6. Ryan
6
RYAN
The silent locker room had nothing to do with losing in a shootout. We all showered and sat waiting for news. Quinn’s gear was piled in his locker, but we’d heard nothing about how he was doing.
Hunter Cathcart himself walked in. The team owner was heavily involved in operations, but something about his presence made the moment even more grave. I held my breath.
“Paris is at Hartford Memorial Hospital. It’s a broken tibia.”
“Shit. Broken ?” Gene murmured.
Cathcart nodded. “Doctor says based on the way it broke, he’s likely been developing a stress fracture before this event. The collision looked worse than it was, but the bone just snapped.”
We all hissed, but no one asked the obvious question.
Cathcart looked around until his gaze landed on me. “French is out for at least four months. Molloy, you’re our starting goalie now. We’re recalling Jimmy Osborne from the minors as your backup.”
His words reverberated through my body. My heart pounded. Whether it was excitement or dread, I wasn’t sure. Both, maybe.
“Get home, guys. We’ve got a rest day tomorrow, and then we’ll regroup. This is still the best damn team in the league. Don’t forget it. Molloy, be here for a press conference tomorrow morning. Meet us upstairs at Audrey’s desk at nine.”
He walked out, but we all stayed motionless, staring at the door.
“Fuck,” Yuri muttered.
“He’s going to freak the fuck out,” Gene said through his teeth.
“Oh, god. Poor Audrey.” Ethan shook his head and pinched his nose.
Poor Audrey indeed. Quinn Paris was one of the most superstitious goalies I knew, and that was saying a lot. The fact that he got married days before the regular season started, then had all this happen? Good god. Even I would struggle with that kind of luck.
“Fuck going home, and fuck it being an L tonight. I need a damn drink.” Gene slapped his knees and stood up. “Who’s coming?”
Every single one of us stood up.
We filed into The Pub and nodded at Tony, the bartender. A few loyal regulars raised their glasses as we entered, but no one tried to talk to us. They never did. Tony’s rules were sacred.
When we’d drank to Paris, everyone slumped into a thoughtful quiet. A few guys murmured as they watched the highlight reels on TV. Most of them were on their phones.
“Oh, shit, Molls.”
I looked up at Dustin’s chuckle. He rolled his eyes and waved his phone. “Don’t check social media.”
“I never do.” I hesitated, trying not to care, but finally heard myself say, “Why?”
“French’s superfan is coming for you with her nails out.”
She’s… what? I squinted as I sorted through his words.
Dustin slid his phone toward me. I picked it up—and nearly dropped it again.
Her. It was her .
Wasn’t it her? The sharply angular face and wide eyes on the screen looked more like an AI rendering of a person than the woman I’d met that night. She clearly used filters. No human being looked that flawless or contoured.
Still. It was definitely her.
I hit play, and her thick lashes narrowed into a glare. Pouty lips pursed. “Ryan Molloy, you better pray our Quentin is back tomorrow night. Because you, buddy, are no substitute.”
I ruffled my hair and watched her again before sliding the phone back to Dustin. “In that case, I guess I shouldn’t try and be a substitute. I’ll just be myself instead.”
“Hell yeah, man!” Dustin’s exclamation jolted the table. He grinned and reached across Max to high-five me. “That’s the energy we need.”
I knew it was. I knew the guys relied on Quinn in a whole different way than they did me. But I didn’t want to be his substitute. I wanted to do things my way. And I knew I would.
Still. That video stung a little. I didn’t give a damn about social clout. Algorithms were only interesting from a data standpoint. But no one wanted to hear that they’re not even second best. Certainly not from the woman who’d ghosted me the one and only time I’d tried to flirt with a stranger.
Second best… ghosted… Oh, god. Ghosted by Quinn’s fucking superfan. Did she know who I was? Did she realize it? Is that why she didn’t come to my room?
Was it all just a media stunt??
My stomach rolled. Queasy humiliation prickled in my gut. Quietly, I opened my phone under the table and googled Mrs. Quentin Paris.
I moved backward through her timeline with the volume on low. She’d posted a few things recently, calling me out for starting last night and praising Quinn’s performance. My breath caught when I found clips from the wedding.
Please, please, please. Do not let there be a post about the loser backup goalie who ordered stupid fucking shooters.
