9. Ryan
CHAPTER NINE
RYAN
There’s a box of cannoli sitting on my back seat.
I bought them from the Italian bakery in the North End, the one Mia swore would earn me a pass into the Fox inner sanctum.
The scent of fried dough and sweet ricotta is heavy in the cab of my truck, competing with the crisp Seattle air coming through the vents.
“You didn’t have to stop and get cannoli.
” Rory glances over at me. She’s wearing a sundress that does things to my heart rate and causes my cock to wake the fuck up.
The blue of the fabric matches her eyes—that impossibly deep, electric blue that has been the only thing I can see when I close my eyes at night lately.
“I’m hoping it helps sweeten up your parents. ”
She laughs, but there’s a flicker of something guarded in her expression. "Just be prepared. My family doesn't have a volume knob. And my dad can be a little overwhelming."
We pull up outside a large two-story home. I reach for Rory’s hand and bring it to my lips for a soft kiss. “Don’t worry, tiger. Everything will be fine.”
“Famous last words,” she mutters as we walk into the backyard.
Damn. It’s like stepping into a different world.
A long table is covered in red-checked cloths, weighed down by bowls of pasta salad, plates of sliced tomatoes, and enough bread to feed the entire Knights roster.
A large man standing over a massive grill turns as we approach, a spatula held like a scepter.
"The hockey player," he bellows. I see why Rory warned me. The guy behind the grill could pass for a retired heavyweight champ still training for a comeback. He’s easily six-three and broad. He’s got a full head of gray peppered through black. His eyes are the same wicked electric blue as Rory’s.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t crack a hint of a smile. Just plants himself in front of the grill with his spatula raised, daring me to make the first move.
The lines etched into his face look carved by a lifetime of doing hard, honest work. He’s not the kind of man you bullshit. The set of his jaw says ‘bring your A-game or go home.’
“I’m Tony Fox,” he announces and holds out his hand.
I reach for it, squeeze hard, and stare straight back at those laser blue eyes. I’m not backing down.
"Mr. Fox," I say, holding his stare. "Ryan Coleman. Thank you for having me."
"Cannoli," Tony Jr. says, nodding toward the box in my other hand. He takes it from me and flips the lid. "From Casa Dolce. Smart move, Coleman. You might survive the first hour."
Rory’s mother appears from the house like a whirlwind.
She’s small but has the presence of a head coach.
Within thirty seconds, she’s hugged me, told me to call her Mom, and asked if I’m getting enough protein.
She looks at Rory, then at me, her eyes narrowed in a way that suggests she’s already picking out china patterns.
"He’s much more handsome than the boys on the television," Marian says, patting my arm. "And he doesn't have thin lips like Edward Vernati. I never trusted a man with thin lips, Rory. They hide things."
"Mom," Rory groans, her face flushing a beautiful shade of pink.
The next hour is a blur of introductions and sensory overload.
There’s Nonna, who grabs my face with both hands and declares I have 'good bones' before pressing a cold bottle of beer into my hand. There’s a gaggle of cousins and aunts who all seem to speak at once, their voices a symphony of overlapping stories and sharp wit.
I find myself sitting on a lawn chair, trapped between Tony and Tony Jr. It’s the literal and figurative grilling. The smoke from the ribs drifts over us, and the elder Tony leans back, his eyes fixed on me.
"So, Coleman," Tony says, flipping a burger with practiced ease. “When do you plan to stop acting like an asshole on and off the ice?”
"I’m working on it right now," I say, keeping it neutral. "Seattle is a great city. I’m just trying to find my rhythm on the ice."
"And off the ice?" Tony Jr. asks, leaning against the brickwork of the outdoor kitchen. "Are you going to clean your act up off the ice, too?"
The protective wall they’ve built around her is visible, tangible.
It’s not just a family barbecue; it’s an interrogation.
I look across the yard and see Rory talking to her mother.
She glances over at us, her eyebrows pulled together in concern.
She looks like she’s about to stage a rescue mission.
"I’m not the guy you see in the tabloids," I say, looking Tony straight in the eye. "I was searching for something when I got here. I couldn’t figure out why I felt so off my game until I met your daughter."
It isn’t a line. It’s the goddamn truth. Meeting Rory fixed something inside of me that I didn’t even know was broken.
The elder Tony studies me for a long time. Then, he nods once. "Good answer. Don't make me regret allowing you to date my daughter. If you fuck this up, I have a shovel in the garage and a very large garden."
“Duly noted.” I hold up my beer to him, and the older Tony laughs, a deep, booming sound that breaks the tension, and slaps me on the back so hard I nearly spill my beer. Tony Jr. offers a small, begrudging smirk. It’s not a full acceptance, but I’ve been cleared for the next play.
Rory makes her way over, slipping her hand into mine. Her palm is warm, and the way she squeezes my fingers tells me she heard the exchange. "Was it bad?" she whispers.
"I’m still in one piece," I murmur back. "Your dad got his point across."
The afternoon fades into a golden evening.
We eat until I can barely move, the table a wreckage of empty plates and discarded napkins.
I watch Rory interact with her family—the way she teases her brother, the way she listens to her Nonna’s stories with rapt attention.
She’s the heart of this group, the bright center they all revolve around.
As the sun dips below the tree line, casting long, purple shadows across the grass, Rory leads me to a quiet corner of the porch. The noise from the yard is muffled here, a low hum of contentment.
"They like you," she says, leaning her back against the railing. "Even Tony Jr. He told me you weren't as 'meathead-ish' as he expected. Which is high praise from him."
"I like them, too," I say, stepping closer. The air between us is charged, the familiar pull of attraction tugging at me. "Thank you for bringing me here to meet them."
"We should probably get going," she whispers, though she doesn't move. "Before my dad decides to show you his lawn tools."
I reach out and tuck a stray hair behind her ear, my thumb grazing her cheek. “Sounds like a plan to me. I can’t wait to get you alone.” I lean over and whisper in her ear, “I have plans for this gorgeous body.”
“Then let’s go.” She breathes out a shaky laugh, her hand coming up to rest on my chest. I can feel her heart beating through the fabric of her dress, a fast, rhythmic fluttering.
We say our goodbyes, a process that takes another twenty minutes as Marian tries to foist plastic containers of leftovers on us and Tony gives me one last, warning look.
But as I walk Rory to my car, I feel like a man who’s finally found his home ice.
And for the first time since the trade, the silence in my head isn't empty. It’s full of her.