Ryker
Page 14
“Just give me a second to go over my notes,” Chad mumbles, and then I’m forgotten as his head tilts down and his finger slides across the screen of his tablet. I take the opportunity to check my messages on my phone, responding to a text from my father that he wished I was there. Even though he’s not the GM anymore, I expect he’ll still be attending all the games.
I start to power down my phone, but a quick glance up and I see Chad still isn’t ready for me. My fingers hesitate and I try to talk myself off the ledge. I’m only asking for trouble by even considering this.
Fuck it.
I tap on the text icon again and I pull up Ryker’s cell number in the To box.
Why do I have his cell number?
Because I programmed it in there two days ago after our yoga session. It was silly and useless because there is no reason why I should ever be calling him. GMs don’t deal with players unless it’s to welcome them to the team or to usher them out the door. But after our yoga session, I couldn’t help myself.
As the students started to leave, I busied myself with rolling up my mat, sipping on my water bottle, and putting on my shoes. Melissa spent a few minutes talking to Ryker, but she left with disappointment on her face. I think she may have been expecting him to ask her out or something.
Ryker loitered, and when we were alone in the studio, I asked him, “Well…what did you think?”
“I liked it,” he said, his voice low and sexy. And I imagined that he was saying he liked the way I was touching him as I showed him the poses.
Then he threw me for a loop. “Want to go grab some coffee or something?”
Something strange happened to me. Something unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
Euphoria swept through my body, a wave of pure joy crashing over me. It felt eerily similar to the way I felt when I was first selected to the national team to play in the Olympics. A feeling of validation and pure, adrenal excitement as my heart started racing. It’s like I had been asked to the fucking prom.
So I promptly declined his invitation, because there is no way an invitation for coffee by one of my players should ever make me feel that good. That spelled immense danger for me.
Ryker took it with good nature. He thanked me for the invitation to yoga and said he might try it again.
After he left, I berated myself for turning him down. I felt wretched and mean. I even reasoned to myself that I may have dented his confidence, and I couldn’t do that to my star goalie.
When I got home, I immediately logged into the server at the office and pulled up his employment file. I even went so far as to punch in his phone number into my phone, intent to call him and rectify my mistake. I once again rationalized that I needed to soothe the sting I must have dealt to his pride.
You know…for the benefit of the team and all.
I never did dial that number, though. Because even as I was having all of these insane thoughts that seemed to come from the hormonally challenged and fruity woman side of me, the rational side of my brain held my hand hostage. It wouldn’t let me tap the Call button.
It did, however, concede to let me put that number into my contacts.
Just in case of an emergency, you know?
I’m tired. I’m going into my twelfth hour of work for the day. I’m irritated that I couldn’t travel with the team today. I’m annoyed that I’m sitting here waiting for this reporter to go through his notes. And I’m pissed that I’m even struggling with myself about Ryker.
I. Cannot. Be. Involved. With. Him.
It’s that simple.
Except…I’m the type of person who’s known for bending the rules.
Hell, throwing the rules out the door.
I’m a pioneer. A risk taker. A box breaker.
I answer to no one but myself.
My fingers fly over the screen as I craft my message. I move quickly before the rational part of me tries to take control.
Good luck tonight. Get us a shutout and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.
I practically smash my finger down onto the screen to send the message and the familiar whoop sound of the outgoing text does little to ease the furious pace of my heart. There’s a good chance that Ryker is reading the message right this moment, as he’s probably on the team bus headed to the D.C. Breakers’ arena.
Panicked to even think what he might think about my message or how he might respond, I turn the phone off and toss it onto my desk. I raise my face to see Chad staring at me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” I affirm.
Chad leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. He props an elbow on the armrest and taps a pen against his jaw while he studies me, almost as if he’s trying to find the best way to get to my jugular.
Finally, he gives me a knowing smile and says, “You’re very unique to the professional hockey world, Miss Brannon, because you’re a woman in a traditionally male role, and because you’re using groundbreaking methods with which to manage this club. I’m curious…if you were to die tomorrow, what would you prefer to be known for?”
I give him a smile and lean back in my chair. I dressed casually today in designer jeans, riding boots, and a simple white blouse. I feel comfortable and confident.
“Let me tell you a story, Mr. Sykes. I had an interview four days ago. Right here in this office and a lovely young female reporter asked me some very good questions. It was for a woman’s magazine and I loved being able to tell the story of how I’m breaking gender boundaries. But then that young woman asked me what was my beauty care regimen, citing that the readers of their magazine would want to know.”
