13. Nica
13
NICA
Bruce: Profile’s looking good. Any sponsorships yet?
Ryan: I’m free tomorrow if you are? Meet you at 10.
I stared at last night’s messages, flipped over to my camera, and picked up the cup in front of me. “Besties, it’s Mrs. Q.P. here. What’s an autumn day in New England without a pumpkin spice latte from Hartford’s own Joe to Go? Whether you’re headed to the rink or out to peep some leaves, swing by today. Mention your girl and get ten percent off your order.”
I sipped and ended the feed. Then, I got busy filming the tablescape I’d set up at the café. They’d hired me to promote them on my Quentin page. No reason I couldn’t do a free plug on my Ryan one, too. I’d just need to give it a day or so before I shared it to keep the connection from being obvious. Hopefully, I could get two endorsement deals going.
When I was done, I sat back in the booth and checked the time. Ryan had said to meet him at ten. I’d arrived at nine to do the videos and had a few minutes still before he arrived. Just enough time to get my head on straight.
Again.
He doesn’t hate you. He also doesn’t want you anymore. It’s past. We’re moving on. Just like he said.
I looked up when the coffee shop door opened right at ten. Despite my mental pep talk, my breath caught at the sight of him. Dark coat and jeans, two-day scruff on his jaw, those glasses…
And his hair. Sleek, a little wavy, and combed away from his face. Much more like the first time we met. The style made it look darker. So much fucking hotter.
The pushup video had gone viral, and I’d needed to do very little editing. Why would I when his muscles bulged and rippled like that on their own? Why would I, with the way he huffed a little sigh through his lips when he was done? Nope, that porn wrote its damn self. All I had to do was trim it for time and optimal angles.
The wave of thirsty comments that flooded in would’ve had me dancing across my apartment. Except I was in bed, busy with my vibrator and watching the video on repeat.
Now, I felt the goofy, morning-after grin that wanted to break my face. Don’t you dare swoon at him. He doesn’t need to know you came twice last night after he texted you. You’re here to do a job. God knows you need the money. Hold it in, girl.
He slid into the booth opposite me with his usual neutral expression in place. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I debated teasing him and decided to go for it. “Nice to see you got dressed today.”
Green eyes rolled. “Ethan has a nickname for me. Every time he uses it, I tell him to fuck off. I think I’m going to say the same to you when you make digs about my wardrobe.”
“You mean when he calls you Sieve?”
That got his attention. “How did you know that?”
“You were mic’ed up at practice. Oh, speaking of, I have questions.” I pulled out my phone and opened voice notes. “Well, after his jump roping, I guess I know why you call him Twinkle Toes. So, um, what does sieve mean?”
“A sieve, like a strainer, right? It’s an insulting nickname for a goalie.”
“Ohh. I get it. Okay, so what did you mean when you said crease maintenance?”
His gaze darted back and forth, clearly trying to recall. Then, he laughed. “Oh, that was just me being silly. I probably said that when I was smoothing the ice in the crease.”
“Crease?”
“That’s the blue paint in front of my goal. Goalies stay in the crease. If they come out to play the puck, they’re more vulnerable to getting checked—or scored on.”
“Interesting.” I made a note and set the phone down. “Today, I get to ask about your personal life. Where are we shopping?”
He slid out of the booth and motioned for me to follow. “Boston.”
I yelped. “Boston? That’s two hours away.”
He opened the door to his Tesla for me and nodded. “Ethan gave me his guy. I don’t ask questions.”
Okay, cool. No big deal. We’ll just spend the day together. I can totally handle this.
Ryan eased us out of town and onto the interstate. The car hummed like a spaceship as we hit a healthy cruising speed. “Now’s a good time for questions, if you must.”
I fumbled for my phone and switched it on. “Starting with a few things about hockey. Did you ever play offense?”
“No. Always D.”
“Are you married?”
“Nope.”
“Kids?”
“Nope.”
“Favorite position?”
His head whipped to me before he refocused on the road. I grinned as his ears turned red. “Besides goalie, you mean?” he grumbled.