No such post. Nothing but footage of the wedding and some product placements. I went forward again, just to be sure. Nope. No reference to our run-ins.
With a hard exhale, I shoved the phone into my pocket and went to take a piss. Adrenaline was still abating as I washed my hands, hauled open the door?—
And collided with the woman exiting the restroom opposite me.
She let out a little cry that got muffled by my chest. Her face bumped square between my ribcage. I heard the unmistakable sound of a phone clattering to the ground.
“Whoa, sorry.” Instinctively, my hands landed on her shoulders to steady us both.
“My fault.” She bent to get the phone and then tilted her face up to look at me.
Of all the fucking odds.
I had been right about the filters changing her look. Her cheeks were fuller in real life, but her jawline was delicately sharp. I studied the cat-eye makeup she wore as anger, surprise, and a base urge to kiss her again bubbled in my chest.
Meanwhile, her face morphed through three distinct emotions. A blank stare narrowed into a suspicious glare. Blue-gray eyes scanned my face, clearly searching for the connection. To be fair, I likely looked a good bit different than I had that night. I wore a hoodie, my hair was towel-dried, and I still had my contacts in from the game.
But I saw when recognition hit. It looked a lot like dread.
Her jaw fell open, eyes widening. “Oh. Oh, um… hi.”
I ignored the cringe in her tone. My turn to glare. “Is that hi for ghosting me—or for roasting me?”
Her brows knitted. “What?”
“Tony kicks nearly everyone out before we get here. I might belong on the bench in your estimation, but I’m quite sure you have no business in this bar right now.”
The color drained from her face. “Hold on. H-hold on. You’re… wait. You’re ?—”
“No. You’re the one who shouldn’t be here.”
But she grabbed my arm and hauled me into the single-use bathroom. The door slammed shut, and she slammed me into it. She pressed both hands into my chest to keep me still. Her cheeks had gone pink, and she seemed to struggle for breath.
I realized I was having the same problem. This bathroom was far from romantic. I had met her once, a month ago. She’d rejected the hell out of me and left me sitting alone for hours. Then she’d dissed me to the whole world.
And yet, my heart hammered. Dammit .
“What is your name?” she whisper-hissed.
I rolled my eyes. “Ryan. My name is Ryan, Mrs. Paris. ”
Saying her “name” gave me a sour taste in my mouth. It helped calm my pulse. She’d spared me public humiliation—personally, that is. Professionally, I was clearly fair game. So I had absolutely no business thinking about the way she moaned when I’d kissed her.
Her hands went slack, resting on my chest. Eyes fluttered shut as an anguished groan vibrated in her throat. “Fuck. Me.”
I wanted to. The useless thought hit me, but I kicked it away like an errant puck. I kept my mouth shut and refused to notice how warm her hands were.
But then she peeked at me through her lashes. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips as those eyes opened wider, gazing at my face. Both hands on my chest closed into fists around my shirt.
Goddammit, man. Don’t fall for it. Don’t you dare. She’s nothing but trouble.
I fell for it. Or she did. Or we did. It didn’t matter. Even my super-sharp goalie reflexes couldn’t keep up with the flurry of motion that had us staring at each other one moment and locked in a kiss the next. My tongue lashed hers, so angry at her for duping me. So fucking hungry to taste her again.
You total fool.
Her teeth scraped my lips, just as rough as me. I heard a little growl in her throat. Oh, I don’t think so. You don’t get to be angry, you loud-mouthed, rude… delicious… sexy as hell…
Blind, I grabbed her waist, spun her around, and pinned her to the bathroom wall. She let out a grunt, but her nails sank into my shoulders as her chest pressed against mine. Her leg wrapped around my thigh. On instinct, I hoisted her higher.
Damn that woman for the audacity to wrap both legs around my back. How dare she feel so goddamn good grinding on me like that? The fucking nerve.
“Jesus Christ,” I hissed.
“Shut up.” Her breathless command came just before she plunged her tongue back into my mouth. Her nails raked my scalp, and my eyes rolled back in my head. I hated her. I was humiliated by her. And I wanted to absolutely devour her.
“Mmohmygod, what am I doing?” Her lips tore away from mine with an anguished cry.
