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When I was little, one of my dad’s friends asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I proudly replied, “Stanley Cup.”
The damage was done, though. While Wyatt got a normal nickname from our dad when we were kids—the tried and true “champ”—I was dubbed Stanley. Or Stan, when they’re feeling lazy. Even Mom, who pretends to be annoyed with all the obnoxious nicknames spawned in the hockey sphere, slips up sometimes. She asked Stanley to pass her the potatoes last week at dinner. Because she’s a traitor.
“Better skedaddle, Gisele, before you piss off Garrett Graham.” I skate over to Ryder, playing dumb. “Garrett who?” “Are you shitting me right now? You don’t know who Garrett Graham is?” “Is he famous or something?” Ryder stares at me. “He’s hockey royalty. This is his camp.” “Oh. Yeah. I only follow figure skaters.”
“Gigi! What the hell are you doing? You trying to break your ankle out there?” I turn toward the plexiglass, where my father stands about twenty feet away, frowning deeply at me.
“Sorry, Dad,” I call out, sheepish. “I was just messing around.” I hear a choked noise. Ryder sidles up to me, those blue eyes darkening.
“Dad?” he growls under his breath. “You’re Garrett Graham’s kid?” I can’t help laughing at his indignation. “Not only that, but I’m helping with your shooting drills today.” His eyes narrow. “You play hockey?” I reach over to pat his arm. “Don’t worry, prom king, I’ll go easy on you.”
One corner of his mouth quirks up. “You shouldn’t be here.” I slide my gloves off. “Says who?” “Says the NCAA rules regarding offseason practices.” I grin. “Regarding official practices led by the coaching staff. This is just me free skating on my own time.” “You know you don’t have to push yourself this hard, G.”
He stops, chuckling. “You know what? Nothing. I keep forgetting I’m talking to a Graham. You’re your father’s daughter.”
“Case is looking good,” Whitney says, a knowing lilt to her voice. It’s obnoxious. “Yeah,” I answer noncommittally. She’s not wrong, though. That’s what makes it obnoxious. My ex-boyfriend is stupidly good-looking.
“Oh my God, I’m in love.” Camila pulls my attention away from Case and toward another new arrival. Okay, wow. He’s undeniably hot. Dirty-blond hair, light gray eyes, and a face that could stop traffic. He must be an Eastwood guy because I’ve never seen him before.
Camila leans forward and peers below. “Which one is Luke Ryder?” she asks curiously. “I heard Jensen didn’t even want him.”
He’s still as attractive as I remember. Only he’s not a lanky fifteen-year-old anymore. He’s a grown man, filled out and muscular. Sheer power drips off him.
When Trager stands up and tries to lunge, Ryder steps between the two red-faced players. I don’t know what he says to Trager, but whatever it is, it stops the guy cold. “God, that’s hot,” Whitney breathes. “Breaking up a fight?” I ask, amused. “No, he managed to shut Trager up. Goddamn miracle right there.” “Sexiest thing anyone could ever do,” agrees Cami, and we all laugh.
Luke Ryder startles for a second when he notices me. Then his eyes narrow—those dark, dark blue eyes I’ve never forgotten—and one corner of his mouth tips up. “Gisele,” he mocks. “Prom king,” I mock back. With a soft chuckle, he spares me one last look before striding off.
“You host a show with Jake Connelly, the most beautiful man in the world. Trust me, you’re going to get the views.” “Nope, nope, nope,” he groans. “You know how I feel when you talk about Connelly’s stupid looks. It triggers my crippling inferiority.”
“I know I have no right to say that. I just…I miss you. I can’t help it.” He hesitates. “Do you miss me at all?”
“G?” he prompts. “Of course I miss you,” I answer, because I’ve never been able to lie to him. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we broke up.”
He implores me with his eyes. “Please. I just want to prove that I’m not messing around here or playing games. I made a mistake and I own it. But the only thing I need you to know right now, the thing that matters most, is that I love you.”
I fell for Case so fast, but I forced myself not to say it too early, afraid to scare him off. And then, when I finally uttered those three words for the first time, he didn’t say them back. Sure, he was suddenly throwing them around after he kissed someone else. But the night I said I love you, he didn’t say I love you too. The reminder turns the fluttering of my heart into a deep sting.