“I meant to make a save,” I said innocently.
His jaw slid back and forth before, “I guess any position where I get the puck is my favorite.”
I shut off the camera and howled. “Brilliant answer.”
“You’re welcome.”
The trip flashed by. Before I knew it, we rolled to a stop at a valet stand by an old white townhouse. Inside was a boutique suit shop with an old man who smiled when we walked in. I half expected a secret door to open up that would lead us to some spy organization’s headquarters.
But the man didn’t show us any weapons or secret rooms. He just nodded and said, “Mr. Molloy, good afternoon. Right this way, sir. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water, please. You want a champagne?”
The tailor peeked around him to where I was trying to disappear into the jackets. He smiled to see me.
“Sure. Thank you,” I murmured.
Ryan gestured. “Pick out… I don’t know. Whatever you like. Whatever I should have.”
Ryan Molloy had the air of a man who drank cheap beer and shopped at bargain department stores. It was only in that moment that I registered how wrong I was about him. He was a pro athlete. Even if he wasn’t making the most of any Commodore, he had the means to buy out this store if he wanted.
And he wanted me to help him do it.
I bubbled with excitement and champagne while the tailor took him away to do measurements. Wandering up and down each wall, I pulled sample suits in navy, gray-green, and a faint blue plaid. I added dark gray and black just to keep it classic and walked them back to the dressing room.
Ryan stood in his boxer-briefs and t-shirt. If being in his underwear made him self-conscious, he didn’t show it. He just looked at the suits and nodded. “Dress shirts?”
I got a lot of those. And shoes. And totally didn’t think twice about the cement blocks of muscles that man hid under so much flannel.
When I returned to the back, he was dressed again except for his coat. He looked at the pile in my arms and quirked a brow. “Pink?”
“It’s sexy.”
“I am pink.”
I laughed at that. “It’ll look good with the navy or green suit. Promise.”
“Fine. These, please. Oh, and Ethan said you do jeans, too. Yes?”
The tailor smiled. “We certainly can. I have your measurements. How many would you like?”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t know. Ten? Different color denim, please.”
“Absolutely, sir. Everything will be ready a week from today.”
“Can it be delivered?”
“Of course, Mr. Molloy.”
I waited at the door while Ryan paid. Hearing the total felt too nosy for some reason. But he just smiled and ushered me out and back to the car. He stopped again at a hotel valet on the corner of Newbury Street. We left the car and ambled side by side down the street full of fashionable shops.
“What else do I need?” he asked while we walked, hands stuffed in pockets to keep out the chill.
“Well, you’re getting new jeans, so let’s find you some flannel that actually fits.”
“Fine.”
“Save those diva sighs for your momma, Goalie. I’m here to work.”
He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. How about… that one?”
His fingers touched my spine to steer me toward a shop. The loveliest little electric current zipped through me. It took a lot not to lean into it, to turn to him on the sidewalk and tug on that coat, to… Stop, Nica. Just stop.
“Now who’s sighing?”
My attention jerked to him. “Hm? Oh, well. I was just thinking about your wardrobe. Obviously, I’d sigh over that.”
A laugh burst out of him. Ryan palmed his face and shook his head. “Fuck off.”
I swatted his arm. “How dare you speak to me like that!”
“I warned you. You want to rag on me like the guys? You’re going to get talked to like the guys.” His eyes sparkled with teasing humor.
A grin tugged at me. “Hm. One of the guys with the Connecticut Commodores. That’s pretty fucking cool. Okay, you can tell me to fuck off as long as you smile like that when you do.”
“Deal.”
We walked up a small flight of stairs to the shop. The vibe screamed “country gentleman,” so it was perfect for him. Within an hour, I’d curated a whole new day-to-day wardrobe that he actually liked.
I stood beside him in the dressing room while he buttoned the last shirt. “Explain how this is different than what I normally wear.”
I shooed him off the platform and turned him to face me. Standing on the box closed the height gap, so I didn’t need tiptoes to reach his shoulders. “How freaking tall are you, anyway?” I muttered as I fussed with his sleeves.
“Six-two.”