I jerked my head back and tried to stop my spinning head. “I don’t fucking know,” I damn near panted.
Fear and dread returned to her gaze. I set her down immediately and stepped backward to put space between us. “We… that wasn’t… that shouldn’t have happened,” I muttered at last.
She huffed a laugh. “No shit.”
I glared. “I don’t want anything to do with you. I can’t believe you have the nerve to roast me to the whole world and then kiss me like that.”
One eyebrow rose. “Uh, buddy? Hate to tell you, but I wasn’t the only one kissing just now. And, ha. I was definitely not the only one enjoying it.”
My ears heated, but at least her cheeks colored, too. I knew I shouldn’t stay in that room with her for another minute. “Forget it. This never happened—any of it. Okay?”
“Freaking perfect by me.”
“Good. Let’s just steer clear of each other. You need to leave before Tony kicks you out.”
She cut her eyes to me. “I could. But you could give me a quick interview first.”
My brows hit my hairline. “So you can abuse me live for all your followers?”
Her lips tugged into a sassy smile that made me want to groan. “I mean, if you’re into that kind of thing, I sure can.”
I shook my head. “I’m not into it.”
Fuck. The way her smirk turned into a pout tested all my discipline. One nod of her head, and I was sure I would snap. Thankfully, she opened her mouth to protest. That let me pull myself together. I squared my shoulders and reached around her to open the door. “I’m serious. Disappear before you get into trouble.”
She slung her purse onto her shoulder and strolled out when I gestured. “It would be worth it.”
“What would?” I instantly kicked myself for asking, for engaging her more.
“The trouble.”
Before I could respond, she flashed a quick smile, looked left and right, and then hurried to the exit, head down. Something about the way she moved let her avoid all attention. Even Tony behind the bar barely glanced at her. Only when the door closed behind her did I return to our table to frown at my beer.
Ethan’s laugh hit my ears. “Oh, god. Watch out, guys. Molls has been starting goalie for about ten minutes, and already he’s glaring into his drink.”
I glanced up and twisted my lips into a smile. “Cue requisite brooding. Actually, ah, I think I’ll head home.”
“You?” Max asked. Max and I were usually some of the last ones at the bar. Single dude life and all that.
“Press conference tomorrow. Lots to think about. See y’all at practice.”
I barely gave Henrik his hello pets when I walked in. For the first time in two years, the quiet house didn’t bother me. My mind was too full. If anything, there was comfort in familiarity that night. I could count on Henrik’s patterns, the dark kitchen, the softly glowing computer screen, and the silence. God alone knew what my life was about to become. At least some things stayed the same.
In my office, I blew out a breath and shook my head. The stats that usually gave me comfort swam in front of my eyes. Yet again, I couldn’t stop thinking about her . Worse, I was certain there was a better way to handle it than I’d done. I just wasn’t sure what that was. How do you navigate running into the woman who ghosted you when you’ve just found out she’s your teammate’s professional fan?
Making out like the world was ending was surely not the optimal strategy.
Like in a game, this was an error I had to shake off. Goalies more than anyone else needed to have amnesia about mistakes. If we carried that shit with us, we’d crumble. Standing alone between the pipes, it was always just me and my thoughts. Those thoughts were either my friends or my career’s end. A few minutes of awkwardness with a stranger wasn’t either of those things.
Damn. I hope this isn’t Quinn’s end, though.
I shoved back from the computer and went to crash. My head was too full for anything else.
Check that. Both heads were too full. As soon as I was in bed, her vicious kisses and frantic grunts filled my mind. I was hard again in an instant thinking about her legs around my back and the way she rocked her hips. Fuck, she’s a nightmare. She humiliated you and then did it again to the whole fucking world.
Why does she have to be so sexy, too?
I gripped my cock and clenched my teeth. My fantasies were weird and jumbled. Nothing like what I usually got off to. I pictured her embarrassing the shit out of me in a post—and then begging me to spank her ass red. Telling the whole world how I belonged on the bench—while she rode my face and held back her orgasm.
I unloaded to that image with a loud groan. When I quit spasming, I opened my eyes in the dark.
“What the fuck, man? Forget about her. She isn’t part of your world. No more of this bullshit. Mrs. Quentin Paris is nothing to you. If you ever see her again, remember. She is a stranger.”
