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Ryder lifts his hat and runs one hand over his hair to smooth it before shoving the cap back down. The move draws my attention to his right wrist and the bracelet there. Woven from black and gray string, like those friendship bracelets at island resorts that the locals try to scam you into buying. It’s old and frayed, as if he’s been wearing it for ages.
“Just checking out your game.”
“All right. Weird. But okay.” I eye him, bemused. “Did you enjoy it?”
His shoulder begins to move in a shrug, but then he sees my face and stops himself.
“It was more dramatic than I expected,” he says drolly. “Also didn’t need to go to shootout.”
“You think it should have ended in a tie?”
“No, I mean just what I said—it didn’t need to go to shootout. You could have won the game for your team in the third.”
“You know, most people would compliment me on the fact that I won that shootout,” I point out.
“Is that what you need from people? To be told what a good girl you are?”
His mocking words send a bolt of heat directly between my legs.
Wow.
Okay.
I didn’t expect my body to react like that. And I don’t love that it did. Especially since I should be angry right now. He literally just told me I’m the reason we went to a shootout in the first place.
“I’m not sure if you missed it,” I say tightly, “but the pressure they had on us was nuts.”
Ryder doesn’t answer.
“What?” I grumble.
Still nothing.
I drop my hockey bag on the pavement, and it lands with a thud. Crossing my arms over my chest, I shoot him a dark glare. “Go on. Tell me your thoughts.”
He meets my eyes. “You panic behind the net.”
The censure slices into me like a dull knife.
Normally I would gently take that in, absorb the criticism, and view it as constructive, not let it cut me this deeply. But he’s echoing Fairlee’s sentiments, and that’s the last thing I need right now.
Now I have two men telling me I suck behind the net?
“When you’re under pressure in their zone and there’s no other option, you should automatically be moving the puck to the back of the net,” Ryder says when I don’t respond. “Instead, you panic and try for poor passes and get intercepted. Like you did in the third.”
I think I like him better when he doesn’t talk.
My jaw clenches so tight that my molars begin to throb. Ignoring his blunt assessment of my suckiness, I unhinge my jaw to ask, “Why are you really here?”
His dark-blue eyes flicker with what appears to be discomfort. I expect him to stall, or not answer at all, but he surprises me by being direct. “Your father was at our practice yesterday.”
“So?”
Ryder adjusts the brim of his cap again. “He said he runs a Hockey Kings camp every summer. I was hoping—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I know exactly where this is going and it chafes me to no end. “Seriously? You too?”
“What?”
I pick up my bag and throw the strap over my shoulder. “Do you know how many dudes have hit me up over the years just to get close to my father? This isn’t my first rodeo.”
I shake my head, swallowing the rising animosity. I will say, at least Ryder is upfront about it. He’s not trying to take me to dinner, where he’ll hold my hand and whisper sweet words to me and then ask for the favor.
Despite my best efforts, that bitter feeling surfaces. I was already in a bad mood before he ambushed me, and now I feel a thousand times worse.
“I knew you were a dick, but this is next level. You show up here, insult my game, and then want to use me to get to my dad?”
He gives his trademark shrug.
“What?”
“Like you haven’t been using him too?”
I stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We practice in a building called the Graham Center.” He laughs without much humor. “If that’s not nepotism in action, I don’t know what is.”
My cheeks are scorching. I know they’re turning redder by the second. “Are you implying I couldn’t get into Briar on my own merit?”
“I’m saying you’re good, but I’m sure it doesn’t hurt what your last name is.”
I struggle to calm myself. Breathing deep.
Then I say, “Fuck you.”
And walk away, because I’m thoroughly done with this conversation. I won’t even entertain it.
He doesn’t follow me, and I’m seething when I climb onto the team bus a minute later.
Ryder’s wrong. My last name isn’t why Briar—and half a dozen other big hockey schools—begged me to attend. They wanted me because I’m good. No, because I’m great.
I know I am.
But that doesn’t stop the dam of insecurity from bursting open and a flood of doubt from seeping into my blood.
