Chapter 25 #2
I want to deny it, but she’s probably right. There’s something hypnotic about watching Ryan play hockey. It’s like seeing him in his natural habitat. This is who he really is underneath all the cameras and producers and artificial drama. This is Ryan at his most pure.
The third period starts differently. Both teams are tired now. The hits aren’t quite as crisp. The passes aren’t quite as sharp. But Ryan looks like he could play three more periods. He’s one of those players who gets stronger as the game goes on. More focused. More dangerous.
With five minutes left, the other team scores to tie it up. The crowd deflates a little. Even I feel the disappointment settling in my chest. But Ryan doesn’t look worried. If anything, he looks more determined.
He wins the next face-off cleanly. Draws the puck back to his defenseman.
Then something magical happens. Ryan and his linemates start passing the puck like they’re playing keep-away from a bunch of kids.
Quick little passes. One touches. Tic-tac-toe until the defense is spinning in circles trying to keep up.
It’s beautiful hockey. The kind that makes you forget you’re watching a charity game.
Ryan has the puck behind the net. He looks up, sees something I can’t, and makes a pass that shouldn’t be possible. Through three sets of legs, off the boards, right onto his teammate’s stick. The guy barely has to move to redirect it into the net.
Goal. Pure Ryan Haart magic.
This time when the crowd erupts, I don’t hold back. I scream until my throat is raw. Jump up and down until my feet hurt. Hug Raven and Heidi until we’re all laughing and breathless.
Ryan, the super athlete. Ryan, the undefeatable. Ryan, the ridiculous, irritating, adorable show-off. He’s in his element, tearing up the ice with impossible speed and shining under the lights like he was born there.
The noise is deafening.
Fans are on their feet, shouting themselves hoarse. I catch no fewer than five different signs with his name on them. A group of college girls, squeezed together in the row just above us, scream “RYAN! RYAN!” with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for rock stars and royalty.
Then I remember my jersey, the craftiest wardrobe choice yet. The rooting becomes a little easier. When he almost scores a third goal, I scream right with them. I’m in the moment, in the crowd, hugging Raven and Heidi until we’re an impossible tangle of arms and ponytails.
Even though it’s just a stupid game, I find myself sucked in, feeling the pull, the thrill of it all. I’m in the front row of the Ryan Haart show. With the way he’s playing, there’s zero chance of changing the channel.
By the end of the game, people start whispering. Pointing. Wishing they had binoculars. At first, it’s just a trickle of curiosity, a handful of voices rising above the noise. But then a few heads turn our way. It snowballs.
“That’s the guy that’s going to be on The Last Kiss , right?”
“Yeah, number sixteen. He’s the bachelor this season.”
“He’s into the one with the blonde hair, right? Heidi?”
“No, I think it’s the redhead. The tiny one.”
They must be talking about me. How embarrassing .
“That’s the one he keeps looking at!” a voice exclaims.
The words echo, growing louder, a rumor gathering steam. The cameras circle, catching all the rumors. This is what the producers had in mind.
I almost hate that I’m playing right into it.
Raven leans over and stage-whispers, “They’re talking about you, if you hadn’t noticed.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips over with nerves.
Ryan gets the puck, weaves through a wall of defensemen like it’s nothing, then rips a pass across the ice. One of his teammates snaps it into the net. Goal. Game.
The arena explodes.
I jump up, shrieking with everyone else. Raven grabs my arm, whooping. Heidi shouts something unintelligible. The scoreboard flashes. The crowd stays on its feet long after the final buzzer.
It’s electric. I catch my breath, but my pulse is still racing. It’s impossible not to smile. For one second, I let myself enjoy it. Just for a second.
Afterward, we’re swept into a single-file line. I lag behind, dragging my feet like a child who doesn’t want to follow the group. The thrill of the moment hangs over me, but I need space. A pause. Just to breathe. Just to be.
Mostly I am thinking about what it would be like to actually be a hockey player’s girlfriend. Would I be under constant surveillance by everyone? Something tells me I wouldn’t handle that well.
Two voices, sharp and blatant, slice through the air with the kind of clipped tones meant for secrecy. The words hit harder than I expect.
“She’s so boring.”
“Which one?”
“Wren. It’s like, go on girl, give us absolutely nothing. She’s a complete wet blanket. You can just tell.”
“She’s the virgin, right?”
Both women crack up.
“He’s only keeping her around because she’s Jay Rustin’s baby sister.”
“I didn’t know that! Makes sense why the show keeps her on. She’s a nepo baby.”
There’s a beat before one voice says, “Girl, that’s not what a nepo baby is. But you’re right, she has zero personality.”
The sound of laughter follows.
I freeze, every syllable of their conversation gluing me to the spot. My hands clench around the hem of my jersey.
I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. I know I should laugh it off. But the words sink in, heavy as anchors. I don’t cry. I don’t move. I just press my lips together in silence and refuse to shed a single tear.
Ryan is off-limits for so many reasons. But this is the biggest one. This sort of treatment is what I should expect if I were ever foolish enough to let Ryan sweet-talk me into dating him.
I have to protect my heart. No matter that he’s a battering ram of a man, threatening to break down the careful walls I’ve put up.