Early the next morning, I pulled up to the rink and entered through the office door. Joey, the team’s media manager, greeted me with a bottle of water and a grim smile. “The press is already chomping at the bit. How are you, Ryan?”
“Can’t complain.” I followed him to the elevator. “How’s Paris?”
“He’s…” Joey trailed off.
“Paris?” I supplied with a brief smile.
Joey nodded. “Exactly. He’s not thrilled about this press conference, no surprise.”
The bottle froze halfway to my mouth. “Wait. He’s here?”
“Mm-hm. Audrey’s putting Coach, Doc, you, and him all up together. Bold move. Classic Audrey.”
Audrey Cathcart—sorry, Audrey Paris —had been promoted to head of PR for the team this season. She deserved it. Even though she was the owner’s daughter, Audrey worked her ass off. She was brilliant with marketing and not afraid to take risks.
Joey ushered me into a conference room where Audrey, Quinn, Hunter, Coach Delgato, and Doc were all gathered. Quinn was in a wheelchair, his leg in a cast straight out in front of him. I gave him a sympathetic cringe.
“How you doing, man?”
His left eye twitched. “I think I am not yet accepting what has happened. I think I am in shock. Or it is the painkillers.”
I chuckled. “Both seem reasonable. Fuck, French, I’m sorry. I hate this for you.”
“I should have listened to you,” he said while the others talked to each other. His eyes squeezed shut. “I was not wanting to admit something was wrong beyond a little ache. You kept saying my lower right was weak. Foolish of me to ignore it.”
I swallowed the instinct to keep digging into details and shook my head. “It wasn’t knowable. We move on.”
“Oui. We move on. And I… spend the season on my ass. Is too bad Audrey was just promoted. Otherwise, I would rehab in the Bahamas.”
“Tell her Doc ordered it.” I grinned and fist-bumped him just as the others called us over.
Audrey’s eyes were ringed with dark circles. Her mouth pulled down in a worried frown, and I guessed she hadn’t slept much last night. Despite Quinn’s calm, I hoped this wasn’t a problem for them personally. The last thing Quinn needed was to let a career setback hurt his relationship.
“Okay, fellas,” Audrey said with an attempted smile. “We’re going to go in there and give the updates. You guys will answer some questions, and then we all go home. Ryan, here. I prepared a few notes for you. Got it?”
We got it. Hunter led the parade down to the largest press room we had. The place was standing room only with reporters packed in. Quinn hissed and muttered something in French. When he caught my glance, he shook his head.
“I loathe interviews.”
Well, that made two of us.
Worse than the crowd for Quinn was the dramatic gasp when Audrey pushed his wheelchair into the room. The gasp was followed instantly by shouted questions and bedlam.
“Stop that,” Audrey snapped into a mic. “Be quiet and listen. We’ll answer questions in a bit.”
I sat at the end of the table beside Quinn and stared at the flashbulbs and people while Doc gave the prognosis. Another gasp went up. Coach cut in with the logistics and to reassure them that Paris would recover and resume his position as soon as possible. “In the meantime, Ryan Molloy is an incredible goaltender. I know we’re going to have another stellar season here in Seacrest.”
The silence in the room suggested that the press had their doubts.
My palms began to sweat. Partially from the blinding cameras and spotlights. Mostly because the weight of the situation was sinking in. I had to carry the team. I hadn’t been a starting goaltender in years, and that was in the minors. Connecticut had signed me to back Paris up. That was always my role. I knew, of course, that I had to be ready to step in at any moment. That a Paris injury was possible. I’d just never imagined that it would actually happen.
Beside me, Quinn spoke softly and calmly, answering a question that had been thrown at him. “… Molloy is a first-class goaltender. While I am absolutely devastated to miss most of the season, I am confident in his abilities and…”
Are you? Am I? Imposter syndrome wrapped around my neck until I cleared my throat. It was only a soft cough, but it flipped the spotlight right onto me. Thirty people began calling my name at once.
Audrey managed to silence them all with a stern glare and then said, “Ryan has prepared a statement.”
She had prepared my statement. My job was to read it. So I slipped my glasses out of my blazer pocket, pushed them on, and unfolded the paper. One more throat-clear, and I opened my mouth to finally address the press.