I start to power down my phone, but a quick glance up and I see Chad still isn’t ready for me. My fingers hesitate and I try to talk myself off the ledge. I’m only asking for trouble by even considering this.
Fuck it.
I tap on the text icon again and I pull up Ryker’s cell number in the To box.
Why do I have his cell number?
Because I programmed it in there two days ago after our yoga session. It was silly and useless because there is no reason why I should ever be calling him. GMs don’t deal with players unless it’s to welcome them to the team or to usher them out the door. But after our yoga session, I couldn’t help myself.
As the students started to leave, I busied myself with rolling up my mat, sipping on my water bottle, and putting on my shoes. Melissa spent a few minutes talking to Ryker, but she left with disappointment on her face. I think she may have been expecting him to ask her out or something.
Ryker loitered, and when we were alone in the studio, I asked him, “Well…what did you think?”
“I liked it,” he said, his voice low and sexy. And I imagined that he was saying he liked the way I was touching him as I showed him the poses.
Then he threw me for a loop. “Want to go grab some coffee or something?”
Something strange happened to me. Something unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
Euphoria swept through my body, a wave of pure joy crashing over me. It felt eerily similar to the way I felt when I was first selected to the national team to play in the Olympics. A feeling of validation and pure, adrenal excitement as my heart started racing. It’s like I had been asked to the fucking prom.
So I promptly declined his invitation, because there is no way an invitation for coffee by one of my players should ever make me feel that good. That spelled immense danger for me.
Ryker took it with good nature. He thanked me for the invitation to yoga and said he might try it again.
After he left, I berated myself for turning him down. I felt wretched and mean. I even reasoned to myself that I may have dented his confidence, and I couldn’t do that to my star goalie.
When I got home, I immediately logged into the server at the office and pulled up his employment file. I even went so far as to punch in his phone number into my phone, intent to call him and rectify my mistake. I once again rationalized that I needed to soothe the sting I must have dealt to his pride.
You know…for the benefit of the team and all.
I never did dial that number, though. Because even as I was having all of these insane thoughts that seemed to come from the hormonally challenged and fruity woman side of me, the rational side of my brain held my hand hostage. It wouldn’t let me tap the Call button.
It did, however, concede to let me put that number into my contacts.
Just in case of an emergency, you know?
I’m tired. I’m going into my twelfth hour of work for the day. I’m irritated that I couldn’t travel with the team today. I’m annoyed that I’m sitting here waiting for this reporter to go through his notes. And I’m pissed that I’m even struggling with myself about Ryker.
I. Cannot. Be. Involved. With. Him.
It’s that simple.
Except…I’m the type of person who’s known for bending the rules.
Hell, throwing the rules out the door.
I’m a pioneer. A risk taker. A box breaker.
I answer to no one but myself.
My fingers fly over the screen as I craft my message. I move quickly before the rational part of me tries to take control.
Good luck tonight. Get us a shutout and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.
I practically smash my finger down onto the screen to send the message and the familiar whoop sound of the outgoing text does little to ease the furious pace of my heart. There’s a good chance that Ryker is reading the message right this moment, as he’s probably on the team bus headed to the D.C. Breakers’ arena.
Panicked to even think what he might think about my message or how he might respond, I turn the phone off and toss it onto my desk. I raise my face to see Chad staring at me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” I affirm.
Chad leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. He props an elbow on the armrest and taps a pen against his jaw while he studies me, almost as if he’s trying to find the best way to get to my jugular.
Finally, he gives me a knowing smile and says, “You’re very unique to the professional hockey world, Miss Brannon, because you’re a woman in a traditionally male role, and because you’re using groundbreaking methods with which to manage this club. I’m curious…if you were to die tomorrow, what would you prefer to be known for?”
I give him a smile and lean back in my chair. I dressed casually today in designer jeans, riding boots, and a simple white blouse. I feel comfortable and confident.
“Let me tell you a story, Mr. Sykes. I had an interview four days ago. Right here in this office and a lovely young female reporter asked me some very good questions. It was for a woman’s magazine and I loved being able to tell the story of how I’m breaking gender boundaries. But then that young woman asked me what was my beauty care regimen, citing that the readers of their magazine would want to know.”
