Chapter 21
MY DIGITAL STYLIST
Ryker
It’s lunchtime and I’m not due at practice for two more hours. Gives me plenty of time to handle this task with Trina. Should be a quick and easy errand.
But as I walk up Fillmore Street toward An Open Book, I don’t feel the same way I’ve felt the previous times I’ve headed into this bookshop. All those other times, I was stopping by alone to pick up books from the wish list at the library. This time, though, it almost feels like a date.
With her.
But that’s a ridiculous feeling. We’re not having a date in the middle of the day.
This is just her lunch break on a Tuesday and she’s helping me out.
Still, as I pass a quirky gift shop a block away, I double back to check my reflection in the window, adjusting the cuffs of my Henley then running a hand over my beard. And maybe through my hair too.
There. I’m ready to see Trina.
I resume my pace, and I try to ignore the way my pulse speeds up as I near her store, because that’s a dumb reaction to a fucking store.
Game day attitude on, I push open the door, swing my gaze around the endless shelves, teeming with stories and information and history and words that I just want to gobble up, till I find her.
She’s in the romance section, near the front of the store, and she’s adjusting a sandwich board sign.
It’s for the Page Turners Book Club. There’s a lipstick-mark design on the sign, and it says this week, they’re meeting Friday at six.
Trina tugs the board an inch or so, then pushes her red glasses up the bridge of her nose and studies it.
Damn, she’s adorable.
I kind of just want to watch her in her element for a minute, but that seems stalkery. Especially when she peers toward the door, then spots me and shoots me a smile that makes me feel things I shouldn’t be feeling.
Like, possibility. Such a dumb, dumb thing.
I try to shuck it off as she raises a finger, letting me know she’ll be just a minute. I give a nod because it’s not a big deal. This is just her helping me with a little project. An image makeover—that’s all.
She heads behind the counter then calls me over, reaching under the counter and grabbing some books. “Here are the books you picked out. I pulled them for you.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I say. I sent her the list this morning, but I guess I figured we’d go around the store and grab them together, and now I’m hoping this doesn’t shorten our not-date. But even if it does, it’s fine. It’s completely fine.
“And when I ring you up, I’m going to take a picture of you,” she says, walking me through this whole image thing she mapped out the other night. “And you don’t have to smile. Or look like you’re posing. It’s just a candid shot.”
She makes it sound so easy, but my shoulders still tense. I roll them, trying to let go.
“You can do this,” she says, encouragingly.
“Just don’t make me look like a jackass,” I mutter.
She tilts her head. “Ryker, I know you don’t want to tell the world, but you really do want to help, and this is what your picture will do. It lets people know how they can help too.”
Fine. She’s right.
She breaks out her phone and shoots a picture of me buying the books. After she drops them all into a canvas bag then thrusts it to me, she hustles around the counter, telling a woman in a cardigan near the self-help section that she’ll be back in a little bit.
That must be her boss since the woman says, “Take your time. And for the love of all that is holy, please check out the new taco truck and tell me if I should go there tonight.”
“Tacos are always a good idea, Marisa,” she says, then we head out.
“So, is that your book club Friday night?”
“It sure is. I started it online but brought it into the store,” she says, sounding proud of her accomplishment. “Are you angling to join us? I should warn you, we’re discussing a super-spicy football romance this week.”
I sneer. “Should have been hockey.”
“We can’t have all the books be about hockey.”
“Why not?”
“Well, if every romance is about hockey, then where’s the anticipation? Where’s the tease?”
“Ah, I get it. The football romances are the foreplay, but the hockey romances come in and finish the job.”
“Exactly. And we all need a good tease, don’t we? I mean, you’re kind of a tease,” she says.
I lean a touch closer to her as we continue our stroll past a café with a chalkboard menu, listing more coffee drinks than should be legal. “So are you.”
She shoots me a smile that feels private, even though we’re in public. And I like it far too much. So I clear my throat and shift gears. “You’ll take more pics at the library?”
“Yes, and I did a little something for you.” There’s a little wobble in her voice as she opens her phone.
“Okay. What is it?” I ask, guarded.
“I set up an account for you since you don’t have any socials,” she says, and shit is getting real, but she quickly assures me.
“It’s private right now. You can review it before we make it public.
I grabbed some of the shots of you from the team’s feed.
And then I think we can just add to it here and there,” she says, and her voice pitches up as she shows me the screen while we walk.
Warily, I check it out. There are a couple pictures from this season, from practices and games—standard media kit stuff.
Then a picture from a game last year, a hard-fought one where we eked out a victory at the last minute.
Another one of the team walking down a corridor of an arena in our suits.
And damn. There’s a shot of me playing in college. Trina did her research.
Then a couple more. A pic of my oldest sister, Ivy, and me at a fashion show Ivy dragged me to several months ago.
She’s been writing about fashion trends for a bunch of places, trying to make her mark in that world.
The image is a selfie she snapped of the two of us in front of the runway.
Finally, there is a picture of my mom and me from a few years ago.
I’m hugging her after a game. “Where did you get that? And the one of Ivy and me?”
“The other morning I asked Chase to send me some,” she says, and it comes out like a confession. “He reached out to your mom and he got these pictures. I thought because you’re so close to your family, it’d be another cool thing to show on your feed. What do you think?”
She sounds so hopeful.
