Chapter 26
twenty-six
RYAN
We’re supposed to be filming part of the new reality tv show at the arena’s after-party, but it’s not exactly the glamorous scene you’d imagine.
The place is pretty chill, filled mostly with charity donors who pretend they’re not excited to be here and production people rolling their eyes at the signage.
A couple of the other players linger around, all trying to look casual as bait for reality TV gold. Everyone has plastic cups filled with weak cocktails. There’s a not-so-subtle effort from the crowd to act like they don’t notice the clunky cameras hovering in every corner.
I should be playing the amiable jock, chatting people up, but I’m barely interested in the charade.
Because Wren is here. She’s laughing with someone else.
Hunter Huxley, a left wing from the Seattle Havoc. A guy who is so fucking cocky that he wouldn’t shake my hand at the end of the charity game. We’re supposed to be raising money for sick kids and he’s so full of himself he can’t even see straight.
He runs his fingers through his dirty blond hair and smirks down at Wren. I was just on the ice with the guy and can confirm that he’s a giant.
But he’s also a huge dick. What does Wren see in him?
She’s different now than she used to be. Stronger. More visible. Part of me is proud. The other part is spiraling.
She’s got this soft, pretty laugh that cuts through all the noise. She has unintentionally reprogrammed me, changed my brain chemistry to be so attuned to her voice, her laugh, her every damn nuance.
I can tell she actually thinks whatever he’s just said is really funny. I’m not proud of the way the sound of her giggling knots me up. I try to pretend I don’t see it.
Like that’s possible. She’s not mine, not really. Not yet. But watching her smile at someone else like that? It feels like being benched during the most important game of my life.
I attempt a little small talk with Rich, feigning interest in his endless theory about last season’s finale. He goes on and on about how it could have had even more drama if only the producers had known about that secret hookup.
But my attention keeps slipping. I’m not even sure if I’m nodding at the right parts when he pauses expectantly.
I strain to hear her voice, even when it gets drowned out by the background noise. Finally, I give up pretending and let my gaze drift back to where she stands.
Wren’s always had this way of pulling focus. It used to drive me nuts, the way she’d steal the spotlight from whatever I was supposed to be paying attention to without even trying. Now, it’s more like she’s got a target on my heart and doesn’t even know it.
The guy Wren’s talking to? He’s looking slick, standing there like he’s already made the team and the highlight reel. He’s got that effortless swagger that makes him hard to ignore and he’s still in his practice gear, half-unzipped like he’s too cool for shirts that fit and manners that matter.
The worst part? He’s charming, throwing Wren a grin that must work on half the population.
I know his type. Hell, I am him.
I don’t miss the way Huxley looks at her legs in that short gray skirt. She shouldn’t be allowed to wear anything so sexy while other hockey players are around.
Most hockey players are dogs. Hunter Huxley is the worst of them all. My fists bunch as I think of how I’d like to deal with this situation: with violence.
I take a sip of my Coke, wondering how a drink with no alcohol can feel so bitter. I watch from across the room, pretending I’m totally fine, that I’m not glued to the sight of them like it’s some slow-motion car wreck I can’t tear my eyes from.
The guy leans in, says something that makes Wren tilt her head, brushing her hair behind her ear. She gives him a smile that’s not supposed to be meant for strangers. I see it.
I know it’s not an act.
I don’t move, just stare across the room like maybe the force of my gaze will interrupt. It doesn’t. She’s into whatever he’s saying. I’m hating every second of it.
Just as someone shoves a camera in my face, I decide I’ve had enough.
I cut across the room, ignoring the flash of a production assistant’s camera like it’s a pesky gnat.
I’m only half aware of the people I squeeze past, the scattered conversations I bulldoze through.
I can still see them, the way he’s so obviously holding her attention.
She’s stepping away from the bar, drink in hand, looking almost too pleased. Her cheeks are pink, whether from the rum punch or the attention, I’m not sure. Either way, I’m there before she’s gone more than a couple of steps.
“You flirting now?” I hear my own voice come out louder than I’d intended. My words hang in the air between us. For a second, I think I see her flinch.
She startles a little, looking genuinely caught off guard.
“What?” she says, her eyes wide as if she hasn’t been on my radar this whole time.
“That guy. Huxley. From the other team. You’re really gonna go with him?”