“That would explain it.” He had nearly a whole foot on me. “Anyway, look at the way this lays your shoulders. See how the cuffs land on your wrist? The fit in the chest? The clothes you have aren’t fitted to you. They’re too big. They look as if you bought an extra-large and said, eh, it’s not too small.”
One brow lifted over his glasses. “I definitely probably don’t shop like that.”
“Riiight. At least you definitely don’t now that you have me around.”
I fixed my gaze on his sleeve. If I hadn’t been crushing on him so hard, my words would’ve just been more of our back and forth. But as it was, I cringed at how pathetic I sounded. Look at me! I’m fun and stylish and one of the guys! You loser.
Ryan cleared his throat. “Nica Allison Solance. Journalist. Troublemaker. Patron saint of fashion challenged nerds.”
“What would you do without me?” I asked, heavy on sarcasm.
“Focus on hockey? Shop off the rack? Not worry about having my possessions stolen? Any of those seem accurate.”
I gave his hem a final unnecessary tug and made myself smile up at him. “Sounds boring, honestly.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“Can I show you anything else?”
We jumped at the clerk’s interrupting question. Ryan shook his head and smoothed the shirt. “I think we’ve got enough. I’ll wear this one out.”
The clerk nodded and disappeared again. I hurried to follow him to the register. While Ryan settled up, I wandered around and realized this shop shared a walkthrough with a dress boutique. Since he had a mountain of clothes to be folded and boxed, I stared through the arch into a world of sumptuous gowns in every imaginable color, cut, and cloth. Both clerks were busy with other shoppers, so I snuck in and stuck close to the wall.
A red velvet bodycon hung on the rack in front of me. I fingered the sumptuous material and sighed. For just a moment, I closed my eyes and pictured a fairytale Christmas party. Wearing this dress and sipping champagne without feeling out of place. Dancing with a certain goalie who couldn’t keep his green eyes off of me…
“You’d look great in that.”
My daydream shattered at that goalie’s voice in my ear. I glanced behind me and rolled my eyes. “Anyone would look great in this.”
“Untrue. I don’t even want to picture Yuri in it. Or my mother, for that matter.”
I giggled and covered my mouth to avoid the clerk’s attention. “Stop that. Let’s go.”
Ryan’s brows knitted. “Try it on if you want. I’m not in a hurry.”
Dammit, the clerk spied us. She beamed and hurried over. “Can I get you a dressing room?”
“Oh, ah, no thanks. We were just leaving.” I all but dragged Ryan back into the men’s shop to the exit.
Out on the street, he turned to me. “What just happened?”
I waved it off. “I have nowhere to wear a dress like that, silly.”
“There’s the team holiday party. If you want, I could?—”
“Ryan. Stop.”
He shut his mouth, so I went on. “I can’t afford that dress. I can’t afford anything in that store.”
My face ignited at the baffled look on his face. His jaw slid side-to-side. “If you want the dress, I'll get it.”
A sharp laugh burst out of me. “No freaking way.”
Ryan didn’t move for another long moment. Then, he shrugged and turned to walk us down Newbury Street.
“Done for the day?” I asked, working to keep my voice light.
“Shopping, yes. Let’s go to dinner.”
I slid my gaze to him.
Ryan gestured to the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “It’s going to be madness if we try to fight traffic right now, which means that either way, we’re home late. Might as well pass the time constructively instead of sitting in the car, right?”
The man had a point. Ryan walked us to the hotel where we’d left the car. “The Newbury Hotel. Aptly named,” I whispered as I followed him through the revolving doors.
We rode the elevators to the top floor and stepped out into a gorgeous lobby with a host stand. The two women there stopped shuffling menus when Ryan approached. It didn’t seem like they recognized him, but I couldn’t blame their gaping. He was huge and absolutely dashing today.
“Yes, ah, I was told to ask for Austin Faron’s usual table, please.” His voice was quiet. Subtle.
The women consulted the book and nodded quickly. “Of course,” one said. “Right this way.”
