and his eyes come right to mine. I can’t see much of his face behind the cage of his mask, but I can see those eyes laser right on to me. Then I see them slide slowly up and he reads the sign.
It’s kind of dorky, but it gets the message across.
MY NAME IS GRAY BRANNON.
I’M THE GM OF THE COLD FURY.
I’M IN LOVE WITH RYKER EVANS.
Ryker’s gaze stays on the sign for what seems like an inordinately long time. No one that is sitting near me can read what it says. Probably no one around me understands it’s a personal message.
Those fans sitting on the sides, however, can read it, and slowly a loud buzzing fills the arena. Some fans start whistling. Others stomp their feet. A few of Ryker’s teammates skate closer to read the sign and I see Alex bumping Garrett on the shoulder, getting his attention and pointing my way. Coach Pretore turns and looks over at me, and a quick glance up at the Jumbotron, and I’m on camera. A close-up.
My sign and my face right below it.
I look back at Ryker and he’s shaking his head. While I can’t see his mouth, I can see the sparkle in his eyes and the way he holds his shoulders. He’s shaking his head in amusement, not denial.
He takes his mask off, lays it on top of the net, and skates up to me. His hair is wet, plastered to his head. Mercury-colored eyes shining brightly at me. The most gorgeous man in the entire world, and he’s mine.
That day, Tuesday, was incredibly busy and insane at the offices. We had to talk to the police again, field calls from other team managers, make sure this spectacle didn’t put a hold on the other trade deals, and of course deal with the public media frenzy over it. I gave a small press conference Tuesday afternoon whereby I spent all of ten seconds assuring the public I was fine and back to work, and then talked for the next ten minutes about our playoff hopes. I minimized Claude’s attack and put the attention back on our hockey team.
All was right in the arena of public opinion.
Ryker stayed relatively low key on Tuesday. We texted back and forth a few times checking in with each other, but per my dad’s request, we didn’t want to do anything that would put the attention on the two of us. This didn’t sit well with me. I had been bugged mightily over the fact that Ryker was just so ready to give up his career so we could be together. At first, I thought it was an incredibly rash decision and wondered how he could do something like that for a woman he’d only been with for three months.
But then I thought about everything I knew about Ryker. His dedication and loyalty. The way he loves deeply and surely. His joy and the way he just masters his life as if it’s effortless. He has such confidence in himself and doesn’t waste time on second-guesses once he’s given something careful consideration.
He has practically every character trait that I aspire to have, and I realize he’s actually my role model. He’s my lover, but he’s also my role model.
My father told me as we sat in the hospital what Ryker told him. About why he would give up his career.
That I deserved my chance more than he did.
It’s something that I might have agreed with him on just a few days ago. But when I saw the way Ryker saved me, protected me, was willing to give up his life to fight a knife-wielding maniac, it made me realize I didn’t deserve that chance more than he did.
It made me realize I just had to work harder to find a way that we could both have what we want, and if I couldn’t, then I was prepared to give up everything up for him. I just knew in my gut that it was the right thing to do.
My father and I talked long into wee hours of the next morning. The next night, we talked some more. We discussed the future and my goals. We’ve had those talks before, but they always focused on education, business, hockey, and career decisions. Now I was thinking about love and relationships and children, and my dad actually liked that.
It was weird…and yet, not weird.
My father helped me seek clarity, and by Wednesday morning we figured out what needed to be done.
“We” figured it out, because I would not be sitting here in this middle row right behind the goalie net if it wasn’t for my father and his brilliance.
Now, I have no clue if this is going to work. If both Ryker and I will get all that we want, and hopefully more. But if it doesn’t, the worst that will happen is I’ll lose my job. The best that will happen in any scenario is that I will have Ryker.
And then my moment is upon me. It’s put up or shut up.
The red light goes on in the official booth between the penalty boxes indicating a TV timeout. This gives me two unfettered minutes to get my message across.
I take off my hat, shake my head, and fluff my hair a bit. I pull the rubber band off my poster board and unroll it. I stand up from my seat and step up to the glass, right behind the goalie net.
Ryker is doing what he always does during a TV timeout. It’s a testament to how hungrily I watch him during a game, knowing all of his little patterns and rituals. He’ll skate a few small figure eights in front of the net, his head bowed and tapping his stick against his leg. He’s taking a moment to mentally prepare for the next round of action.
But then he does exactly what I expect him to do. He goes for a sip of water, which has him turning for his net, atop which the water bottle sits. I raise the sign high above my head, press it to the glass, and watch him. I wait for him to make that inevitable scan of the crowd behind the net, maybe looking for a little kid so he can come up to the glass and give him a fist bump.
He raises his head, arm outstretched for the bottle, and his eyes come right to mine. I can’t see much of his face behind the cage of his mask, but I can see those eyes laser right on to me. Then I see them slide slowly up and he reads the sign.
It’s kind of dorky, but it gets the message across.
MY NAME IS GRAY BRANNON.
I’M THE GM OF THE COLD FURY.
I’M IN LOVE WITH RYKER EVANS.
Ryker’s gaze stays on the sign for what seems like an inordinately long time. No one that is sitting near me can read what it says. Probably no one around me understands it’s a personal message.
Those fans sitting on the sides, however, can read it, and slowly a loud buzzing fills the arena. Some fans start whistling. Others stomp their feet. A few of Ryker’s teammates skate closer to read the sign and I see Alex bumping Garrett on the shoulder, getting his attention and pointing my way. Coach Pretore turns and looks over at me, and a quick glance up at the Jumbotron, and I’m on camera. A close-up.
My sign and my face right below it.
I look back at Ryker and he’s shaking his head. While I can’t see his mouth, I can see the sparkle in his eyes and the way he holds his shoulders. He’s shaking his head in amusement, not denial.
He takes his mask off, lays it on top of the net, and skates up to me. His hair is wet, plastered to his head. Mercury-colored eyes shining brightly at me. The most gorgeous man in the entire world, and he’s mine.
