9. Nica
9
NICA
Connecticut was colder than normal for early November. Even with a puffy vest over my long-sleeved top and jeans, I shivered in my boots outside the practice rink. It was definitely warmer in Hartford when I left my apartment an hour ago.
A sleek silver Tesla hummed into the parking space in front of me right at ten. Ryan stepped out wearing a beanie with the team logo on it and another flannel shirt. More importantly, he carried two large coffees. I refused to stare at the second steaming cup. Refused to think he’d actually?—
“Two milks, no sugar.” He held the cup toward me.
“You really brought me coffee?”
“You told me to.”
I hurried to accept the cup. “I said I was joking.”
“Who jokes about wanting coffee?”
Fair point. I didn’t have anything good in reply, so I sipped and sighed. “Thank you so much.”
“No big deal.”
It was a big deal to me, but he didn’t have to know that. Not every day a guy who ostensibly hated my guts was considerate enough to bring me coffee. Not everyday guys who ostensibly liked me did so, either.
Ryan gave me a hesitant look that pulled me out of my thoughts. “Can you skate? I should’ve asked.”
I hitched the duffle bag on my shoulder. “Yep. Nothing fancy, but I have my own and go sometimes with my brother.”
“Cool. So, second question. Do you like dogs?”
“I think I do. I’ve never really been around them, but they’re cute. Why?”
“You said I should be as relaxed as possible. So I brought a friend.” He kept his gaze on me as he reached to open the backseat door.
A long-bodied dog with stumpy legs and big ears hopped out and wiggled his butt in a little circle. He looked like an animated ottoman in the best way. He was red and white with a nub tail and the cutest face I’d ever seen. A delighted squeal bubbled in my throat. The pup noticed and came over to sniff my shoes.
“Oh, my god, what kind of dog is this? It looks like a cartoon!”
Ryan flashed a smile. “It’s a Corgi. This is Henrik.”
“Henrik?”
“As in Lundqvist. My goalie idol.”
I whipped out my phone to make that note. Then I looked back at the dog. “Can… Can I touch him? Will he bite me?”
“No.” Ryan’s expression confirmed that I sounded like a paranoid weirdo.
“When I said I’ve never really been around them, I meant that I’ve only seen them in parks and on the street. I’ve never actually met a dog.” As expected, my explanation didn’t dispel his confusion.
“Seriously? Never ever?”
I shrugged and looked away. In my periphery, I saw Ryan bend down and then stand up again. Chills ran down my spine as a wet nose sniffed my cheek. I squealed again, and Henrik licked me.
“That tickles!”
Ryan laughed. “Pet him. He won’t bite you. Promise.”
“If he does, can I bite him back?”
“No, but you can bite me.”
We both froze. Heat rushed my face despite the chilly morning. At least he blushed, too. I tamped down the urge to lean in and suck on his neck and instead turned to the dog. “Hello, Mister Doggy. You are a cute little thing. You know it? I bet you do.”
His head was soft when I hesitantly skimmed my fingers between those big ears. Henrik panted and tried to lick my face again. I scratched one ear, and his eyes closed.
“What do you think?” Ryan asked, drawing my attention back to him.
“He’s sweet. This is cool.”
I stepped back and admired the sweetly sexy sight of Ryan Molloy cradling a dog. I get now why they make calendars of content like this. He murmured to Henrik and set him back on the ground. The dog sat staring up at us, but as soon as Ryan grabbed his skates, the pup went nuts. He sprinted to the rink’s doors. We walked together to catch up.
“I figured today’s interview would be about your professional life,” I said on the way. “Next, we can do one about your personal life. And the last one, I guess, will be to hit anything we might’ve missed. Cool?”
“We can’t just do it all at once and be done?”
“Audrey said at least three.”
“We could tell her we did three.”
I turned to him at the doors. “Look. This is my first time writing an article, okay? Can you please just suck it up and give me the time? I don’t want to miss anything. And I don’t want to piss you off by asking for more if I do.”
He sipped his coffee and gazed at me. “Fine.”
“If it helps, your disdain for the situation has been noted and logged.”
That got me a twitch of his lips. “Thank you.”
Ryan keyed in a code on the pin pad by the door. The lock hissed, and he pushed the door open. Henrik hurried inside. A grin tugged at me as I walked through the silent, cavernous rink. Only the efficiency lights were on, but gray sunlight filtered in through frosted panes on the domed roof.
The door’s click behind me froze my smile, though. Oh, god. We’re the only two people here. My heart fluttered as I turned to him.
He stopped several feet away from me. His expression tensed. “I, uh… is this okay? I didn’t think about being the only ones here. Should we go? We can go. We should go… right?”
Of all the wild places I’d wound up. Of all the times I’d been in a tight spot and wondered if I was going to make it out unscathed. Of so many moments from a life lived on a shoestring and sheer determination, this one was somehow uniquely odd and yet not at all scary. He wasn’t scary, which of course was a fool’s logic.
I toyed with my skate bag. “That depends. Will we get in trouble for being here?”
“Not at all. I can come anytime.”
“Promise not to murder me?”