Ryan touched my back again, and I nearly cursed his name. The floors were shiny marble. They were beautiful but would be a bitch to go sprawling on. A very real threat with the way his fingers jolted me. We wound through one room into another and were seated at a semicircle booth in the corner facing the windows. Below, Boston twinkled in the inky dusk.
Dread twisted my stomach. You don’t belong here. Lay low. I slid into the booth with my chin tilted down and whispered thanks to the hostess. My gaze stayed on the table’s edge while our water glasses were filled.
Ryan leaned closer and kept his voice low. “Are you okay?”
“Hm? Mm-hm.” I glanced at him and angled my chin a little higher.
He tried again after several moments’ silence. “Do you… not like it?”
“It’s lovely.”
“Then why do you look like you want to blend into the paint?”
I clenched my jaw and reached for a water glass. “Uh, I guess because I do. This place is super fancy. And who the heck is Austin Faron?”
“I thought it would be nice. Austin is Ethan’s father-in-law. He’s a CEO or something here in town. Ethan said I could use his name to get a good table.”
“It worked. This is the best view in the house.”
“And yet you look like you want to run away.”
I twisted my lips. “Let’s just say… forget it. It’s fine.”
Should’ve known that wouldn’t land. He scoffed. “Come on, Nica. You’ve touched my Yoda. There are no secrets between us.”
Damn him for making me laugh. I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from drawing more attention. “Shut up, Goalie,” I hissed.
Oh, but it was impossible to be mad when he gave me that sly grin. The one that said he was pleased with himself. I’d seen it after his shutout, when he’d done the pushups—and every freaking time he’d made me laugh.
I gestured vaguely. “I’m more comfortable in the background, okay? People watched us walk through this place. How do I explain myself here? I don’t belong.”
“Why?”
He looked so adorably lost that I wanted to laugh. Except I wanted to cry more. “Ryan. You don’t get it.”
He blew out a breath. “I certainly get feeling like you don’t belong in a situation. I understand preferring to be in the background. What I don’t understand is why someone like you would feel that way.”
I tilted my head. “Why do you hate the spotlight?”
“Is this part of the interview?”
“I won’t quote you. Can’t promise it won’t color my narrative, though.”
He shrugged. “I’m not comfortable with attention. I prefer to be the numbers guy. Backing up Quinn works well for me. I get to play and practice, which I love, without being a big name. I get to help the guys with their technique and don’t have to be under constant scrutiny by commentators—and social media personalities.”
I laughed at his playful glare. “So we’re just a couple of dorks with impostor syndrome. Is that why we get along so well?”
“Maybe,” he murmured, not blinking from me. “But you’ve yet to explain yourself.”
We paused to order drinks and appetizers, but his attention snapped right back once the waitress left. I took a long drink of water. I knew when I opened my mouth that I was going to share more with this man than I ever did, and I was in no hurry for that to happen.
He waited me out until we clinked cocktail glasses. Then, he nudged my knee and gave me a Look.
“Fine. Fine! I, uh, well. I grew up… things weren’t easy. Momma had… addiction issues. And addiction issues always lead to money issues. She raised my brother and me as best she could. Tried to hold jobs but usually did gig work, stuff she didn’t have to show up to like a nine-to-five. Anyway. I was raised to, I don’t know. Stay out of the way. Not only because of how she could get when she got too high. Also because it was how she taught me to make my way in the world. She taught me to steal, too. Food, mostly. I left home when she tried to teach me to lift other shit. I know I swiped your beanie, but I swear to god I’m not a thief. But I am good at going unnoticed. I was a good waitress because I was always there when needed, but patrons barely noticed me.
“Being an influencer is fucking wild, honestly. I feel like such a fake, but I’ve learned how to make it work. This look?” I gestured to my hair and face. “That plus the filters give me a mask. Let me move through posts and places as someone else. Besides, whether it be a fan post or a product placement, the goal is to put attention on someone or something other than me.
“Mostly, I’ve learned to go with it. But at certain moments, I still feel like everyone can see right through me. Can see how obviously I don’t belong.”
I buried my face in my hands and groaned. “And I cannot believe I just told you all that.”