Page 2 of No Rhyme or Roughing
I couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath—or the sound I made during it.
Jameson sprang away from her. Lauren? Laura? Was that her name? His face was unreadable, but to my surprise, I didn’t feel crushed. Instead, something inside me loosened. A weight lifted—the constantpressure I put on myself to make everyone else happy.
“Sydney,” he started, but I held up a hand.
Turning to the woman—Lauren, Linda, whoever—I offered a small, polite smile. “Carry on.”
And with that, I was done with Los Angeles.
I wassix years old the first time I remember my mom calling me her little wrecking ball. Dad said it just meant I was a feral child with dirt under my fingernails and bruised knees. It wasn’t until years later that I realized it meant something entirely different.
Sure, I was wild, but Mom had considered me a wrecking ball long before I was even born. By the time I came along, my sisters were fifteen and eighteen, and my brother was eight. Three was a good number—the perfect family of five.
They’d decided.
Mom had already given away the baby paraphernalia, started smoking a lot of pot, and stopped loving my father. Of course, no one could know because they were perfect. She was perfect.
Then, one drunken night, I came along—to wreck their plans and her body one last time.
Whatever. Her ideas of motherhood didn’t bother me, nor did my sisters’ utter disregard or my father’s constant absences for work.
I had my brother, Teddy, and the Cassidy twins. Eight years older than me, and still, they let me tag along. Teddy always made sure my scrapes were cleaned and I’deaten lunch. Ryder and Sullivan never complained about the little girl trailing after them.
But then, all three of them left for college—three days after my tenth birthday. Three days after my "wrecking ball" nickname became who I was for good.
My phone buzzed as I sat in my car outside the hotel I’d called home for the last few months. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting there, staring at the dashboard, trying to figure out where to go next.
Teddy’s goofy face appeared on the screen, framed by the same thick sandy hair we both shared.
A sign.
I didn’t answer the call, but now I knew where I had to go. To the one person who’d always let me be myself without judgment or comment.
No “Tell us how you really feel” every time I voiced an opinion. No “Wow, someone feels strongly about that” if I got emotional.
Growing up in the Valentine household, I’d learned not to have opinions at all—or at least not to let anyone else know them.
Be quiet. Sit still. Don’t get emotional.
Stop being me.
CHAPTER TWO
RYDER
I hated bridges.
It wasn’t the height, the way they towered over the water below, or even the fact that the lanes were too narrow for my SUV.
No. The traffic.
Few ways in or out, everyone traveling in only two directions. No routes around the jams, no avoiding rush hour on backstreets.
And my teammates? If they’d woken me up, I wouldn’t be sitting above the San Francisco Bay at a standstill.
My fingers drummed on the steering wheel, and I reached to turn the music off.It was too much. Ever since being named captain of the Golden Gate Guardians three weeks ago, a few of the guys had pulled some pranks, including changing my alarm. I knew they were just messing with me, a little hazing before I had to really take charge.
A snort escaped me. It was surreal that I was still even playing hockey, let alone being named captain after I flamed out at the highest level years ago. Now, I was in a city that wasn’t exactly hockey-crazy, playing for a minor league team that couldn’t get fans into its rundown building.