“You know how I feel about this Will thing,” Diana chastises. “You have no business hanging out with your ex-boyfriend’s friends.”
Diana’s not the only one who chides me about remaining close with Case’s friends.
In my defense, I really was friends with Will long before I started dating Case. He’s Boston-born like me, and we attended the same high school. Went out a few times too, before we realized you can’t find two more platonic people than us. Like, zero chemistry.
I’m so focused on placing distance between me and Will’s questions that I don’t pay attention to my surroundings. I reach the counter at a brisk pace and slam into none other than Luke Ryder.
Garrett Graham’s daughter is hot. She was hot when I met her six years ago, and she’s even hotter now. Her eyes widen after she bodychecks me. Big gray eyes, reminiscent of an overcast sky. But they’re not muted or plain. They’re vibrant, as if that sky is crackling with electricity in anticipation of thunder and lightning.
“Hey,” she says. I lift a brow. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to work up the nerve to talk to me.”
Gigi still wakes up at ungodly hours to skate and run her own private drills. She did the same thing at the camp she helped her father run.
She’s not a tall woman, maybe five-four, but her legs appear endless in those tiny shorts. They’re all muscle too, and shapely, a testament to her training. It’s hot that she plays hockey. Female athletes are a massive turn-on. The flicker of desire fizzles when I notice who she’s sitting with. I still don’t know the names of every single Briar player, but I do know the good ones. Will Larsen’s one of those. And I guess as far as assholes go, he’s not as bad as his teammates.
“No, it’s late. I should have been there at seven, but I slept through my alarm.” “I changed it,” she says groggily. I freeze in place. “What?” “I changed the alarm on your phone. You said your practice was at nine, so I don’t know why you had to set the alarm for six—” “Because I go for seven,” I snap, practically vibrating from the anger that surges through me. “I can’t believe you changed my fucking alarm.”
She starts kissing my neck, and my anger boils over. Because this is my career we’re talking about. Jensen is watching me. My NHL draft team is watching me. If I want to play in the pros and succeed there, I can’t be making out with some girl while the rest of my teammates are warming up for practice. “Thank you for the ride,” I say tightly. “Now move.” All right, that was harsh. But the last thread of my patience has snapped like a cheap elastic band. First she changes my alarm, and now she won’t let me get out of the car? I’m done here.
He glances at the red hatchback with Carma still behind the wheel. Then he scowls at me, and I know without a doubt that he saw her in my lap. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Morning skate starts at nine, doesn’t it, Mr. Ryder?” Yes, apparently it can get worse. “I know. I’m running late. I had car trouble.” I wince as the excuse leaves my mouth. “Looks like some serious car trouble,” Garrett says with a bite to his tone. His frown hasn’t abated.
“My car broke down in the driveway,” I find myself explaining, like some desperate attempt to win his approval. “So I had to catch a ride this morning. But my driver didn’t see the urgency in getting me here on time.” “Not really her responsibility, now is it?” Lifting a brow, he stalks through the front doors.
Everyone else is on the ice, where they should be. And I’m here like a fucking idiot. All because I wanted to get laid last night. I already have a target on my back. From Jensen, from Colson and his guys, from the NHL. And now my idol thinks I can’t get to practice on time. Fuck my life.
Shane skates toward me. “You okay?” For all the ways he can be a jackass, he’s also a good friend. “Yeah.” I pause. “Carma shut off my alarm.” He grimaces. “Well, I guess that neighborly relationship is over.” I can’t help but chuckle. He nailed that one right on the head.
My gaze drifts back to the benches. My hackles raise when I notice Colson is there now, laughing at something Graham said. “Best buds over there,” I mutter to Shane. Shane leans in, lowering his voice. “I heard Colson and Trager talking in the locker room earlier. Turns out Colson used to date Graham’s daughter.” I try to disguise my interest. But yeah…that is certainly interesting. Wonder how Colson fucked that one up.
“I’m sure this man needs no introduction, but this is Garrett Graham. He’ll be helping me lead practice today.” A ripple of excitement travels through the group. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Patrick Armstrong blurts out. Coach glares at him. “Oh, sorry,” Patrick says hastily. “I mean, are you kidding me? No f-bomb.”
