6. Rory
CHAPTER SIX
RORY
I slip on the jersey Ryan sent over to my apartment.
The heavy fabric is thick and slightly abrasive against my skin and smells faintly like Ryan.
It’s far too big, the hem hitting mid-thigh and the sleeves swallowing my hands until I roll them up.
On the back, the number thirty-four stands out in bold, sharp white against the deep navy of the Seattle Knights colors.
“I’m so jealous,” Mia says, leaning against the door frame of our shared bathroom. She’s nursing a cup of tea, her eyes tracking the way I tug at the neckline of the jersey. “I’d kill to sit in the family suite.”
“I wish you could come with me,” I say, though the words feel hollow even to me. I reach for my deep red lipstick.
“Maybe some other time. Tonight, I have a date with Love Island.” She laughs as I grab my purse.
“Reality TV is going to rot your mind,” I say in a perfect imitation of my mother’s voice.
“Says the girl who watches it every day.” She laughs and rolls her eyes.
“Touché.” I give her a little wave and walk out the door.
My Uber’s waiting at the curb, and I hop into the back seat. The entire ride is a blur of buzzing nerves.
The Knights’ arena is a cathedral of glass and steel, vibrating with a low-frequency energy that I feel in my teeth before I even step inside.
I’m ushered through a private entrance, my pass dangling from a lanyard that feels like a heavy weight around my neck.
The VIP elevator is quiet, the carpet plush enough to muffle the sound of my boots, creating a vacuum of silence before the storm of the family lounge.
When the doors slide open, the noise hits me first. I scan the room, feeling like an interloper in a secret society.
A woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes detaches herself from a group near the window. She’s wearing a jersey, too, but hers is tailored, encrusted with subtle crystals along the seams.
“You must be Rory,” she says, her voice as smooth as polished ice. She extends a hand, her grip firm. “I’m Sarah, Coach Radcliff’s wife.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the way my heart is currently trying to perform a drum solo against my ribs. “Ryan’s told me the team is like a family. I was looking forward to seeing him in his element.”
Sarah tilts her head, her gaze sweeping over my jersey.
Then, her smile softens, turning genuine in a way that catches me off guard.
“Honey, if you’re wearing the actual game-weight fabric instead of the glitter version, you’re already one of us.
Come on, the wine is decent, and the view of the warm-ups is even better. ”
She leads me toward a row of leather seats behind a glass partition.
As I sit, I see the ice below, a brilliant, blinding white under the stadium lights.
And there he is. Number thirty-four. Ryan is moving with a grace that seems impossible for a man of his size, his skates carving deep, rhythmic grooves into the surface.
He looks different out there. He’s focused, his jaw set, his movements sharp and economical.
Beside me, another woman settles into the seat, a toddler bouncing on her lap. “Let me know if you need anything,” she says, nodding toward the ice.
“Thank you,” I murmur and glance out at the ice to see Ryan stop at the boards, spraying a fine mist of ice into the air.
He looks up, his eyes scanning the family section with a deliberate, searching intensity.
When he finds me, he doesn't wave. He doesn't smile. He just taps his stick twice against the ice and holds my gaze for a heartbeat. It’s a private signal in a very public room, and it makes my breath catch in a way that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.
The game starts with a roar that shakes the glass.
It’s a blur of violence and speed, the sound of bodies hitting the boards echoing like gunshots.
I find myself leaning forward, my hands clenched in my lap, tracking the blue jersey with the number thirty-four.
Every time a rival player gets near him, my stomach twists.
Every time he takes a hit, I find myself holding my breath until he clears the puck.
This whole fake relationship is starting to feel way too real.
In the second period, the energy in the arena shifts, tightening into a coiled spring.
Ryan intercepts a pass near the blue line, his movements explosive.
He weaves along the ice, a mountain of a man moving with the precision of a scalpel.
The crowd rises as one. He winds up, the sound of his shot a sharp crack that cuts through the cheering.
The puck disappears into the net before the goalie can even blink.
The siren is deafening, a physical wall of sound.
Ryan’s teammates swarm him, thumping his helmet and shoulders, but as they pull away, he turns toward the glass.
He points a gloved hand directly at the family section, directly at me.
My heart does a slow, heavy roll in my chest that feels a lot like falling.
