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“I don’t know about Ryder. He’s a great player, but he has a bad attitude. His behavior at Worlds is a cause for concern.”
“He was eighteen. Anyway, like I said, he’s leaning into the leadership role lately.”
I’m pretty sure I’m lying right now. I haven’t crashed any more Briar men’s practices, but I highly doubt Ryder is leaning into anything other than wanting to be left the fuck alone.
“You’re really singing Ryder’s praises lately. What’s up with that?”
“I told you, I’ve been working with him. Beckett Dunne too,” I add, so he doesn’t think I’m spending a bunch of alone time with Ryder, getting fingered in locker room showers.
“But you wouldn’t recommend Dunne for the camp?”
“Dunne doesn’t take anything too seriously. He’d treat the camp as a lark. Ryder and Larsen would step up. In my opinion.”
“But between Larsen and Ryder, you’d go Ryder.” That cloud of suspicion hasn’t cleared from his expression.
The microwave beeps, allowing me to put my back to him as I go to refill our popcorn bowls. “Probably. But that’s me. Go with whoever you think is the best fit.”
The next morning, we have breakfast out on the back patio in our sweats. While my parents and I munch on our bacon and eggs, Wyatt, who inhales every meal in five seconds flat, throws a stick for the dogs. He sings them a dumb song before each throw. I’m only half paying attention to it, but it goes something like, It’s alright, it’s okay, a stick’s coming your way, hey-hey. I’m surprised Dumpy is participating, but the golden lab bounds after the stick each time, actually matching our eternally wired husky’s breakneck pace.
“Did you give Dumpy steroids?” I ask Dad, who snorts.
At one point, they lose the stick, and Wyatt and the dogs proceed to prowl the lawn in search of it while my brother continues to sing that stupid ditty.
“Hey, champ,” Dad calls over the railing of the stone deck. “Despite what the song says, it doesn’t look like a stick is coming their way, hey-hey.”
“Don’t lie to the dogs, Wyatt,” Mom pipes up.
I keel over laughing. I love my family so much.
The lighthearted feeling in my chest wavers, however, when my phone lights up on the table. I hastily reach for it before my parents see the notification.
RYDER:
You still coming by later?
My heartbeat accelerates. Trying to play it cool so that my dad doesn’t pounce, I casually drag my fingers over the keypad to type a response. Just one word. I don’t need much more than that.
ME:
Yes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
GIGI
This part’s easy
“OH WOW, YOU WEREN’T KIDDING.”
I glance around Ryder’s room in bewilderment. I was feeling nervous when I first stepped foot in here. Because, really, what am I doing alone with this guy in his bedroom? But one look at my barren surroundings, and my natural curiosity takes over.
“Are you sure you’re not in the military?”
He thinks it over. “No, I’m not,” he finally says.
“Was that a joke? Oh my God. You made a joke.”
“Shut up.”
I grin. I like poking him. It’s fun. Plus there’s always a fifty-fifty chance I’ll be able to penetrate his grumpy jerk exterior and draw out a killer grin or two.
I continue to marvel over his bedroom. It’s neat as a pin, without a single piece of clutter anywhere. Not a knickknack, not a photograph. He has a queen-sized bed. A dresser. The only things on his desk are his phone, a laptop, some textbooks, and a small stack of books. The bed is perfectly made. The floor is vacuumed and shiny. I even peek under the bed and discover there isn’t a fleck of dust. He clearly cleans under there often. Now I understand why he insisted he would’ve seen that Carma chick’s necklace and silver crucifix.
“Are you done?” he asks politely.
“Can I look in your closet?” I beg. “Please?”
He rolls his eyes. “Knock yourself out.”
I open the door. Sure enough, it’s organized in militant fashion. Everything hung perfectly. Very exciting color palette of black, gray, and denim.
“You want to look in my boxer drawer too?” he drawls.
That makes me blush. “Sorry, I’m being nosy. I’m just amazed by how little stuff you have.”
“Stuff is overrated.”
“You’re so deep, Ryder. A regular old Plato.”
He stretches out on the bed and picks up the remote. “You want to watch something?”
I set my beer on the nightstand. He grabbed us a couple bottles of lager when I first got here. I thought we were going to hang out in the living room, but he suggested we go upstairs. So here we are.
I’m trying not to let my gaze linger on him. His denim-encased legs stretch out in front of him, feet bare. His blue T-shirt has a surf logo on it, and suddenly I’m picturing that long powerful body crouched on a surfboard, and a tiny thrill shoots through me.