“And I hope you can overlook this morning’s screwup, because I’m an excellent player, and I really would like to be considered for this opportunity.” He gives me a long, discomfort-inducing once over. Finally, he speaks. “My choice isn’t based solely on who’s an excellent player, kid. This is about a lot more than stat sheets. It’s about leadership. And from what I’ve seen so far, you might be lacking greatly in that quality.”
Shane turns back to me. “Also, I realized the solution to your Garrett Graham problem is staring you right in the face.” I perk up. “Yeah?” He gives me a broad, satisfied smile. “Gigi Graham.” My brows knit in question. “What about her?” “Bro. The man’s daughter goes to your school. You’ve got a built-in contact. You should talk to her.”
“Go get her, champ.”
“That was some damn good hockey,” he tells us, looking around in admiration. Then he rolls his eyes. “Although I’m not sure which part of ‘Save your energy for our season opener’ you didn’t understand,” he finishes, referring to the speech he gave before the game began. “You know us, we leave nothing out there on the ice,” Whitney chirps. He sighs. “Someone told you Brad Fairlee was in the stands, I presume?”
Anxiety tugs at my belly, twisting into a knot. “What happened to Alan Murphy?” I blurt out. “He’s out,” Adley says. “The higher-ups are saying medical reasons. They’re being hush-hush about it, but I think he might’ve suffered a heart attack or several.”
I want to find Brad Fairlee, but I’m not sure what to say to him. We haven’t spoken in a few years. I suppose I could pretend I’m asking about his daughter, Emma, but depending on how much she’s told her dad, he might see through that ruse. Because I don’t give a flying hoot how Emma Fairlee is doing.
Awkwardly, I go on. “I mean, I guess it goes without saying, but I would love to be considered for the roster.” Another nod. “Of course. We’re looking at several players right now. There’s a really dynamic group of college players this year.” Bullshit.
“Like I said,” he continues after he notices my expression, “we’re looking at several players, but of course, you’re one of them. Your talent is undeniable, Gigi. Sure, there are minor issues to work on, but that applies to everyone.” “What issues?” I ask a little too quickly then realize it might sound like I’m offended by the criticism. So I hurry on to add, “I’d love any pointers you might have for me. I always want to improve my game.” He purses his lips. “It’s the same issue you’ve always had. You’re not effective behind the net.” This time I do bristle, because he’s acting as if this
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“Gigi, wait.” I look over my shoulder to find Luke Ryder loitering at the bottom of the staircase, off to my left.
A wrinkle appears in my forehead as I descend the rest of the way to meet him on the sidewalk. “What are you doing here?” He shrugs. “Use your words, Ryder.”
“You know, most people would compliment me on the fact that I won that shootout,” I point out. “Is that what you need from people? To be told what a good girl you are?” His mocking words send a bolt of heat directly between my legs. Wow. Okay. I didn’t expect my body to react like that. And I don’t love that it did. Especially since I should be angry right now.
Mya stretches her impossibly long legs and rests them on the coffee table. “So why are we thinking about Evil Emma?” “Well, actually, I’m thinking more about her dad. I found out tonight that Mr. Fairlee is Team USA’s new head coach.” “Oh shit. And she poisoned Daddy against you?”
Which is juvenile as fuck, but the problem with Emma is she hates being ignored. She always has to be the center of attention, which is great when you’re a teenager and partying, and you have this fun, vivacious friend who throws herself headfirst into adventure and drags you along for the ride. But the moment you’re not serving her and feeding her ego, she turns on you.
So when 1 a.m. rolls around and I’m still wide awake, I bite my lip and slide my hand between my legs. Is that what you need from people? To be told what a good girl you are? Before I can stop it, Luke Ryder’s gravelly voice slides into my head. Once again my core clenches, my body whispering, Yes, call me a good girl. My fingers brush my clit, a fleeting caress, before I realize who I’m throbbing for. Just like that, my arousal dies. I’m not allowed to touch myself thinking about the jerk who showed up at my game today, listed all my issues as a player, and then insinuated I don’t deserve to
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