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I continue wandering around the bare space. I’m wired. If I go over to the bed, I don’t know what’s going to happen.
Well, I do know.
And my body is primed for it. Pleading for me to move closer to him.
But my head tells me not to rush anything tonight. Just because he made me come in the shower the other night doesn’t mean I shouldn’t proceed with caution.
“So. Your roommates went to a concert tonight?” I lean against the dresser.
“Yeah. Some new rapper with the worst stage name known to man. No joke—his name is Vizza Billity.”
“Wait, Vizza is in Boston?” I exclaim. “My roommate is obsessed with him. If I’d known, I would’ve stayed in the city and tried to get us tickets.”
“Oh, right, I forgot. You were there this weekend.”
“You did not forget. Go ahead. Just ask how it went with my parents.”
“Fine. How’d it go?”
He leans back against the headboard and props one knee up, resting his beer bottle on it.
“It was good,” I answer. “We binge-watched a horrible reality show. We’re all addicted.”
Ryder sounds dubious. “Garrett Graham watches reality shows.”
“He does when we force him to.” I laugh. “He got into it, though. The couple he’s rooting for is so toxic. And yes, I dropped your name a bunch of times.”
“What’d he say?”
I think about Dad’s reluctant admission. “He said you’re a great player.”
Ryder narrows his eyes.
“He did,” I insist. “Because you are. That’s not his issue with you.”
“So he has an issue with me.” His broad shoulders sag a little.
“He thinks you have an attitude problem. But you already knew that.”
Ryder’s gaze drops to his hands. It’s adorably bashful, which somehow makes him so much sexier to me. “He’s not the only one. A friend in the pros told me my draft team is watching me like a hawk. Dallas has a new GM, and he’s not entirely sure about me.”
“Well, I mean, your reputation precedes you.” I eye him pointedly. “Any chance you feel like sharing what happened at the World Juniors? Because a lot of people are curious. Including my dad.”
He just looks at me. Silent.
“Yeah, what I was thinking? That was a stupid question to ask Mr. Forthcoming over here.” I lift a brow. “You know, you have a really bad habit of never talking about anything important.”
“That’s not true. We talk about hockey all the time.”
“Hockey doesn’t count. And you know that’s not what I mean.” I reach for my lager and take a sip before setting it back on the dresser. “It wouldn’t kill you to share sometimes. Even minor things. Like, for example, what you have against stuff.”
“Stuff?” he echoes.
I use air quotes to repeat his earlier insight. “‘Stuff is overrated.’ Okay, cool—why’s that? You don’t like clutter? You’re a neat freak? I mean, fine, it’s obvious you’re a neat freak. But isn’t this a bit extreme? There’s hardly any personal possessions in this room. Feels like a hotel room.” I gesture all around us. “Come on, you gotta give me something here.”
He ponders it for a moment, visibly uncomfortable.
“I moved around constantly when I was a kid,” he finally answers. “Stuff got stolen a lot.”
“You moved around with your family?”
“Foster care.” The words are clipped, gravelly.
I soften. “Oh, I didn’t know that.”
He takes a drink of his beer. “Most of the homes were overcrowded. Kids would be fighting for toys, for attention. It became easier not to have anything to fight over or get stolen from me. If that makes sense.” He gives his trademark shrug. “The neatness is a habit from those days too. We used to get in trouble if we didn’t keep the room clean.”
“Look at that,” I tell him. “Do you see what’s happening?”
“What?”
“We’re having an actual conversation.”
“Fuck. You’re right. Come here.”
Ryder doesn’t say a lot, but when he does, it speaks volumes. Those two words—come here—are loaded with so much heat. His blue eyes tell me we’re done talking.
I walk over and stand at the foot of the bed.
He cocks a brow. “Are you going to sit?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
My heart is pounding. Since I didn’t bring a purse, I fish my phone and ID cards out of my back pocket and drop them on the nightstand. Then I join him on the mattress and sit cross-legged.
My gaze shifts to the black screen of the TV. “So are we watching something?”
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
He takes a long sip of his beer. I grin when I notice the bracelet on his wrist.
“You really don’t strike me as the friendship bracelet type,” I say frankly.
“I’m not.”
“Got it. So this is the fault of an overly sentimental BFF.”
“One hundred percent. I swear, this dude cries at any movie with a dog. I figured he’d have a nervous breakdown if I cut this thing off. I’m sort of used to it now, though.”
