Page 15 of Reckless On Ice

“We’re getting ice cream. You earned it,” I say casually.Positive reinforcement at its best. I get out of the car and make my way to What’s The Scoop, a little family-owned ice cream shop I found a few years ago that makes its own ice cream. Ryder falls into step beside me.

“I thought you were joking. We’re actually going to get fucking ice cream?” he asks.

I hold the black lacquered door open for him to enter the old-fashioned style ice cream parlor. It has a black-and-white checkered floor, a rich walnut beadboard display case that takes up a good portion of one side of the shop, and lots of small tables and chairs for customers. The whole place smells like waffle cones and sugar, making my mouth water.

I follow Ryder as he approaches the display case and checks out all the flavor options. It’s pretty overwhelming. “Everything is homemade and amazing. It’s the creamiest I’ve had.”

He turns and raises an eyebrow at me. “Ignoring the obvious creamy joke, just so you know.”

“It doesn't count if you tell me you’re ignoring the joke that could have been made, you idiot,” I say, rolling my eyes. He laughs, and it sounds good to hear his genuine laugh, without any animosity coming from it like shrapnel.

We each sample a few flavors before deciding. Ryder orders the chocolate chip cookie dough in a waffle cone. I get the butter pecan in a waffle bowl, because why not? I’m not about to eat ice cream while driving, so I find a table in the back that looks barely big enough for both of us, and sit, ready toenjoy an indulgent treat after extolling the virtues of fruit and vegetables for hours.

“What if people think we’re on a date?” Ryder asks as he looks at the table and two chairs. “This feels an awful lot like a date, Golden Boy.”

“Oh, don't flatter yourself, asshole. I wouldn’t date you even if you wanted me to,” I say around a spoonful of my ice cream as I raise an eyebrow at his stupid remark.

“Are you serious?” he asks, sitting heavily in the chair across from me. “You wouldn’t date me? Why not?” He sounds kind of hurt and put out by the notion. “I’m objectively attractive, I’m in shape, I have a good job, I can fuck like a winner. I mean, I always leave women satisfied, so the same is likely to be said if I ever decided to go the other direction, and I have a wonderful personality with the best sense of humor.”

I point my spoon at him. “You think you’re such a catch, but what you really are is an egotistical jerk who thinks too highly of himself and too little of everyone else. No thanks. Not my type.”

“You say that, yet you were obsessed with me, admit it, Golden Boy,” he presses, leaning over the small table, giving me an evil grin.

I lean toward him until our faces are so close that our noses touch. He stays still, but his pupils dilate and his smile drops, obviously uncomfortable. Good. Maybe he’ll realize I’ll call his stupid bluff if he pushes too hard, and he won't like the prize for his stupid game.

“You think being friends meant I was obsessed? Get over yourself, Reckless. You were like a brother to me and I’m not into that, even one I’ve cut off because he became the most intolerable dick. Now, you’re just a lesson to teach.” I sit back calmly and take another bite of my ice cream to remove the smell of him from my senses. He smells like cologne, all cedar and sandalwood, mixed with his sweat and sunshine from working in the garden. I shouldn't like it so goddamn much.

He sits back in his chair and contemplates his ice cream like it’ll give him all the answers. He finally takes a bite and swallows before he looks at me again, and there’s calculation in his eyes.

“I bet I know your type.”

I sigh. “You don't have to bet anything. My type is someone who listens. Who considers my feelings. Who wants to be with me more than anything. It’s not that hard, and it’s not about a physical look like you think it is. It goes so much deeper than that for me.” I go back to my ice cream, a little embarrassed that I just told that toRyderof all people. The last thing he needs is to know those truths about me. But knowing him, he’s going to think I’m joking or telling him those things to throw him off.

“I’m onto you, Contraire. I see your game. You think if you keep denying that you’re into me, I’ll go easier on you. Not a chance, Golden Boy.” He takes a decisive bite out of his waffle cone and chews aggressively to make his ridiculous point.

I shake my head and know there’s no convincing himotherwise. He can believe whatever he wants. I’ll keep ignoring him when he tries to push my buttons or get under my skin, and he’ll see it’s all a futile exercise he’s wasting his time on.

Nine

Knox

Ryder was great with the kids at the Elysium Garden yesterday, connecting with Samuel, but also getting through to some of the other harder-to-reach boys who picked on him. I think Ryder’s unique perspective, having been on both sides of the aisle with bullying, allowed him to reach both audiences, and they appreciated him meeting them where they were, using his humor constructively and even some teasing that didn’t delve too far into making fun of them. I want him to stick to that kind of thing, where he considers the impact of his words and actions, so I’m making my mama’s lasagna as a thank you.

The rich aromas of garlic, Italian sausage, and homemademarinara waft around me. I have a kitchen towel slung over my shoulder as I cook and earbuds in my ears, listening to a hot-as-fuck gay hockey romance audiobook Harlowe told me about when she found out Ryder was staying with me. She’s a fucking instigator and said this could be the perfect forced proximity situation Ryder needs to realize his homophobia is just years of pent-up sexual frustration that needs to be taken out with me.

She’s crazy. Ryder is straighter than a ruler and just as inflexible. Her fantasies have no business in my life, but I treat her book recommendations like gospel. The girl knows her smut, and we’ve been sharing books for years since I told her I used to read my mama’s romance novels.

I’m practically sweating from the spice in the book as I layer lasagna noodles with a ricotta mix next to a pot of meat and marinara sauce that smells incredible. There’s even a tray of garlic bread prepped and ready to go into the oven, but first, these men have to have theirfuck itmoment, throw caution to the wind, and give in to their forbidden love because they’re teammates.

“Who are you cooking for?”

“Oh, fuck!” I jump and spin, pulling the earbuds from my ears. “I didn’t hear you come in. You scared the shit out of me.” I lean against the counter, head hanging between my shoulders as I take deep breaths to bring my heart rate back down from the scare. I turn off the audiobook and swipe away the app so it doesn't accidentally start playing whilesome dude is getting a cock shoved in his ass or something. Just what Ryder would want to hear after learning that’s what I want more than anything.

“Is this your normal weekday afternoon activity? You make a family-style meal for one?” he asks, the snark entering his tone so easily.

Damn, he doesn’t even have to try, the asshole just appears. I take a measured breath and pray for patience. After all, this is to reward his good behavior at the garden, even if he’s being a little shit now.

“I felt like my mama’s lasagna, and since she’s several states away, I’m the one who has to make it if I want the real thing. Besides, it’s even better the next day, so it’s good for leftovers. You’re welcome to have some if you’re hungry. It’ll be done in about an hour.”

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