JAKE CONNELLY: And the D1 programs have over one hundred and eighty NHL draft picks this year. That’s incredible.
GRAHAM: But before we take a deeper dive into this—a quick word from our new sponsor, TRN. Check out TRN’s brand-new fall lineup, including The Blessing, a dating show where the dads call the shots. That’s something Jake and I can get behind, right, Connelly?
CONNELLY: Damn right, G.
GRAHAM: Make sure to check out TRN for all your reality show needs. TRN. All real. All life. All the time.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GIGI
Beckett gets around
WE’RE ONLY A COUPLE OF WEEKS INTO THE SEMESTER, AND MY schoolwork is already piling up, so it’s hard to keep up the after-hours schedule. On Tuesday Ryder and I are able to book private ice time in Munsen at six o’clock while the rink is still open to the public.
And he’s insufferable from the moment we step onto the ice. I’d like to say he’s just being himself, but there seems to be a lot more trash talk than usual. Hockeywise, he’s giving me exactly what I asked for. Muscling me around, forcing me to step up my game. But the combination of his incessant taunting and having him in my personal space eventually causes me to snap.
“My God, you are so arrogant! Would you stop with the running commentary?”
His eyes gleam. “Get past me successfully and maybe I’ll stop.”
“Oh yeah, that’s solid coaching. I’m bigger than you, and I’ll stop being an ass about it if you suddenly grow a foot taller and gain a hundred pounds of muscle.”
That gets me a grin.
“Are you smiling?” I accuse.
And just like that, my annoyance melts away. Any time I manage to draw a normal human response out of Ryder instead of the grumpy looks he usually gives me, I like to nurture that delicate bud.
“No.” He glowers at me.
“You were totally smiling.”
“You’re just imagining things.”
He skates off to grab his water bottle, but not before I hear him chuckle.
“And you laughed!” I cry in delight, gliding after him. “I’m telling everyone.”
“Go ahead. No one will believe you.”
“I’ve got hidden cameras all over this rink.”
“Is that so?” He looks intrigued. “Does that mean the world’s going to see you begging the enemy for help?”
“I’m not begging you. We have an arrangement.”
Ryder uncaps his bottle. “And when are you going to hold up your end of it, exactly?”
“Already have, smart-ass. I’ve brought your name up almost every time he’s called. And I’m going home this weekend, so I’ll talk you up even more.”
“You better.”
“Maybe I’ll get a FaceTime in too before the weekend. Rave all about my good pal Ryder. Tell Dad how we listen to Dan Grebbs together…”
“Don’t ruin my reputation like that.”
“My dad likes Horizons,” I say enticingly.
Ryder hesitates.
I hoot. “Holy shit, you would actually pretend to like my meditation music to suck up to him! You’re a fraud. I will not endorse a fraud.”
He lets out another bark of laughter.
“Oh my God, two laughs in less than five minutes.”
Ryder lifts the bottle to his lips. My traitorous eyes admire his strong throat working as he takes a long drink of water.
I know I have no business asking my next question, but stupid curiosity gets the better of me. “So who’s this neighbor you’re seeing?”
He slowly lowers the bottle and wipes the side of his mouth. “Not seeing anyone.”
“Really?” I raise a brow. “So why’s that Carma chick leaving jewelry in your bedroom?”
A cloud of annoyance darkens his face. “I think she lied about that. My bedroom is basically a big empty space—I would’ve seen a necklace if it was actually there.” He offers a shrug. “We hooked up once and I told her I wasn’t interested in a repeat. I think she was looking for an excuse to see me.”
“Wow. Someone thinks highly of himself.”
“What?”
“You really believe a woman was so devastated about you ending it that she snuck her way into your room, planted a necklace somewhere, and then pretended to find it? What if you’d gone upstairs with her to look for it?”
“I bet she would have found a way. Pulled it out of her pocket when I wasn’t looking and then magically discovered it under the bed or something.”
“Or—hear me out—maybe it did fall off when she was over and it was under the bed.”
“Telling you, I would’ve noticed.”
“If you say so.” I roll my eyes. “I love how you think you’re that good of a lay that a woman would go to extreme lengths to win your penis back.”
“I am that good of a lay.”
He says it dead seriously.
My heartbeat kicks up a notch. There’s something very, very sexy about this man. No wonder Carma tried to come back.
I set down my water bottle and pretend my heart is thumping along at a normal clip and not careening at a breakneck pace.
“Let’s do another drill?” I skate back to center ice, the chill in the air cooling my suddenly warm cheeks.
“Beckett gets around.”
His abrupt remark stops me midglide.
I turn to face him. “What?”
“Just thought you should know.” Ryder absently drags his stick along the ice as he skates toward me. “He’s not exactly a one-woman kind of guy, and you don’t seem like a multiple-man kind of girl.”
I tip my chin in challenge. “Who says I’m not? Maybe I’m all about casual sex and multiple partners.”
“Are you?”
After a beat, I make an irritated noise and say, “No.”
He continues to appraise me, and I get lost in his eyes for a while. I can’t make sense of what they’re broadcasting. They’re almost entirely shuttered, but through that dark-blue veil I swear I glimpse something. Not quite heat, but— He blinks and ducks his head before I can solve the mystery.
I position myself in one of the zone face-off circles. Ryder skates into position in front of me, puck in hand. He’s still watching me.
“All right, enough chatter. Drop the puck, bitch.”
He snorts. “Did you really just call me bitch?”
“Yes. I’m practicing my trash talk.” I stop. “Wait. I just realized I can’t use it during a game. I could never call another girl a bitch, even if I secretly think she is one. That’s so derogatory.”
“But you can call me that?”
“Yes, quite easily, actually. It’s alarming.”
A reluctant smile lurks on his lips.
I point at him with a gloved hand. “Do it. Unleash the smile. I know you want to.”
“If you don’t shut up, I’m never dropping this puck,” he taunts and then drops it anyway before I’m prepared.
“Hey!” I object.
My stick barely moves before he’s speeding away. I chase after him, trapping him behind the net like I’m supposed to. Soon we’re both breathing hard as I battle him for the puck in the cramped, narrow space. This is more strenuous than any of my workouts. I’m sweating and gasping for air by the time I manage to get out from behind the boards.