His shoulders dropped with a soft laugh. “I promise not to murder you, Nica.”
My scalp prickled. “That’s the first time you’ve used my name.”
He adjusted his beanie. “I… did you prefer I call you Mrs?—”
“God, no!” I clamped my mouth shut too late. The words burst out of me. Henrik let out a little woof. Ryan flinched, so I tried again. “That is not my name. You should call me Nica.”
“I promise not to murder you, Nica Solance. But if this is uncomfortable, we can leave.”
Before we go, can you whisper my name in my ear for about ten minutes? Good lord, the ache his voice gave me made no sense.
“You’re not getting out of this interview that easily, buster.”
My throat felt dusty as I said it, but he laughed and sat on the bench to lace his skates. My smile returned as I did the same.
“Appropriate color palette,” he said with a nod to my maroon top and navy vest. Commodores’ team colors.
I shimmied my shoulders. “That was no accident. I like your beanie.”
“Fun trivia for you: Quinn calls it a toque.” He stood up and walked to the door to the ice.
But I leaned on the boards with my phone. “I don’t care what Quinn calls it. This is about you. Now, go do hockey things. I’m gonna film you.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
My finger froze over the record button. “It’s part of the journalistic process.”
Ryan opened and closed his mouth, then shrugged and opened the door. Before he could step onto the ice, Henrik beat him to it. I yelped, delighted at the sight of this little loaf-shaped dog skittering around on the ice. He slipped, and his little legs splooted out in all directions. Just as quickly, he was up and running again.
“Oh, my gosh. He loves it. I guess I don’t have to ask if he’s done this before.” My face hurt from smiling.
Ryan glanced over his shoulder at me, and my breath caught. Dear lord. The way his hair peeked out of that hat. The broad, pure smile that creased his face. Those green eyes dancing with amusement. Focus, Nica. Focus… Stop focusing on him, I mean!
Impossible. He was too gorgeous.
“He’s done it before, yeah. Ever since he was a puppy. Henrik loves the ice. Just like his dad,” he added with an eye roll that only made me warmer.
I needed this man’s gaze off of me. I wanted to sit on the boards and wrap my legs around his back again. The internal war just would not quit. It took tremendous effort to shoo him onto the ice, but Ryan nodded and skated away.
Henrik chased him. His little legs worked frantically to keep up, but he was no match for Ryan’s long strides. Instead, he took to playing angles in order to cut him off. Excited barks echoed through the rink while Ryan picked up speed, spun around to skate forward, and fell into doing laps on the ice.
It took me several minutes to close my jaw and remember my job. Between the dog-dad vibes and the effortless power in his movements, staring was required.
Hello, doofus. You have seen hockey players skate before. It’s literally his job. No big deal.
But I hadn’t skated with a hockey player before. This wasn’t a front-row seat to a game. This was something much, much cooler.
No.
Something hotter. Much, much hotter.
“Are you going to join us or stand there all day?”
His shout jolted me out of my thoughts. I stepped onto the ice, phone in my pocket. Henrik ran up to sniff me, but Ryan dumped out a bag of pucks while I got my legs under me. As soon as the rubber hit the ice, the dog zoomed to investigate. I coasted around and watched Ryan egg him on with some stick handling. It was a game of keep-away that had Henrik barking and trying to bite the puck, even though Ryan’s moves were lightning-fast. I leaned on the boards and videoed the game for several moments. Ryan finally noticed. He shook his head and shot the puck down the ice so that Henrik ran for it. Then, he skated over to where I stood.
I shook myself out of a trance and started a voice note. “I’m here with Ryan Molloy. It’s Thursday morning, and…”
“Why are you talking like that?”
I blinked. “Like what?”
“In that weird, gravelly voice.”
“I—oh. I guess that’s how I talk in posts.”
“Yeah, I noticed. What’s that about?”
“Branding?”
He leaned on the boards. “Well, this isn’t a post, so could you please talk like Nica?”
Ouch. Good point . If I was going to be a serious journalist, I needed to act like it. I nodded once and dropped the affect. “Who’s your favorite teammate?”
“All of them. I don’t pick favorites.”
“What’s your favorite meal before a game?”
“Steak and eggs. Gosh, you know. I gotta tell you. I didn’t realize you’d be hitting me with these heavy questions today. I’m not sure I’m prepared to be probed so deeply.”
Heat rushed my face. I tried to glare, but he held me with a patient look. He didn’t seem mad. He seemed playful. Daring.
“What do you love about being a goalie?” I asked softly.
“My sex symbol status. Obviously.” Green eyes rolled behind those glasses.
“You mean your sex drink guy status.”
I wanted to crow when his ears went pink. “I thought we’d forgotten about that.”
My chin lifted, but I kept my gaze on his. “Then answer the question, Molloy.”
With a nod, he said, “I stand alone. The last line of defense for the team. If I can play better than my absolute best, then we will win. If I don’t, then no matter how many goals Simmons chips in, or slapshots Rivera rockets, it won’t matter. Because, as the goalie, I’m out there to keep us in the game. I’m tied to the team, but I don’t move with the team. It’s unique, which suits me well. It’s demanding, which also fits for me. And it makes me part of something but also an individual. That’s why I love it.”