I spend the rest of the game in a daze, the cheering of the crowd sounding like it’s coming from underwater. When the final horn blares, signaling a Knights victory, I’m the first one out of my seat, driven by an urgency I can’t quite explain.
The post-game wait is longer than I expected.
I stand near the player exit, feeling the heat of the game still radiating from the hallway.
When Ryan finally emerges, he’s still damp from the shower, his hair messy and his skin flushed.
He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt and tight jeans that cause my pulse to race.
He stops in front of me, his shadow falling over me, and for a moment, we just stand there.
“I’m glad you could come,” he says, his breath brushing against the side of my neck, sending electricity flowing down my spine.
“Me too.” I smile up at him, and the intensity in his eyes makes me want to look away and lean closer all at once. “I hope we’re not going somewhere fancy for dinner.” I point down at his jersey. “I’m not exactly dressed for it.”
“You look fucking perfect.” He laces his fingers with mine. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
He leads me to his car, his hand resting on the small of my back as we navigate the garage.
It’s an automatic gesture, one he probably doesn't even realize he’s doing, but it sends a jolt through me that I can’t ignore.
We drive through the city, the Seattle skyline a jagged silhouette of neon and steel against the dark water of the Sound.
He doesn't head toward my apartment or the restaurant district.
Instead, the roads get narrower, winding upward through a neighborhood of quiet, tree-lined streets.
He pulls over near a small, inconspicuous park perched on the side of a hill.
There are no streetlights here, only the glow from the city below and the pale light of a rising moon.
We get out of the car, the air smelling of pine and salt.
The grass is damp under my shoes as I follow him to a stone wall at the edge of the overlook.
The entire city of Seattle is laid out before us like a map of light, the Space Needle a silver needle stitching the sky to the earth.
“This is my favorite place,” Ryan says, leaning his elbows on the stone. He looks out at the water, his profile sharp and thoughtful. “When the noise in my head gets too loud, I come here to unwind.”
I stand beside him, the silence of the park a sudden, heavy blanket after the chaos of the arena. “It’s beautiful, Ryan. I’ve lived in this city my whole life, and I didn't know this spot existed.”
“I found it by accident when I was out driving to clear my mind.” Ryan reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw before tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
His touch is light, almost hesitant, which is more terrifying than if he’d been aggressive.
He pulls me against his body, and his warm, spicy scent wraps around me.
I search my mind for something to say, but my brain stopped functioning minutes ago.
He leans in, and for a second, I can see the exact moment the proximity turns into something else.
The space between us vanishes. When his mouth meets mine, everything around us disappears.
It’s slow, possessive, and turns my insides to goo.
I find myself reaching for him, my hands bunching the expensive fabric of his polo shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no room between us.
His tongue brushes against my lower lip, a silent question I answer by parting my mouth.
The kiss deepens, becoming something urgent and hungry.
His other hand finds my waist, his fingers digging into the jersey, pulling me flush against him.
I can feel the hard lines of his body, the strength he uses to dominate on the ice now focused entirely on holding me.
My head spins, the scent of him and the cold night air mixing into a cocktail that makes me feel dangerously drunk.
He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine. His breath is hitching, his chest rising and falling against my own. “This feels real to me. I want it to be real.”
I look into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability he usually hides behind a sneer and a hockey stick.
My heart is beating so hard I’m surprised he can’t feel it through the jersey.
I should say it. I should say the word that puts the walls back up.
Instead, I reach up and trace the line of his lip with my thumb, my own breathing ragged.
“Me too,” I say, the truth coming out before I can stop it. “I’m not sure it was ever pretend for me.”
Ryan groans, a low, visceral sound, and captures my mouth again. This time, there’s no hesitation. This time, the kiss is a declaration. The line between what’s fake and what’s real hasn't just blurred—it’s been completely erased, left behind in the white-hot heat of the moment.
When we finally pull apart, the city lights below seem brighter, more focused. The silence of the park feels less like a void and more like a shared secret. Ryan keeps his arm around my shoulders as we walk back to the car, his touch steady and sure.
We make plans for the upcoming weeks. I’m going to accompany him to the team’s mid-season dinner next week, and he’s going to brave the Fox family barbecue the next weekend. I’m not going to lie, I’m a little worried. If those don’t test our new, very real relationship, nothing will.