CHAPTER SEVEN
RYDER
Fuck the laws of physics and fuck you
“THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS NO-HOLDS-BARRED TIME TRAVEL. There has to be rules. Because at the end of the day, you can’t resolve the grandfather paradox,” Beckett is arguing from the other end of the couch. “You just can’t.”
Shane shifts his gaze from the TV to Beck. “Is that when you go back in time to bang your grandfather?”
“No, it’s when you murder him, dumbass. That means your dad isn’t going to be born, therefore eliminating your own conception. But if you weren’t born, then how can you be there standing over your granddad’s corpse? You can’t exist and also not exist. That’s the paradox. And that’s why we need rules to reconcile—”
“Dude. You need to face the facts. Time travel doesn’t exist. The laws of physics forbid it.”
“Fuck the laws of physics and fuck you.”
Beckett gets very passionate about this shit.
“Ryder, back me up here.”
“Huh?” I lift my head to find Shane watching me. I scowl. “What are you two babbling about now?”
“What bug crawled up your ass today?” Beck asks in amusement. “You’ve been brooding over there for, like, the last hour.”
“Are you still sulking about the Garrett Graham thing?” Shane laughs.
“Yes,” I mumble. “Because I’m fucked.”
It’s been a full day since Graham showed up at our practice and gave me the verbal equivalent of a spanking, and I haven’t been able to move past it. Coaching at his hockey camp would be invaluable. Given the chance, I’d show up every day like a sponge and absorb every drop of knowledge those two legends have to offer.
“You’re not fucked,” Beckett assures me.
“He said I lack leadership qualities. That’s basically saying he’s not picking me for his camp. Ergo, I’m fucked.”
And all because of a chick.
See? This is why I don’t do girlfriends.
Okay, to be fair, that’s not entirely the reason. It’s not like I’ve specifically avoided relationships all these years in fear that one day a woman I had casual sex with would purposely shut off my alarm after I pass out so that we could sleep in and then my hockey idol would catch us kissing in the car when I’m late for practice— “You were voted cocaptain,” Shane points out, interrupting my chaotic train of thought. “If leadership’s what he’s looking for, then he can’t exactly say you don’t have it.”
“I’m cocaptain of a team where half the dudes loathe each other. Doing a great job so far,” I crack. During this morning’s practice, Rand and Trager almost ripped each other’s heads off again.
“Your phone is blowing up,” Beck says, glancing at the coffee table that’s littered with our phones and their beer bottles.
“I know. It’s Carma. She’s been messaging all day to apologize.”
I messaged back once to say I had a good time the other night, but that after yesterday morning, it’s clear our schedules don’t align and I’d like to focus on hockey, please and thank you. Apparently, she thinks if she keeps apologizing, somehow those sentiments will change.
Shane grins knowingly. “Zero chance for a repeat, huh?”
I swear that guy can read my mind sometimes. Although it’s common sense, I suppose. You don’t fuck with a man’s hockey schedule. The end.
I blow out a breath, my frustration rising again.
“See, mate, this is why my theory of time travel is the supreme one,” Beckett says. “In my model, you would be able to go back in time and order yourself not to go upstairs with her. Like I always say, when Carma closes a door, Destiny opens the window.”
“Let it go,” Shane pleads. “She doesn’t even spell it the same way.”
“Spelling is overrated. So anyway, if time and space are linear—”
Shane points his index finger at him. “One more word on the subject and I will literally dump this beer over your head.”
“You’re no fun, mate.”
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.”
“And say what?”
He shrugs. “Ask her to put in a good word for you.”
“Yeah…unlikely.”
Shane eyes me suspiciously. “Why, what did you do to her?”
Beckett chuckles into his beer.
“I didn’t do shit.”
“So just being yourself then.”
That gets a loud snort from Beck.
“Whatever.” I push off the couch and get to my feet. “I’m going upstairs.”
I leave them to their devices and head to my room, where I heave myself on the bed and grab my laptop.
Just like I did yesterday when I got home from the rink, I search for more details about Graham and Connelly’s juniors camp. But I’ve already exhausted that well, so I conduct a different search. Thanks to Shane, I’ve got Gigi on the brain now.
I pull up some of her highlights, but they’re few and far between. College hockey isn’t televised the way the NHL is, and women’s college hockey is nearly impossible to find. I do manage to locate one game from last season, a playoffs matchup between Briar and Yale. One of the local sports networks aired it in its entirety and thankfully someone uploaded it.
At one point, the camera pans to a sophomore Gigi on the bench. As she leans forward, watching her teammates kill a penalty, the intensity in her gray eyes pours off the screen and heats my blood. I can’t help but wonder what she’s like in bed. If she harnesses that same intensity.
There’s something fiercely sexy about her. Something so hot about the way she’s out there playing one of the most physical sports there is. Body checking isn’t allowed in women’s hockey, but that doesn’t take away from the strength you need to play this sport. Besides, it ends up becoming a cerebral battle. Far more tactical. I think about what it would take to neutralize my opponent without contact, how I’d create turnovers, and I realize I’d have to adjust my entire game.
Without the roughness and the players getting bashed into the boards, the game itself stands out. And Gigi plays it well. Her skill level is insane. There’s beauty in the way she moves. Her stick-handling is fucking gorgeous.
By the third period, Briar is ahead by three goals, and Gigi’s line is done for the night. The camera pans over to the Briar bench. She has her helmet off, dark hair in a sweaty ponytail. Unaware of the camera on her, she undoes the elastic band to slip it onto her wrist, and her hair tumbles down her shoulders in long loose waves.
It’s then I realize that my dick is hard.
Luckily, a knock sounds on my door before I commit a first and jerk off to a women’s hockey game.
“Yo.” Shane pops in without waiting for permission.