Chapter 2
RYAN
“That’s gotta be enough.” Jay surveys the pile of logs in my arms as we get firewood from the stack behind the cabin.
“Never. Keep going.” I adjust my stance to better distribute the half dozen pieces I’m holding.
Jay loads me up with another couple of pieces. “So much for a couple days off lifting in the gym.”
“You’re not lifting shit.” My abs flex under the weight.
He brushes off his mittens. “We’re here for two days. We really going to burn all this?”
“And more,” I promise.
My teammates call me the Christmas King.
Okay, they don’t yet, but by the time this trip is done, they will.
This is my favorite time of year. It has been since long before I moved to Colorado straight out of college in Kentucky to join the Kodiaks.
It’s not every year we get a few days off that line up with the holiday, and I’m going to be the ultimate host. We have two days until we have to be back in Denver for a Christmas game, and we’re going to make the most of every second of fun and relaxation.
The crunch of snow under tires has us both looking up.
I walk toward the corner of the cabin and see Brooke’s car come into view and park next to mine. Jay’s right behind me. He lifts a hand as though he’s going to call out, but I shush him.
“What are you doing?” Jay hisses.
We peer around the corner as Nova, Brooke, and finally Sierra get out of the car.
“Welcoming the girls,” I respond under my breath.
My gaze locks on Sierra picking up the rear as the girls head for the cabin. Dark hair spills over shoulders that carry way more than their narrowness suggests. A black ski parka extends partway down leggings clinging to toned thighs. Her feet disappear into Docs that stomp through the snow.
She’s short. Not as short as Nova, but without heels, Sierra’s probably small enough that her head would tuck easily under mine.
Because I think about shit like that.
Sierra adjusts her bag on her shoulder before heading up the stairs to the door.
I start after them.
It’s hard to sneak up on someone when you’re carrying a hundred pounds of logs, but I don’t back down from a challenge.
“Missing someone?” I say when I step inside right behind Sierra.
“Shit!” She jumps and spins, impressively all at the same time. It’s a move our offensive coach would line up for playoffs. When she spots me, her round eyes hurl accusation. “What the fuck, Ryan!?”
Sierra’s usually behind the bar at Mile High when I see her. I’ve hung out with her a few times at a team party or with the other girls, but not nearly enough.
“Merry Christmas,” I say.
“You give me a heart attack in the next day, I won’t live to see it,” she retorts, eyes flashing.
Fuck, she’s cute. She looks as if she’d like to take a blowtorch to my face.
Unlike most of the women I’ve met since signing as a pro athlete, the looks she sends me aren’t inviting or seductive. They’re all laughing, withering, or pitying. On a lucky day, they’re all three.
“Hey, Ryan!” Nova calls from where she’s pulling back from an embrace with Clay. “Great cabin. I love how rustic it is.”
“Yeah, I actually have a bone to pick with you over that,” Brooke calls from the kitchen.
Clay grunts. “It’s got running water.”
I ignore my teammate and tear myself away from Sierra to set the wood down by the fire and brush the crumbled bits of bark off my hands. “It is full service. You tell me what you need and it’s done.”
“Dude, stop offering my fiancée your services,” Miles calls from upstairs.
I scored us this cabin in Beaver Creek. Technically, it’s just outside the doors of the gated community because I wanted to be unique.
Those houses would be full service, complete with butlers. Who needs that?
Just because we can afford to doesn’t mean we should. Part of the charm is being away from the spotlight and close to nature, which is why I was outside getting my own wood from the firewood pile behind the cabin.
“I’ll go get the drinks from the car,” Sierra says.
My head snaps up so fast. “You need a hand.”
“No, I’m fine—"
“Wasn’t a question.”
I follow her outside, picking up the boots I kicked off at the door on the way, and trail her to the car.
Getting everyone here was the first part of my plan to get the guys to have the best Christmas ever. I wanted us to escape and have time to ourselves without the cameras or scrutiny—to go off-grid.
The bonus was getting Sierra up here with us.
She works as hard as we do. Probably harder. Her dad’s bar is the center of Kodiaks social activity. As long as I’ve been here, she’s held it down. No vacations. No days off.
The dry, funny, take-no-crap angel at Mile High pretends she’s seen and done everything in this world.
She barely acknowledges I’m alive unless I’m trying to buy a drink.
Except for that one night she definitely did…
Suddenly, I’m hot despite the cold temperature.
“Your drive okay?” I ask, feeling my way into this conversation with a softie.
“Every person in Denver and their dog was on their way up here.” She rounds to the open trunk.
I peer in the back. It’s full of bottles and mixers. “You did not disappoint, bartender.”
You might expect a team of huge guys to party hard over the holidays, but some of us don’t even drink and the rest of us are lightweights because of our training and metabolisms.
“Couldn’t leave you high and dry.”
“An altitude joke in the first ten minutes. I love it.”
She passes me the box of liquor. Her hands brush my arms, and a little zing of electricity has my abs flexing on instinct.
“So, what’s the holiday cocktail? Donner & Blitzen? Merry Cranberry?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you didn’t come up with one.”
Sierra looks up at me through thick, dark lashes and folds her arms. “Scrooge Special.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
Her little laugh is surprised and delightful and totally un-Sierra.
She grabs a duffel bag from the back and shoulders it before closing the trunk with a grunt.
