Skin warm to the touch. Chest bare and broad. Hand overpowering but gentle.
He’s everything I’ve never had in a man before and everything I’m finding myself desperate for, but as soon as we got home this morning, he grabbed his bag and headed to his morning shoot around, entirely refocused on basketball. I haven’t seen him since.
Zanders leads us through the underground tunnels of the arena, where no other fans have access. I guess that’s the kind of perks you get when you’re the alternate captain of the reigning Stanley Cup champs.
And for the first time in days, Alex runs through my mind. It’s quick and unexpected, painful still to think of him because he would’ve loved this. Alex is a huge sports fan, especially of our local Chicago teams, and call it childish or petty, but a sly smile slides across my lips knowing I’m the one that gets to be here and not him.
The arena is deafening as we exit the tunnel on the courtside, partly from fans who are excited for the game, but mostly because Zanders is recognized instantly. Eager supporters bend over the railings, calling his name, cheering, hoping to touch him or get his signature. It’s odd to see this side of it. To me, Zanders and the rest of the Raptors are normal guys I work for, not idols who finally brought a championship back to Chicago.
Even as we find our seats, fans that have courtside access still approach Zanders while the two basketball teams on the court warm up.
“This is crazy,” I whisper to Stevie. “Is it always like this?”
She pops her shoulders. “This is the worst of it. He’ll get recognized out in Chicago, but it’s not with hundreds of fans in one single place like it is here.”
“Does it get tiring for you?”
“Not really. I’d rather they like him so much they want his autograph than enjoy hating him the way they did before. Besides, this is nothing compared to what it’s like when I’m out with Ryan. It’s hard to go most anywhere with him.”
The bucket list hanging on our fridge passes through my mind. How I asked him to make our practice dates public events instead of private the way I know he’d rather. I should amend those when I get home because even I, an extrovert, would be overwhelmed with this kind of attention, let alone someone as isolated as Ryan. It’s no wonder he rarely leaves his apartment unless it’s work related.
Stevie nudges me in the shoulder, gesturing towards the court. “There he is.”
I don’t know how he wasn’t the first person I saw as I exited the tunnel because Ryan commands attention, even in a crowd of 23,000. He’s got a Devils long sleeve on instead of his jersey, a pair of tearaway pants, and he’s by no means the tallest man on the court. However, there’s something about his humble confidence, the way he’s focused that makes it almost impossible for me to look away.
In the same way I saw on my television weeks ago, Ryan secludes himself from the rest of the players, off to the side with two basketballs in his hands. He dribbles them with ease, crosses them over one another, and even as fans scream his name asking for attention, he stays focused on his task.
Much in the way he conducts the rest of his life, Ryan works alone.
Warm-ups end, starting lineups are announced, and the national anthem is sung.
Ryan has yet to look in our direction, and with the attention Zanders has garnered since we sat down, there’s no way he doesn’t know where we are. However, he pays us no notice. Instead, every part of him is dialed into the game, concentrated on the next couple of hours.
As the lights expand over the court, illuminating the arena, Ryan tears away his pants, revealing his basketball shorts underneath, but then he slips his T-shirt over his head, and I’m blessed with a naked chest.
It’s only for a moment, but he’s shirtless long enough for me to catch the cascading beads of sweat dip into the crevices of his muscles, to watch his chest heave much like how I’d imagine it does during a different kind of physical activity.
I had him just like this in bed last night and every fiber of my being ached with the need for him to grab me and kiss me. Just once. My body is burning to know what it’d be like, but Ryan has made it perfectly clear that kissing in public is off the table, so I’m going to assume, unfortunately, that means in private as well.
But my God, that man had no idea what he did to me last night. He may have slept next to me simply because it was the only bed in the room, but I was awake for hours more, hyperaware of how perfectly I fit tucked into his body.
Sometime in the first quarter, a gin and tonic is delivered to my seat as giant sweaty basketball players rush past me, so close I could reach out and touch them.
“Basketball games are the best. I can’t believe I’ve never been to one.”
Zanders laughs from two seats down. “You’re sitting courtside in the General Manager’s seats. It’s a little different in general admission.”
Stevie keeps her eyes on the game as she speaks. “We probably should’ve gone to a game and sat in normal seats before this. It’s almost as if flying first class for your first ever flight then having to sit coach every time after.”
“Well, I guess I’ll need to convince the Morgans to bring me again.” I take a sip of my G&T.
Stevie smiles. “From the sounds of it, I don’t think they’d need much convincing. Ryan said Mrs. Morgan loves you.”
Ryan takes his time dribbling up the court, holding up three fingers and calling out a play. And as always, he’s perfectly calm, cool, and collected as he does his job, even as countless fans eagerly watch his every move.
Houston’s point guard isn’t on Ryan’s level by any means, but he is good. Not as effortless, his moves are choppy and brutish, but I’ve noticed his team makes up for passes that might not be perfect or plays that might not be fully executed. However, he’s a shit talker if I’ve ever seen one. In Ryan’s face every chance he gets, holding on to his arm or jersey while on defense. He’s loud as if his words will make up the difference in talent levels between the two point guards.
I lean into Stevie. “Who is that? The guy guarding Ryan.”
She can’t hold back from rolling her eyes. “Connor Easton. He’s a jackass. Played for Duke while we were at North Carolina and he’s in the same draft class as Ryan but went in the fourth round. I’d say they’ve had a rivalry since freshman year, but the truth is, it’s one-sided. Ryan has never once said a word back to him on the court, but Connor can’t shut up.”
She’s right. Connor hasn’t stopped talking, getting in Ryan’s face every chance he gets. He seems like he plays a little dirty, and still, Ryan doesn’t say a word.
Calm. Cool. Collected.
Connor guards Ryan tightly at the top of the key, swiping at his arms and jersey, but Ryan protects the ball with ease as he dribbles around the perimeter. I can’t hear a word Connor says, but his lips won’t stop moving. You’d think after all the years they’ve played against one another, he’d figure out that it’s impossible to rile up the guy.
Even after living with Ryan for a short time, I know it’s rare to get him to show his emotions. It takes more than some adrenaline and shit talking to throw him off-kilter.