17. Ryan #2
I paused behind her, placing one hand on her hip, and she looked up over her shoulder, gave me another quick kiss, and got back to her cooking.
I found the opener. Second drawer, between a broken flashlight and a takeout menu that had been there long enough to be laminated with grease.
Opened the bottle. A good Rioja, not the grocery store kind—I had some self-respect.
Poured two glasses and looked around her kitchen.
The cabinet hinge. The flashlight. The takeout menu laminated with grease.
Everything in this place was already becoming specific to me.
“Your cabinet hinge is loose,” I said.
“I know.”
“The third one from the left. It’s going to come off.”
“I know. I’ve been meaning to fix it.”
“Do you have a screwdriver?”
She turned from the stove. I was leaning against the counter, wine in hand, completely serious. “Ryan. I’m cooking.”
“I can see that. The screwdriver.”
“You are not going to fix my cabinet hinge right now.”
“It’ll take thirty seconds.”
“I don’t need you to fix my cabinet hinge.”
“I know you don’t need me to.” I pushed off the counter. “Where’s the screwdriver?”
She stared at me. I waited. She pointed at the junk drawer beside the stove.
I had it fixed in under a minute. Found the screwdriver, tightened the hinge, opened and closed the cabinet twice to test it, put the screwdriver back where I’d found it. She watched me do all of this with the expression she made when she was trying to decide what to feel about something.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” I picked up my wine. “Also the flashlight in the second drawer needs batteries.”
“Are you going to—”
“Not tonight.” I took a drink. “I’ll bring some next time.”
She turned back to the stove, and I leaned against the counter to watch her work.
She moved through her own kitchen with focused efficiency, everything in its right place, her hands knowing exactly what to do next.
Whatever was in the pan smelled like the best thing I was going to eat all week.
It was killing me not to touch her. I wanted to put my mouth on the back of her neck.
I was doing a reasonable job of not doing that, for about forty-five seconds.
I crossed to her, set her wine glass where she could reach it, and let my hands settle at her hips. She was warm through the thin cotton of the tank and I felt the exact moment she registered me. The small adjustment in her weight, her shoulders dropping a fraction.
“I’m cooking,” she said. A warning I wasn’t going to heed.
“I know.” I pressed my mouth to the side of her neck. “Keep going.” I kissed again, softly and she tilted her head the smallest bit, giving me access.
“You’re going to make me overcook the carbonara.” The words came out breathy, and I was certain if I’d pressed my luck, I could have gotten her to give up cooking altogether so I could have her for dinner instead.
“I’ll take full responsibility.” I found the curve where her neck met her shoulder and she exhaled slowly, working very hard not to lose her composure.
Her hips shifted back against me, just barely, and I tightened my hands and thought clearly and without ambiguity that nine days was going to be an unreasonable amount of time.
“Ryan.” Her voice had gone slightly breathless, which she was clearly annoyed about.
“Mm.”
“I have a wooden spoon.”
“I believe you.”
“And I will use it.”
“Fine,” I whined. I laughed against her skin and stepped back, retrieved my wine, and leaned against the counter where I could still watch her.
She shot me a look over her shoulder, exasperated, pleased, a little bit flushed; the combination I’d decided was my favorite look on a human face, and turned back to the stove.
We ate at her kitchen table with the window cracked, the evening air coming in warm and soft, the carbonara exactly right, silky and rich, the kind that required nothing else.
I ate two portions and she kept the bread basket in reach without touching it herself, and the conversation ranged the way it always did between us now.
Easy, circling back, no destination required.
She told me about a defenseman’s hip that was worrying her.
I told her about Theo, the power play finally clicking.
I watched her hands when she talked, the way she tucked one foot under herself in her chair and thought back to the word I’d said at the bar, the one that slipped out ahead of me at the bar, even though I’d felt it for weeks before I said it out loud.
Girlfriend.
She hadn’t heard me say it, only Eli did, but I wanted her to know.
She was definitely my girlfriend.
Right?
She was refilling her glass when she said, without preamble, “You’ve been favoring your right shoulder for at least two weeks.”
I went still.
“Don’t.” She set the bottle down. “I’ve been watching you in practice. Your release on the backhand has shifted about two inches left and you’ve been rotating differently on the draw. How bad is it?”