I adjust the box in my arms. It’s light, especially after the wood from earlier, but it’s also my job to work out twenty hours a week. It’s not ego to say that I’m strong and it shows—it’s fact.
Sierra doesn’t spare a glance at my arms as she starts past me.
What the hell?
They’re my best feature, as voted by my fan club.
Here’s the thing: I’m a good basketball player. A really good one. Less than one percent of guys who play ball seriously get to the pros. I not only made it but was drafted high, started my first season, and won a championship.
We’re talking rare air.
The line of people who want my attention at any given point would’ve blown my mind as a kid playing ball. Team commitments can pale in comparison to media, agents, publicists, and fans.
Being in the big leagues doesn’t mean I’m entitled to have women falling at my feet. But I’m heading toward rich, I’m not bad looking, and being fit is basically my job, so it happens.
Sierra looks at me as if I’m a pain in her ass, even after more than a year of knowing her.
“You genuinely don’t love Christmas?” I ask as I follow her inside and to the kitchen. Her lack of enthusiasm over the holiday only makes me more intrigued.
“It’s commercial and overblown,” she calls back.
“I’m not going to argue with you on the commercial part, but overblown? No way.” I set the box on the counter.
She rolls her eyes and sets the duffel on the counter next to the box.
In that moment, I make a decision. I’m not only going to win over the guys this weekend—I’ll win her over too.
“I hope I brought enough alcohol.” Sierra takes a quick head count, looking from the kitchen out over the open-concept main floor.
“Unless you’re banking on everyone getting their stomach pumped before the game.”
“Not happening. I’m responsible.”
“Maybe too responsible,” I tease, nudging her hip again with mine.
She arches her eyebrow.
A knock on the door has us all turning.
“Hi, friends!” A woman in a furry pink headband and matching parka is standing there with a gift basket as big as she is. “I wanted to bring you a welcome gift and make sure you have whatever you need.”
“Kodashian,” Brooke mouths to Sierra.
That’s what the girls call our female fans. I can’t remember how it started, but the name stuck.
The woman’s eyes settle on me and warm. “Ryan!” She claps. “Were you outside dressed like that? You must be frozen.” She hands the basket off to Miles, who’s come down the stairs in time to watch this exchange, and crosses to me. “You’re covered in tree.”
She giggles as she picks pieces of bark off my shirt. The sound doesn’t affect me like Sierra’s laugh, but I’m also not a complete dick.
“Uh, guys, this is Trista. She owns the cabin.”
When I reached out to book the place, she was only too happy to help. Maybe I should have emphasized how this was a team retreat and that we wanted privacy.
Brooke grabs a soda from the fridge, popping the top with relish.
I see Sierra start for the stairs with her bags. I start to call after her to say I’ll take them up for her, but our host stops me.
“You guys are going to have the best Christmas. What’s your plan?” Trista gushes.
“Decorating, games, cooking, gift exchange, some light karaoke.”
Groans go up.
Trista bites her lip. “You have to come skiing. There’s a hill down the road. Plus, the pond outside is cleared for skating. And don’t forget the hot tub.”
I definitely hadn’t. A warm soak that’s not in a too-small standard-sized tub is right up my alley.
“Normally, we’d put up a tree, but I wanted to check with you as to what you’d like,” Trista says. “We could order you one. Or you can cut one down yourselves.”
“Yeah?” The idea lights me up like a little kid.
I’ve never cut down a tree. Never lived somewhere with trees like this until I moved to Denver.
“You’d make a great lumberjack.” Trista’s hands find my arm.
A cough comes from somewhere, along with a muffled laugh.
“Thanks for your help,” I say.
She blinks. “Any time. You have my number. Call if you need anything. Or stop by. My place is literally a five-minute walk.” She points toward the door. “If you come without a coat, I can warm you up.”
“Bye, Trista.”
She waves and closes the door behind her.
“Oh, Ryan,” Brooke coos in a high-pitched voice. “You should come by my place. You have my number.”
Chloe weighs in. “Wear your jersey. Or maybe I’ll be wearing it.”
I grin as I pull bottles out of the box, setting them on the counter. When I glance back, I find Sierra right behind me. “You’re not jumping in on this?”
“Nope.”
“Right. Insulting me is below your paygrade.”
Sierra inspects the bottles and I inspect her. The pale skin and freckles, the full lips and lined eyes, the piece of black hair falling across her face I’d tuck behind her ear if I weren’t concerned I’d lose a finger.
“You know you want to say something.” I nudge her hip with mine as she comes up next to me.
She shoots a look over the island toward the others, all caught up in conversations and laughing. They’re oblivious. At least for the moment.
“She all but announced she wants you to rail her through New Year’s.”
Her lips press together as she reaches for the box and pulls out items. Bar ingredients, things to mix with. She pauses on the third jar—maraschino cherries.
I can’t resist leaning in. “Missed that tongue.”
That’s when it happens.
Sierra fumbles the glass in her hands. She doesn’t drop it, but for a second, I think she might.
Yeah, well, it’s about time.
Because Sierra’s been acting as though she has an epic case of amnesia, and there’s no way I’ve gotten that hot night out of my head.
Guess it took being here in these cozy mountain quarters to get under her skin.
I’m not about to let it go.