I don’t even recognize my own voice. It’s got this raw edge I can’t control. But there’s a needling ache in my chest that’s pushing me. I’m not about to back down now.
Wren narrows her eyes and I know I’ve struck a nerve.
“What’s your problem?” Her voice sharpens, a defense mechanism I know too well. She tilts her chin, daring me to accuse her of anything more.
For a moment, I almost waver, but then I remember the way she laughed at the guy’s jokes.
I fold my arms, trying to look like I’m the one with the upper hand here, though I’m not so sure I’ve got any hand at all. “You’re doing this on purpose. Laughing. Touching his arm. Trying to get a reaction.”
It sounds desperate, even to me, but I can’t stop. Her cheeks are still flushed. I know I’m the reason now, not some rum punch.
“Why would I?” she asks softly, dropping the bravado. “He was telling me a funny story about his niece. That’s all. What would I get out of flirting with him?”
Her eyes search mine.
I wonder if she’s right, if I’m the only one clinging to some idea that we’re both in on this game.
A muscle tics in my jaw. I realize how hollow my words sound. “To drive me crazy? I’m not sure what I did to deserve it, though.”
There’s a vulnerability that creeps in, a crack in my armor that shows her how much she gets to me.
“You didn’t do anything, Ryan.” Her voice is so soft it almost drowns in the noise. “Honestly. I was just being friendly.”
I lower my voice so she’s the only one that can hear me. “Wren…”
She licks her bottom lip. It takes everything I have to focus on the words and not the motion. “We both know what a terrible idea this is.”
A fresh wave of adrenaline hits, a rush of something I can’t identify.
Suddenly, I’m feeling too much all at once.
She’s giving voice to the fear I’m constantly working so hard to silence, the one that breathes down my neck at every turn, that worries she might slip through my fingers before I can even get a firm grip.
Wren peers up at me, her eyes emotional. There’s a flicker of suspicion and regret. She’s scanning my face, searching for something. I can’t look away.
It’s like I’m staring down everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s staring back like it’s trying to decide whether being with me is worth the hassle.
I cup her neck just at the juncture of her shoulder and stare down into her eyes. Does she have any idea what she does to me?
“It’s risky. But I’m willing to take the risk.”
She swallows, her lips parting like each breath is suddenly a struggle. “Ryan…”
I’m afraid of what she’ll say next. Before she can finish the thought, I run right over it, desperate to change the script. “I’m not messing around. You think I’d risk Jay hating me if this was just for fun?”
Maybe I’m overplaying my hand, but it’s all I’ve got. The words hit the air before I can stop them.
Wren freezes.
Her lips part like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, staring at me, a hundred questions in her eyes and not a single one making it to her mouth.
Then, before I can even guess what’s coming, she grabs my sleeve and pulls me away from the crowd. I stumble behind her, half in shock, half in something else. My heart pounds against my ribs like it wants out.
We squeeze past a group of interns arguing logistics for tomorrow’s shoot.
She pulls me into a hallway and it suddenly gets quieter and darker.
We turn the corner by the coat check. It’s half lit, almost impossible to see straight.
Jackets hang in bunches, casting weird shadows over the floor, but I barely notice.
I’m too busy trying to figure out if I’m dreaming this whole thing.
She closes the door, flips on the light, and spins to face me. She’s breathing hard, eyes locked on mine. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something else, something she’s been holding back, too.
“You’re the one acting weird,” she accuses.
A nervous laugh slips out of me.
“Maybe I am. Because I like you, Wren.” I’ve never let the words out before. I’m not even sure how they sound. “Okay? I know I’m not supposed to, but I can’t help it.”
That shuts her up. She just stares at me, long and unblinking. Waiting, presumably, for the other shoe to drop. But I am certainly not trying to trick her. I don’t have a lot to offer her, but she can have my honesty.
Her hand curls into my shirt and everything changes.
Wren pushes me backward into the wall of jackets and kisses me.
It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s fast and hot and a little angry. There’s the rough crush of her mouth on mine, the tangle of her fingers in my hair. I barely have time to react before I find myself pulling her closer, pulling her in.
I grip her hips and kiss her back hard, teeth knocking, breath short. She’s in my arms, against me, closer than I ever thought possible. My head spins with the feel of her, the heat of her, the electric charge of something I’ve been dying to touch.