I blinked, realizing Ryder had stepped into the kitchen. Without a word, he reached above me, turning off the microwave timer with an easy motion before pulling my plate out.
“What are you doing?” I asked, still dazed, still lost in my head.
Ryder didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he started piling more ingredients onto my plate—cheese, jalapeños, a little extra sour cream, just the way I liked it. When he handed it to me, I looked at the plate, back at him, and then down at the mess he’d made of my meal.
"Go on," he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "You’ve been lost in thought long enough."
I stared at him, then at the plate, realizing that maybe, just maybe, I was looking for answers in all the wrong places.
“I think this might be the first time in all these years you’ve actually made me food,” I said, raising an eyebrow as I took the plate from him.
He rolled his eyes with such dramatic flair it could’ve been a sport. “Oh, please. I’m not that much of an asshole. Surely I’ve made you a sandwich before.”
“No, you’re a pretty big asshole.” I shot back, pulling up a chair at the small dinette. As I picked up a chip, the melted cheese stretched, pulling thin as I held it in the air. “Can I ask you something?”
A look came over his face, like I’d just threatened his entire existence with a simple question. “That question always scares me when it comes to you.”
I tossed a chip covered in sour cream at him, watching it land on his shirt, leaving a big, white splotch. He didn’t even flinch, just stared at it like he was considering whether it was worth the effort to be bothered. “Oops.”
Without a word, he grabbed a napkin and wiped it off, all while keeping his eyes on me, waiting for the next bomb to drop.
“Do you want to marry my sister?” I asked, my tone lighter than I felt.
His eyes snapped up to mine, a mixture of surprise and confusion flashing across his face. “What?”
I shrugged. “I’m not asking in a ‘what are your intentions’ way. Just… marriage. Have you thought about it?”
He tossed the napkin into the trash, his eyes never leaving mine. “I mean… sure. Of course. I love Sydney. I’m hers for as long as she’ll have me. But it’d be a little fast to propose now.”
“Fast, huh.” They’d been together for months now. Frankie and I? Barely one. And yet, I already knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was the one. Was that too fast? Was I being reckless?
Ryder made himself a plate of nachos and slid into the seat across from me. “Listen, Ted. I’ve known you most of my life. And I’ll never admit I said this, but… you’re one of my favorite people.”
Normally, I’d have something sarcastic to throw back, but for some reason, I just stayed quiet, letting him continue.
“I’ve always envied how you can just dive into things, without second guessing yourself a hundred times. But marriage isn’t some black diamond slope you have no business skiing down. It’s not some skydiving class you took because a frasshole boy dared you junior year.”
“Frasshole?” I chuckled at the absurdity of the term.
“Frat boy asshole,” he corrected, grinning back at me.
I smiled, loving this side of Ryder—the earnest, solid, good guy who still had this edge of sarcasm. "Go on."
“You can’t propose because the team wants you to or because it’s a good story for the media. Not even for Frankie’s career.It has to be because youwantto. Do you even know what you want?” His eyes were steady, almost too honest.
“Frankie,” I said without hesitation. The answer came to me, clear as day. I wanted Frankie.
From the living room, Rowan’s voice echoed. “Sydney’s on my team! If you two don’t get back out here, we’re starting without you.”
Ryder and I exchanged a look. “Kids these days,” I muttered.
“Them and their damn video games.” Ryder shook his head, his lips twisting into a half smile, mock frustration clear on his face.
It hit me then how much older we were than they were. Damn, we were practically fossils. And maybe it was time to figure out the rest of my life—outside of the game.
The team’seyes were on me as I stood in the locker room before the game. Every single one of these guys—my brothers—were staring at me like I was the enemy. Traitors.
They knew what the PR lady and Mr. Mac expected from me. They knew what they wanted me to do, and they expected me to play along. Give them the story, the fairy tale that our fans were aching for—the love story of the year. They didn’t care what it cost me.
