Chapter 12 Hayden
Chapter twelve
Hayden
One minute, Ryder’s ever-present stoic mask looks like it’s about to crack into a smile. The next, he’s nowhere in sight, and I’m face-to-face with some random guy wearing the same confused expression I’m pretty sure is on my face. What the hell just happened?
“I’m just…” I point awkwardly in the direction Ryder took. “Uh, bye.”
I feel the stranger’s eyes on me as I scramble toward the safe space of my office, assuming that’s where Ryder retreated to.
But instead of him being sprawled out on the couch in the lobby as I expect, I find him in the locker room, yanking off his snow gear with such force I’m surprised it’s not ripped by the time it hits the floor.
Feeling torn, I watch him as I try to decide what to do.
I can’t deny that since learning of the circumstances behind his prickly demeanor, I’ve got a little more patience for him.
And that was before our lesson today, when he almost looked like he was having fun at the end.
Or at least tolerating things. Those are the kind of moments that make me want to try to reach him, though the way he’s flinging his gear has me second-guessing whether that’s wise.
Ultimately, my humane side wins out.
“Obviously, I’m going to move slower than you since I just used muscles I didn’t know I had, but seriously, how did you have energy left over to sprint back here?” That sounded wittier in my head. Even my cringe-worthy humor doesn’t appear to penetrate the wall he’s got back up.
“I’m taller. I’ll always walk faster.” He shoves his gloves in a bag.
Two inches, big whoop. Okay, new tactic. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me how I did?”
“What, like give you a grade?” He yanks off his snow pants, revealing a pair of soft gray sweats underneath.
Of course, he wears the male equivalent of lingerie out in the open.
Does he not realize they’re the universal invitation to unholy thoughts and bad decisions?
“Max didn’t ask for a good job sticker and he’s like, eight. ”
“Excuse me for wanting to know if I’m a lost cause or not.” Damn, he’s prickly, although if I were the reason for that I’m sure he’d be addressing me with one of my colorful nicknames. I wonder what that guy did that has Ryder even more pissed at him than he is me.
“You’re still walking, Frosty, I’d say that means you didn’t suck.”
So much for that theory.
“Wow, I didn’t suck. Thanks for the resounding vote of confidence.”
“That was a compliment.” He shoves his boots onto the boot heater with more force than necessary. “And here you thought I wouldn’t be a good teacher.”
“I said you couldn’t teach unless you were sober, not that you didn’t know what you’re doing. And are you really trying to take credit for me not sucking?” I make little quotes with my fingers.
“Pretty sure you’d still be on your first run if I didn’t help you dance down the mountain.” He mimics my gesture before stripping off his shirt, which makes it impossible not to notice how low those sweatpants hang on his lean hips. He should not be out in public in those.
“Good thing Carter only insisted on one lesson partner.” I put my hands on his chest and attempt to shove him back, an action I regret immediately for two reasons.
One—his sculpted chest is warm and smooth under my palms, which sends an unwanted shiver along my spine.
And two—he doesn’t budge, which the muscles in my back aren’t expecting.
When did I even use those? I roll my shoulders as I drop my arms.
“What’s that face for?” he balks.
“What face?”
“The one you’re wearing. Did you really think I’d miss that wince?” He taps the corner of his eye with a finger. “Twenty, twenty.”
“Hallelujah, you can see.” I throw my arms up in the air and promptly cringe again.
“Seriously, Frosty, what’s the face for?” His expression morphs from smug to…concerned?
“My back is sore,” I grumble. “I don’t know why, since I was mostly on my legs all day, but it is.”
“Your back is sore because you pushed yourself to standing a few dozen times over. Take off your coat and turn around.” He makes a twirling motion with his finger.
“What?”
“Just do it.” He shakes his head back and forth with a heavy sigh.
I don’t know why I comply when his body language suggests I’m a burden. All I know is my body doesn’t seem capable of refusing.
Dropping my coat on the bench next to us, I spin so my back is facing Ryder, holding my breath as I wait for whatever comes next. I half expect it to be another shove—testing for what, I don’t know—but I’m not prepared to feel his warm hands engulf my shoulders.
He kneads along my collarbone to the base of my neck, then down around my shoulder blades, searching out and alleviating me of knots I didn’t even realize I had.
