Page 10 of Reckless On Ice

I groan and roll over, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in dizzying circles. This can’t be a futile cause. My contract with the Condors is on the line. Starting the season with a loss on my back isn’t how I wanted to enter negotiations. I’ve played with the team for five years, but I’m getting close to retirement age. I don't have all that many seasons left before an injury decides when my body is done for me, so I want to play this smart and plan for at least a few more where I’m comfortable. Staying in Atlanta is the ideal situation. Picking up and moving to another team for a season or two would fucking suck. Mark knows he has me by the balls with this.

I should start with a peace offering and help Ryder move the rest of his boxes. That could bridge the gap between all the shit that’s in our past and where we need to be. I pull myself up and leave my room, intent on swallowing any retorts to Ryder’s likely taunts to teach him what it means to be the bigger person. I find him struggling to get two boxes inside the door. I prop it open and take one of the boxes, quickly checking the hall for others. It’s clear, so I let the door swing closed behind me and follow Ryder to his room.

It’s so weird to think of those words.His room. In my house. It knocks a memory loose, and that kind of shocks me to realize how many we have together that still fill me with nostalgia for when things were easy and simpler between us.

“Remember when we wanted to be roommates back when we were ten and thought we could make it as pro athletes together?” I say, cautiously extending the proverbial olive branch with a pleasant memory.

“We were stupid kids. We had grand plans but didn’t think about logistics like being drafted to teams in different cities,” he says without looking at me, dropping the box on the bed and shaking out his hands before twisting his wrists. His forearms flex, causing the corded muscles to dance under the tan skin, keeping my eyes glued to the tantalizing sight.

Fuck me, forearm porn is a real thing, and Ryder Kingston could have an Only Fans devoted to his forearms. I’d be an anonymous subscriber the second I knew about it. I drop my eyes and chase the thought away with the golden-tingednostalgia that I was using to try to reach the surly asshole who is now turning in my direction and sizing me up.

“We were justkids. We thought we’d be first-round picks for our dream teams in Detroit, of course. That’s what we get for being Michigan boys, through and through.” I laugh, thinking about it now. I run a hand over the back of my neck and turn to leave. He follows me into the living room.

“Yeah, well, that didn’t happen. I went to Boston, not Detroit, and I wasn't a fucking first-round pick,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle.

At least he doesn’t sound angry about that fact. By the time the draft came, we both had a better understanding of how things worked in professional sports.

“Funny that we both ended up in the same city and now we’re living together, anyway. Somehow, we’re seeing our childhood dreams coming to fruition despite the convoluted road through hell it took to get to this fucked up place,” I mumble, opening the front door and letting him lead us to the elevator that will take us down to the garage for the rest of his stuff.

“I didn't fucking choose this,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “It doesn't matter what Mark says or how you spin it. This isn’t some childhood dream. This is my worst fucking nightmare.” He stabs the button for the garage, and the doors slide closed, sealing us in the small box for the endless ride so his words can play on repeat in my head.

I take a deep, calming breath before I level him with aserious look. “Right there. These things are what we call keep-inside-your-head comments. It goes back to the golden rule—if you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all.”

“Don't fucking patronize me with your golden rule bullshit,” Ryder growls, fingers gripping the railing, probably to keep from throwing hands at me.

I stand tall, crossing my arms over my chest so he knows I’m not about to throw a punch of my own his way. “Consider this your first lesson in comportment and how to deal with an interview when you’re not feeling it. You’re in a shitty mood, you don't like what I’m saying. You can either stay silent, or you can say something neutral and focus on your game. Or in this case, our shared history as kids when we didn’t hate each other.” I tap my head. “Start thinking before you speak, or you’ll end up traded and I’ll have my condo to myself again and not have to worry about you either way.”

The elevator stops and the doors slide open in the garage. He slaps his hands against the wall, pushing off the shiny metal with a growl as he stomps away, leaving me to follow in his haughty wake. The dude seriously can’t let his anger go. He just wants to hold on to it, feeling like the victim when it was his stupid mouth that landed him here in the first place.

I know it needed to be said because he was crossing a line, but I shouldn’t have put my hands on him earlier. I can still feel his throat flexing under my palm, his fingers clawing at mine trying to pry me off his neck. Yeah, I fucking got my pointacross, but did I set myself back by getting physical, or did I speak his language more accurately than any words can?

I follow him to a black Cadillac Escalade and wait as he opens the back.

“I don’t need your help,” he snarls when I come up beside him.

“You have four suitcases and two hands. We can make it in one trip if I help you now,” I insist, keeping my voice low and even so he doesn’t blow a gasket over something so simple.

“I don’t need you telling me what to do,” he spits as he rips a suitcase out of the back of the SUV. “I’m perfectly capable of managing interviews without you molding me in your perfect image.” The sarcasm is thick and the mockery blatant as he eyes me with hostility.

I roll my eyes. “I’m not perfect and I didn’t ask for this, either.”

“You seem more than happy to give me, what the fuck did you call them?Comportment lessons? Yeah, whatever the fuck that means.” He grips the handle of the last suitcase and tugs it out of the car while I settle the others and pull up the handles.

“I’m making the best of a bad situation. It’s the only thing you can do.”

“You don’t have to eat the shit sandwich when it’s handed to you, Golden Boy,” Ryder mutters, slamming the hatch shut.

I squeeze my fists and grind my molars hard enough that I’m sure I crack the enamel. This fucking man. I swear to all the gods he will be the death of me and my dentist is goingto rake in the cash after the grinding I’m sure to do with him around. Golden Boy? That’s the name he’s settled on thinking it’s going to get under my skin now? But I put up with much worse from him and others for years. I can do seven months. I take a steadying breath, blowing it out with a renewed focus.

“Conduct and demeanor. How you carry yourself. Your behavior,” I call to his retreating back as I gather the other suitcases and begin to follow.

He stabs the elevator button before whirling on me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Comportment,” I say with measured calm. “It’s about your dignity and the respect you show in how you carry yourself in any given situation. That’s what we have to work on because you speak or act first and think later. Which is how you ended up here getting lessons on comportment, sensitivity training, and interview skills from me.” The silver doors open, and I walk past him inside the elevator, leaving him gaping at me. “You coming, Reckless?”

Seven

Ryder

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