And I think my heart thumps annoyingly for her. She’s been in my life for less than a week and she’s already done something incredibly nice, but also something that feels…real. The woman figured me out in only a few days. “Thank you,” I say, my throat a little tight with unexpected emotion.
“You’re welcome.” She sounds happy, and I like the sound of that. “Oh, also, she said to remind you that you’re having lunch with her and Chase’s mom next week, after you both return from your next away series.” Trina gives a crisp nod. “Whew, hopefully I got that message right.”
I smile. “You did. And it’s on the schedule.”
“You’re close with her?” she asks as we walk. Her tone is curious, but not pushy. When I first met her, I suspected she was up to no good with all her questions. Now, I can hear her legit interest in people, and in me. Which I like too.
“My dad took off when I was in middle school, so it’s my job to look after her and my sisters,” I say, and that’s more than I tell most people.
“That’s why you didn’t like Boner Boy,” she says, and I jerk my gaze to her in question. “At Katie’s prom. You really do worry about boys and your sisters,” she says.
I sure do. “Yeah. I don’t want them to get hurt.”
“Did your dad hurt your mom?” she asks.
I tense at the mention of him. But I don’t hold back this time.
Trina’s been so warm, so open, in bed and out of bed.
I don’t trust easily, but I trust her. “Not physically. But he insulted her when he was drinking. Put her down. Then, cheated on her. He wasn’t a good guy, Trina,” I say, my jaw ticking as I think of the man my mom finally freed herself from.
“When she got rid of him, I made a vow to myself to always look out for them.”
“Seems like you’re doing a great job.”
“I don’t want her to have to make hard choices again. Like staying with someone who doesn’t treat her right. She deserves a nice home on the water, endless spa days, and as many dinners with her friends as she wants. That is all.”
“I love that you feel that way and that you look out for her like that,” she says, with a tenderness that hooks into me.
“I try,” I say.
We’re quiet for a small stretch of the block then she says, “Thanks for sharing. I know you don’t do that easily.”
Yup. This woman just knows me. “I don’t.”
“But I’m glad you did with me,” she says, then adds, “And I got the impression you were the protector type.”
“That’s not an Enneagram type and you know it,” I say.
“Please. I know. But maybe it should be.”
“Maybe you should consider that my personality type, Miss Inquisitive,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“I will,” she says with a playful lift of her chin, one that turns into her eyes straying to my right arm and the ink on it. “What does that all mean? All your compasses?”
She doesn’t let up. She doesn’t ever stop asking questions. But I’ve got to hold something back, so I whisper, “Ask me in bed.”
“Adds that to my to-do list,” she says, and mimes making a check mark.
When we reach the library, she takes one picture as I head inside. A little later, when I leave, she shows me the pics she took. “Hmm. I don’t look like a jackass,” I say.
“You look like a guy who’s quietly posting things that matter to him,” she confirms.
Putting these out there publicly doesn’t do much for me. But if it helps others, it’s worth it.
“I’m like your stylist,” she says, then bumps her shoulder to mine. “Your digital stylist.”
I roll my eyes but only to make light of my next request. A bigger ask. “Want to get tacos? I mean, your boss wants a review of them and all.”
“Aww, is that your only reason for asking? You’re looking out for my job?”
“Yes,” I grumble.
But she knows it’s a lie as much as I do.
We eat and then I walk her back to the bookstore. She stops outside, giving me a nervous but flirty smile as she glances from side to side, like she’s making sure no one’s around. “So,” she begins and her nerves are the cutest thing ever. “Want to come in for a second?”
My skin heats up. “I do,” I say immediately.
A minute later, she’s guiding me to the back of the bookstore, then opening the door to the manager’s office, and the second it closes, I take off her glasses, hook them on her shirt, and hold her face.
She lets out a soft breath.
My heart is pounding. I slant my mouth to hers and kiss her—a slow, sensual kiss.
She has to go back to work. I can’t send her out there with her lips all bruised and whisker burn covering her pretty skin.
Everyone would know then, and there are no ground rules to cover that.
But I want to have all her kisses. The passionate ones, the gentle ones, and the lingering ones, like this.
It’s a kiss that feels like a promise that we’ll come together later.
When I pull away, she gazes up at me, then bites the corner of her lips. “Thank you,” she says.
“Anytime,” I say, then I open the door and walk away from her, wishing I could have kissed her one more time before I left.
* * *
When I head to the arena a little later, Oliver texts me. I click open the message from the Avengers’ publicist.
Oliver: It’s a brand-new era! Ryker Samuels is on social and we love it.
I huff, but I know this is a good thing.
Ryker: Glad you’re happy.
Really, that’s all that matters. I couldn’t care less, but he cares, so there’s that.
Oliver: Even Bryce Tucker couldn’t make this look bad.
My jaw tightens at the mention of the podcaster who dubbed me King of Grunts. But whatever. I’ve given him nothing to spin the wrong way, and I’m about to shut the message when Oliver sends another.
Oliver: P.S. Is your friend dating the VIP guest? Saw a pic of them at the dog park. So cute!
I stop in my tracks, then click on the shot. There’s nothing romantic in it, but my first thought is no one better make any trouble for my buddy and our girl.
My second is that I wish I were the one at the dog park.
And my third is—I need to get on the ice and block out all these annoying thoughts.