“Then what do you hate about it?”
His lip curled on the left side. “See my previous answer.”
My breath had gone shallow. This man had just beautifully summed up why I loved goalies. I loved the way they carried the weight of their role. My heart broke for them when they had bad nights, especially when they lost a playoff game. The pressure they voluntarily bore made me admire the hell out of them.
Plus, the way they could move was sexy as hell.
An inconvenient detail for sure when it came to this goalie. This goalie, who I’d been thisclose to having a night of random, anonymous sex with. You could’ve bagged a fucking goalie, Nica. You could’ve known exactly how he …
“Next?”
“Right.” I shook myself out of the trance his words put on me. “So, what’s it like to be a backup goalie?”
His brow twitched. “Good question. It is never a kid’s dream to be the backup goalie. You don’t give your life to the game hoping to play one in five or six. You don’t dream of inking your contract so you can sit on the bench night after night.”
He gazed down the ice to where Henrik was trying to pick up a puck. “But I still fucking love it,” he said softly.
I arched a brow. “The reality is better than the dream?”
“So much, but for a reason. I love to play. I also love data and stats. Sitting backup for one of the greatest goalies in our era, on one of the best teams in the league, gives me all the data to analyze I could want. My job isn’t to warm the bench. My job is to support the guys by watching their game performance, tracking it with historical data, and helping them notice weaknesses and strengths as they develop.”
“Wow. You are the biggest nerd in hockey.”
A laugh burst out of him, just like I wanted. Cheeks flushed pink, but he shook his head and didn’t answer. Warm pride spread through my chest at the way I’d made him laugh. He’d laughed easily the night we met. Since then, in each of our disaster meetings, I’d longed to have him drop the tension for a second. His laugh felt like a victory.
I cleared my throat to return us to the subject. “Describe your goaltending style. Are you making any changes as the starting goalie?”
“Skate with me, and I’ll tell you.”
We pushed off, and he launched into a long explanation of how his style had changed thanks to his coaches and some off-season training. He spoke in a lot of technical goaltending terms like positional, athletic, butterfly, and blocking . I held the phone out to catch everything until he took it from me and spoke into the mic.
When he slowed down, I blinked hard and said, “That was a lot of detail.”
“Told you details are my thing. That’s how I think about the game.”
“Tell me more.”
Shrug. “I’m a data nerd, to use your term. Statistics, percentages. Data tells the story of a player. The more you track it, the more precise you can be with your focus and how you play.”
“I have two questions.”
“Okay.”
“First, is the nerd vibe why you reject the typical hockey player’s attention to style?”
He whipped his head to me. “What does that mean?”
I gestured to him. “Your clothes. Your hair.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
A little laugh slipped out. “Seriously, Ryan?”
He huffed. “Yes, Nica, seriously . What am I rejecting?”
“Fashion? Style? Call it what you want, but it seems clear you’re not about your physical image.”
“Fuck’s sake,” he mumbled. “You’re harsh.”
“What? No! I didn’t mean to be.” I turned to him—too fast. My skates tangled, and I pitched straight into him.
Ryan didn’t lose his footing in the least. He might as well have been wearing rubber-soled shoes on carpet for how sturdily he took the crash. A little grunt of surprise hit my ears as he gripped me by the arms.
“Sorry, fuck, what a klutz,” I babbled, my fingers digging into his biceps to keep me from eating ice. My skates slipped out from underneath me, but he tightened his grip.
“Shh. Relax. You’re not gonna fall. Henrik, go play.” His voice went from soft to stern, and the pup quit sniffing us and jogged away.
I looked up at him while I planted my feet. “I am so sorry,” I whispered.
He bit his lips in a line, clearly suppressing a laugh. “For your poor skating skills or for insulting me again ?”
“Oh, come on!” I stood up straight but didn’t release my grip on him. He still held me, too, so I ignored the voice in my head that screamed to back up. Instead, I rubbed his flannel between my thumb and forefinger. “You can’t be insulted about the truth.”
He looked down at my hand. “What’s wrong with my clothes? It’s just a shirt and jeans.”
“They don’t fit you, honey.” I used the epithet teasingly, but it snapped his attention to me.
“They fit fine.”
“They’re too big!” I grinned and shook my head. “Look at all this fabric. And your hair doesn’t look like it’s seen gel since—uh… since Long Island.”
His pupils dilated. Suddenly, I noticed that he’d shifted his hold on me. Instead of my shoulders, Ryan held my waist. Meanwhile, my wrists rested on his forearms. My neck craned back to hold eye contact since he was so damn tall, but we were definitely hugging right there on the ice.
And, my god, did it feel good.
His clothes might’ve been big, but they smelled divine. And his hair might’ve been fluffy, but I wanted my hands in it again so fucking bad.
I gazed at him and wondered if he knew how often he blushed. Then I wondered if he blushed more around me than others. Then I kicked that silly thought away.
You blew your chance with him, girlie. He would never want you in real life. Nerd or no, this man is a pro athlete—who you shit-talked and ghosted. He is so far out of your league it’s not even the same game.