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“You didn’t have to answer.”
“Don’t ask things you don’t want the answer to,” he counters.
“You know, I liked it better when you didn’t talk at all.”
That actually gets me a smile.
Damn it. It’s my fault. I’m the one who made him smile. And now I’m graced with that stupid smile, and it’s a killer one. I remember what Camila said about how he stands against the wall at parties and women flock to him, and now I get why he has no shortage of options.
“Look, if this were an apology, hypothetically speaking, I guess I might acknowledge that I can be too blunt sometimes.”
“No!” I say in shock.
“Not that anyone’s ever complained about that.”
“Oh no, I’m sure everyone loves it.”
He narrows his eyes. “This was a bad idea.”
“No,” I push. “I’m enjoying your hypothetical apology. So, let’s say, hypothetically, you were too blunt and made someone feel like shit by saying they were only playing hockey for Briar because of nepotism…go on.”
His expression sobers. “I didn’t mean that. The nepotism comment was out of line.”
I think he’s being sincere. He might be a jerk, but I’m not sure he’s cruel.
Then again, I hardly know him.
“It wasn’t my intention to make you feel like shit. When it comes to hockey, I’m honest. I’m always refining my own game, working on my weaknesses. Guess I forgot not everyone wants that kind of advice.” He pauses, features pained. “And I’m sorry for implying that your dad is the reason you are where you are. I watched that game. You were phenomenal.”
Despite the rush of warmth his compliment elicits, I can’t stop a flicker of doubt. “Are you just saying that so I don’t feel shitty again?”
“I don’t just say things.”
I’m starting to suspect how true that is.
“Well, thanks. I guess I appreciate that.” Grudgingly, I add, “You’re a very good player too.”
“I didn’t say you were very good. I said you were phenomenal.”
“And I said you’re very good.”
He snickers under his breath. “Anyway.” He gestures to the bouquet in my hand. “That’s my peace offering. Shane said chicks like daisies and they don’t give the wrong idea.”
“What’s the wrong idea? That you’re trying to get with me? Or that you’re sucking up to me so I’ll put in a good word for you with my dad? That’s why you showed up at the game yesterday, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he says honestly. “But you made your stance clear on that, so I’m not going to ask again. That’s not who I am.” He shrugs. “All right. I’ll get out of your hair now.”
He starts to walk away.
“I want the advice,” I blurt out.
Ryder turns to give me a wry look. “I’m not falling for that one again, Gisele.”
“No, I mean it. I was in a trash mood yesterday, and that’s the only reason I snapped at you. Usually, I’m like you. Always perfecting my game.” I meet those intense blue eyes. “If you were to give me any advice, what would it be?”
He hesitates, scraping his hand through his hair again.
“Please. What do I need to do behind the net?”
“Stop being so eager to get out of there,” he finally answers. “If you learn how to master that space and make effective use of it, the scoring opportunities are endless.”
“High-risk, high reward?”
He nods. “Gain an offensive position behind the net, and you force both the goalie and opposing defense to focus on that space. And when their focus is there, they can’t keep track of who’s out front.”
I gulp down my frustration. “I lose control of the puck back there, though. The space is too tight.”
“Like I said, learn to master it. Sometimes you get lucky and draw both their d-men to you. If they have shit communication, they both might try to cover you, and now you’ve got one or more of your teammates wide open in prime position to score.” He shrugs. “Do with that what you will.”
He takes off walking again, leaving me in front of my dorm holding the bouquet.
I gaze down at the daisies and rub my thumb over one silky white petal. They really are pretty. I don’t even care if he stole them. Then I look at Ryder’s retreating back, those defined arms, the confidence of his stride.
“Ryder,” I find myself calling out.
He turns. “Yeah?”
An idea forms in the back of my mind. Burrowing and wiggling forward until it’s at the forefront and I’m walking toward him.
He slides his hands in his pockets, waiting for me to reach him.
“I have an offer to make you,” I announce.
Amusement flickers through his eyes. “What kind of offer?”
“Well, maybe more of a quid pro quo. You help me; I help you.”
The glimmer of humor sharpens into a glint of interest.
“My dad’s hockey camp… He’s super picky about who he picks for assistant coach. And I’m not going to lie—his impression of you isn’t the greatest. I don’t know if that’s a recent thing or what. I do know he’s been watching you for years, though. He follows all the good college players.”