“It’s manageable.”
“Ryan.”
“Rotator cuff. It flared after the Chicago game. I had it assessed. It’s not structural, just inflamed. I’ve been doing the band work.”
“You had it assessed by who?” She was incredulous.
I knew better than to answer.
Her eyes went to the ceiling briefly. “You went to the training staff.”
“You have twelve guys on your—”
“You are the captain.” She stood, moved behind me and pressed two fingers into the muscle at the back of my shoulder.
I kept my face neutral through an effort of will.
“That is not inflamed,” she said. “That is truly angry.” She worked her thumb into the knot at the base and I felt it release in a slow flood of relief that told me exactly how much I’d been compensating. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“Because you’re—” I stopped.
“Because I’m what.” It wasn’t really a question, but she stopped too.
She was already working through the answer herself.
I could see it, the calculation moving behind her eyes, the professional concern sitting right up against her understanding of exactly why I’d made the call I’d made.
How it would read if the captain walked into her treatment room ahead of twelve other guys.
How carefully we’d both been navigating the line between what she was to me and what she was to this team.
Her expression went to reluctant acceptance.
“After the road trip,” she said. “First thing when you’re back, you come to me. Not the training staff. Me.” She pressed once more, firmly, and I exhaled. “After dinner I’m spending twenty minutes on this properly.”
“Maren, I don’t want to spend tonight doing physical therapy—”
“Twenty minutes. Then I’m off the clock and the rest of the night is yours.” She held my glare until I nodded. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
She went back to her seat and picked up her wine glass and the matter was closed because she’d decided it was. I’d stopped trying to argue with her in professional mode somewhere around the third week of knowing her. It didn’t work and she was always right anyway.
I watched her drink her wine and thought about nine days, and then said, “I want you to come on the road with me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I travel with the team, Ryan. That’s—”
“Not this trip. I know this trip is already set.” I turned my glass in my hands. “But I want that. I want to look up from warm-ups and see you in the stands. I want to take you to dinner somewhere that isn’t Phoenix.” I paused. “I want you in a hotel room that isn’t in Phoenix.”
She studied me for a moment. Color had risen in her cheeks. “That last part.”
“You’ve only been on one road trip so far.”
“And nothing happened,” she said.
“We made a date…sort of,” I replied.
Maren laughed. “Yeah, sort of.” Her smile was so genuine, so relaxed. I was going to miss it.
“I’m just saying.” I watched her over my glass. “Nine days is a long time. We should probably FaceTime.”
She raised both eyebrows this time. “FaceTime.”
“Stay connected. Architecturally. Some of these cities are very interesting.”
“Are you suggesting phone sex?”
“I’m suggesting FaceTime.” I kept my expression completely innocent despite wanting to laugh. “For the architecture.”
“Ryan Lindqvist.”
“Calgary has a very impressive skyline. Lots of tall, erect structures.” My chest shook as I tried to hold in a laugh.
“Oh my god.” She buried her face in her hand, shoulders shaking, and I smiled at her and knew nine days was going to be absolutely brutal and I was going to enjoy every second of making it good for her.
Later, after we’d cleaned up, she made me sit on her living room floor while she knelt behind me and worked on my shoulder with focused hands, her thumbs finding the points of resistance and working through them with the patience she brought to work she loved.
I sat with my forearms on my knees and my head dropped forward and let myself feel it.
The release of muscle I’d been quietly ignoring for weeks, the warmth of her hands, the fact that she was taking care of me in the way she did, which was without fuss and without making me feel managed.
I was incredibly lucky to have these moments with her.
“Nine days,” I said to the floor, well aware I was whining.
“It’s not that long.” Her thumbs found a knot and I exhaled. “I have four guys on the IR who aren’t going anywhere. Rehab protocols don’t pause because the team is on the road. I’ll barely notice.”
“Callahan.” Even though I knew she was teasing me, I wanted her confession. To hear she’d miss me, miss this. The calm domestic evenings we had together brought me more peace than I could explain.
“I’m serious. I’m extremely busy.”
“You’ll notice,” I grumbled.
She pressed into the muscle and I felt it give. “Maybe a little.”