The Right Move (Windy City, #2)

by Liz Tomforde

“So, what’s with baseball’s Clark Kent?” Dark Hair. Dark-rimmed glasses. Tall. He fits the bill. I look for any interest in Indy’s expression, but she just seems genuinely curious.

Oh yeah im interested

Whatever Indy wants, she can have. I can’t even begin to list all the ways I owe her for tonight.

Two ocean eyes break away from the small group crowding the superstar and find me across the room, pinning me with a breath-taking stare. Ryan may be stiff and uncomfortable, but that man in a suit is any girl’s fantasy.

He’s stunning and causes a blush to creep up my cheeks when his lips tilt in a small smile before returning his attention to the crowd in front of him, as if he simply needed to check on my whereabouts before continuing with his evening.

That Ryan Shay smile almost means more because I don’t see it often, and I may be fantasizing about the man every free moment of the day...

A tattooed hand slides around Stevie’s waist from behind. “Absolutely not.” Zanders’ venomous glare is focused on the soon-to-be dead bartender. “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

Keep an eye on Indy for me. She has no clue that these guys are eye-fucking the hell out of her in that goddamn dress.

“Bang…” He catches Zanders’ raised brow. “eautiful.” “Bangeutiful?” I ask. “Beautiful. You look beautiful, Indy.”

Zanders wraps two possessive arms around her. “Yeah,” he mumbles under his breath. “And it’s going to look even better on my bedroom floor tonight.”

I cock my head with a thoughtful smile. “Regardless that we love to give you a hard time, one day, someone is going to be very lucky to land you.” That olive skin tints with a shy smile. “Thanks, Ind.”

“Are you okay?” I ask. He swallows, looking over my shoulder as we continue to sway along the dance floor. “I’m pretty sure your fake boyfriend wants to very real kill me.”

“Rio. You and I, we’re friends. We’ve been over this.” He scoffs, his head jolting back. “I’m not talking about you. I thought one of my closest friends was dating Ryan Shay. Ryan freaking Shay. You know how I feel about him.”

Lmaoooooo

I roll my eyes before peeking over my shoulder to find Ryan sitting at a table, leaning back in his chair, legs sprawled like a king as he mindlessly sketches the rim of his glass. His stance might seem informal, but his stare is venomous, pointed right at Rio.

“Indy.” Rio stops moving completely. “I might be inexperienced when it comes to women, but I’m still a man. That right there is jealousy.” “No, it’s not.” “Trust me. I know that look.”

“Give the man a fucking Oscar then.” Rio’s eyes continue to flicker to my roommate. “As much as it’d be an absolute honor to be punched in the face by Ryan Shay, I don’t know that a fundraiser is the best place for that.”

As I make my way to Ryan, he doesn’t look up at me. Instead, his eyes track Rio as my friend leaves the dance floor, and it isn’t until I take the seat directly in front of him, blocking his view, that he breaks his stare.

I find myself relaxing into his touch. “What are you doing?” I whisper lazily. His eyes softly trace my face before he discreetly nods his head to the side. “Pretending.”

My roommate stands, slipping out of his suit jacket and slinging it over my shoulders. “Ryan—” “Your dress has had its moment. Trust me, no one has kept their eyes off you, but you’re shivering. You’re taking my jacket.”

Ryan retakes his seat, his legs trapping mine once again. “Remind me of that guy’s name.” I feign innocence. “What guy?”

“You know which guy.” “Rio? He plays for the Raptors. You’ve met him before.”

“No. That’s not how this is going to go. When you’re with me, I want you exactly as you are. That includes letting people know just how fucking smart you are. You’re not going to cater to anyone’s toxic masculinity bullshit. You’re not going to be quiet and appeasing when you’re with me. If Ron, or anyone else for that matter, has an issue with you being smarter than him, then we’re going to have a far bigger problem than him thinking I’m not a good leader.”

A man

“Indy.” Both his large hands cup my face. “I don’t give a fuck where we are. You could cry all you want at this fundraiser. You could scream, laugh, throw a temper tantrum in front of these people for all I care. I don’t give a fuck, but you’re not crying over him, here or anywhere else.”

Blonde hair and lilac-painted toes clouded my mind all practice. Imagining what that pink satin would’ve looked like on my bedroom floor last night instead of Indy’s.

Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about every position I could take her in and I’m a piece of shit for it because she’s getting over a guy who only cared about the trophy on his arm. The last thing I want is to be compared to him.

But today, the peace is gone, replaced instead with uncertainty. Part of me hopes Indy is home so I can know whether she’s wearing her hair in a braid or a bun. Whether she’s wearing socks around the house or letting her bare feet enjoy the heated floor. Whether she’s still in the clothes she slept in or if she’s ready for the day.

Braid slung over her left shoulder. Bare feet dangling off the stool. Oversized sweatshirt and cotton shorts that she clearly slept in.

