Under other circumstances, with a different team, maybe I’d join them, but some of these guys are loose cannons, and I don’t need any more trouble in my life.
Would it help my relationships with this team? Maybe, but I’m not willing to test the theory. I have games to win, and the only way I can do that is to stay grounded and focused like I always have.
T-Bone’s massive arms cross over his chest as he leans against my locker. “What’s the problem? You still too good for us?” He waits for an answer, but I don’t give him one as I pack up my gear. “It’s all lined up. You’re getting on that bus, Rocket Boy. No special treatment here.”
I really want to ask him what exactly he’s lined up, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t care, and there’s no way in hell I’m dragging Ryder to one of their ragers.
Today will be enough. It’s only a matter of time before the socials start buzzing, and she and I are lighting up screens everywhere.
This is all I’ve known, and I forget sometimes that it’s unnerving for others.
When Ryder blurted to Carly that we’re living together, I almost laughed but held it in. Her coming right out and saying it told me she’s all in.
That’s all it took to realize that if she’s willing to do this, I could make an effort and change some things. So, I gave up my prepared meals and offered to cook, hoping it’d help break some of the mile-thick ice between us.
I shove my phone in my pocket, ignoring T-Bone’s attempt at being intimidating. “Not interested.”
“You know. You’ve always been—”
“Matthews!”
I turn to see Coach tip his head in the direction of the hall, saving me from telling T-Bone I’ve had enough of his shit.
I grab my duffel and follow. “Hey, Coach.”
We walk toward the press room.
“You’re up next.” He stops at the door. “You did good today, and we’re going to keep the wins coming.”
He slaps me on the back, and I nod, hoping it’s true, but that requires our defense to get serious. I keep that comment to myself as I duck inside to answer questions about the game, my team, and the season ahead.
My eyes drift from one reporter to the next, and I pause as it hits me for the first time that someone, somewhere, is watching with me in their crosshairs. I scan the faces in the room, all staring back at me, and realize it could be anyone.
When did this become my life?
I step down from the podium, letting Ricketts take his turn. I grab my duffel and wind my way to the friends and family area as uneasiness stirs in my belly. It’s new and uncomfortable.
As I walk, my game adrenaline wears off, and a sharp ache grips my ribs from that last hit. I’m dragging by the time I enter the large conference room. I usually bypass this space, but today, I enter searching for Ryder.
I spot her through the sea of people, leaning against the wall, watching everyone.
She fits in, sort of, wearing jeans, a Stingrays T-shirt, and sneakers rather than her boots. Her light hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her face bears only a hint of makeup.
I observe her for only a moment, and it almost brings a smile to my face. She’s reserved, on guard, and always alert. One of herhands grips the other at her waist. I’ve recognized it’s how she stands and carries herself, unlike any other.
I have a suspicion Ryder is extraordinary in ways few will ever have the privilege of understanding.
Her scan lands on me, and she straightens, her relaxed posture stiffening.
I cross the room, and people congratulate me as I pass. I stop in front of her, unsure of just about everything except that everyone will be watching us.
Her eyes drift around me. “You ready to go, or do you need to stick around?”
I don’t know if it’s my lack of personal interaction outside of this organization or the fact that I actually have someone waiting for me, but having her here, along with her complete bluntness, breaks my smile free.
Her head dips to the side as if she doesn’t know what to do with my grin. I kind of like it.
“I’m ready,” I nod toward the exit.