A soothing pleasure ripples outward over my skin everywhere he makes contact, the way water moves when a stone drops beneath the surface, leaving me somewhat dazed.
Ryder’s touch is gentle, softer than I’d expect given his harsh words just moments ago, yet firm enough to force the tension from my muscles. I feel my eyes flutter as his hands travel over me, and when he brings relief to a particularly stiff spot my knees actually start to buckle.
“You’re really good at this.” My voice sounds almost breathy as I reach a hand toward the locker to steady myself. Fortunately, it’s still keeping me stable when he seems to take that as an invitation to elaborate.
“I used to work in the spa before I got sponsors.”
“The spa?” I try to look at him over my shoulder, but the hands massaging my neck don’t let me.
“It’s right here on the mountain so I could take a few runs in between clients.” His thumbs press along both sides of my spine as he works them down my back. “Plus, it was a good way to meet women.”
That shouldn’t depress me, yet it does. “That sounds more like the explanation I was expecting. I suppose being a pro snowboarder has the same perks?”
“If I want them, yeah.”
Though I’m inwardly glad he responds without his usual snark, I don’t want to know about the women he’s been with.
Women, not men, which makes me wonder if whatever tension I’ve felt between us is not the sexual kind.
I don’t usually misread those signals—maybe he’s bi but gravitates toward women—although for now a subject change feels safer than unpacking that particular bag.
“So, who was that guy? The one who said it was good to see you on the mountain.” Nice job, Hayden – he already clammed up once over the dude and here you go, bringing him up again. I blame Ryder’s damn magic fingers. They’re making my head all foggy.
“No one.” His reply is short, but he doesn’t stop the massage or storm out, which makes me wonder if he’ll keep responding. Even though he can’t see my face, I close my eyes for courage and forge ahead.
“You seemed almost as pissed at him as you are at me most days.”
“I’m not pissed at you. If anything you’re pissed at me, Frosty.” A cool shiver travels through me as he smooths the shirt over my shoulder before squeezing it.
“And that, right there, is why. You call me Frosty.”
“Cause you are. You don’t want me here.”
“Can you blame me?” Somehow, it’s easier to confront him when I can’t see him. “You show up hungover and don’t take things seriously.”
“Sorry I’m not over the moon about doing community service at the absolute last place I can stand to be in.”
“You have a problem with disabled athletes?” I try to look at him again, but he moves his hands to the spot where my neck and shoulder meet so I can’t.
“Not them, the mountain. I don’t want to be on the mountain.”
There’s a raw sort of honesty that comes through with that statement, and it triggers a memory from one of our earlier conversations, if you could call it that since it was more us needling each other.
“Wait, you mean you really didn’t complain to Carter about having to clean up?
You didn’t mind doing that instead of riding? ”
“Since I didn’t want to ride anyway, no. I didn’t care that you kept me off the slopes, even if cleaning sucks.”
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you want to be on the mountain?"
His hands fall away from my shoulders. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then why’d you do it?” I spin to face him. “Why ride with Max if you didn’t want to ride at all?”
“I like the kid. Plus, Carter was gonna keep giving both of us shit until he got his way.” Ryder shrugs, though it seems forced, like there’s more to say but he's not going to elaborate.
“You’re saying Carter isn’t used to people telling him no?”
“He’s rich.” Another shrug. Now is not the time to ogle his chest, dammit.
“Being rich doesn’t mean he gets his way all the time.” Though I had my own reservations about Carter’s motives at first—hell I even questioned his judgment for a while—I’ve come around to thinking he’s a good guy. I feel obligated to defend him.
Ryder shakes his head at me like I’m missing the obvious. “That’s usually how it works when you’ve got money.”
“You don’t like him?” I squint my eyes as I study his face.
“I don’t know him all that well.” His gaze doesn’t waver, though what Ryder’s claiming as truth doesn’t add up for me.
“He’s the one who got your community service here. Why would he do that if you don’t know him that well?”
“Been wondering that myself, Frosty.” He turns toward the lockers and reaches for a clean shirt. “Maybe because the mountain sponsors me and I’m costing him money if I don’t ride? But he’s not forcing me to compete, yet.”
“Yet?”
“I’m a bad investment if I’m not racing.” He shrugs his shirt over his head. “I assume at some point that’s the ultimatum he’ll give me.”
“Are you that good?”
“What?” Ryder’s deep brown eyes find mine.