“Oh, Ryan is home,” Indy says to the computer, all while she moves her hands in quick motions. She turns towards me. “Ryan, come meet my parents.” Again, her hands move and this time, I pick up on the four letters of my name from my very minimal knowledge of American Sign Language.

On the other hand, her mom is a petite woman, but that blonde hair and those warm brown eyes make me feel at home in the same way I do with her daughter who shares the same attributes.

Leaning forward, I split the screen with Indy. “She’s only a pain in the ass when she leaves her dishes in the sink or forgets her clothes in the dryer for days at a time.” Indy signs all while wearing a gaping mouth in mock offense.

But regardless of his request, I’ve been watching out for Indy since she moved in. I hate what she’s going through, and my understanding is partly why I’ve been so accommodating, but I think selfishly I’ve wanted Indy to be here since the first night she slept in my spare room. Why else would I buy her a bed to sleep in and add vegetarian substitutes to my order every time I get groceries delivered? “Yes, sir. Always.”

You never know with her. Emotional girl, my roommate.

“Which?” I repeat Tim’s hand motion. It’s a fairly simple one—a fist with a pinky extended, motioned in a small circle around his chest. “Oh, that’s my name. My sign name.” “Sign name?”

“It’s a special sign to identify someone,” Indy says, her hands continuing to move for her dad in the most beautifully elegant way. “That way we don’t need to spell out our entire names every time we speak. Not everyone has a sign name. My dad chooses who gets them and what their sign is.” She balls her hand, but her pinky stays straight up then rubs her hand in a small circle over her heart. “’I’ for Indigo and my dad says I’m his whole heart.” She repeats her sign name. “Indy.”

Her mom speaks up. “And I’m Abigale.” She uses her hand, forming the letter “A” and tapping it to her head. “Because Indy’s fa...

We chat for a few more minutes, all three of the Ivers speaking a language I didn’t realize was so intricate and beautiful to watch until now, getting to see it in action. The way they make each other smile or laugh with simple movements of their hands. I find myself envious that I can’t participate, and instantly wish I knew more than the basics so Indy’s dad could speak directly to me without his daughter having to translate.

After hesitating with my hands on her doorframe, my chest moving with heavy breaths, and the overwhelming desire to end our night doing something that would be anything but pretend, I did the right thing and turned around. I went back to my own bedroom, back to my own shower where I took care of myself as I have for the last couple of years.

A quick, non-feminine laugh bubbles out of her. It’s lovely.

She doesn’t make eye contact, as if she’s new to the topic. As if no one else in her life has ever asked her how they could learn to better communicate with her family.

“I uh…” I rub my hand on the back of my neck. “I made you coffee before I left for practice and put it in the fridge to cool so it wouldn’t get watered down when you added ice.” Her head drops to the side. “Ryan, that’s really sweet. Thank you.”

I want her here. I want her to want to be here. Fuck, when did that happen?

It was stuck on my roommate who I was texting with pregame when she dropped the bomb that she was driving rideshares tonight. She was stoked it was going to be busy thanks to the drives to and from the arena. However, all I could think about is her being stuck in her car with strangers.

The Raptors and the Devils share the United Center, so on nights where I’m not playing, there’s a good chance you could find my sister’s boyfriend on the ice.

“Do you remember the night we met, and I told you I wasn’t going to ask for permission to date your sister?”

“Ryan Taylor Shay.” Zanders gets on one knee in front of me. “Will you be my brother-in-law?” “You’re an idiot.” “I’m kidding.” He retakes his seat, laughing. “But I would like to know how you’d feel my asking Stevie to marry me. You’re one of my best friends, but I also want both of you to be my family. Officially.”

I’m not an emotional man. I don’t cry often. I’ve shed a few tears in my younger days if I didn’t make a game-winning shot or if I felt like I let my team down. Now, the only time emotions hit me is when my sister is involved. She’s my gray area in a world of black and white. I want her happiness more than I want my own and knowing the guy across from me makes her happier than she’s been in her whole life causes a slight burning in my eyes.

Sobbing

I exhale a deep breath, centering myself. “You’re about to make me lose it, man.” “Good. You can get on my page. I was a crying mess talking to your dad today.”

“So, what do you think?” “What do I think?” I contemplate for a moment. “I think if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

“But yeah, I’d love for my sister to marry you.”

“Just keeping you in check. At the very least, I need you to make the playoffs because I’ve got a Stanley Cup win under my belt and it’s becoming a heavy burden to be the only champion in this family.” “I’m so glad I make more money than you.”

“Hey, Zee.” He turns to face me, his hand lingering on the handle of his G-Wagon. “When you’re on the road, Indy…She’s good?” His lips lift mischievously. “Is she good at her job? Yeah, the best.”