Page 44 of No Rhyme or Roughing
Finally, after what felt like a triple overtime Stanley Cup game, Ryder faced me once again, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m sorry, it’s just a shock. What kind of assholes have you been with?”
“Jameson wasn’t?—”
“If he didn’t care about your pleasure, he was an asshole.”
The way he said pleasure sent nerves rolling down my spine. “It wasn’t his fau?—”
“It absolutely was. Sydney, God, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with that kid who used to follow me around.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“Don’t I fucking know it,” he breathed. “It’s just… Most women can’t get off during sex itself. Didn’t that asshole ever go down on you?”
I looked away, embarrassed that I’d even mentioned how inexperienced I was. Ryder had dated Sam for a decade. He’d probably done it all, everything that was possible for two people. All the stuff I couldn’t talk about.
“I think I’m done with this conversation.” I turned to walk toward the stairs, but he grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t. I’m sorry, okay. I was just surprised. You can talk to me, Syd. I promise.”
“It’s humiliating.”
“No, it’s not.” When I didn’t turn back to him, he stepped closer. “I wasn’t lying, you know. You can trust me. Everyone should have someone to talk to about this.”
Had he sensed my lack of friends at every stage in life? How I’d protected myself by remaining distant? This was the opposite of that. I’d been wondering why I felt so comfortable around Ryder while other people scared me, but it was this feeling, right here. That trust.
The same feeling that could break me.
I pulled away from him. “Tomorrow, after your afternoon practice. I’ll help you with your dancing.”
Running up the stairs, I reached my room and closed the door behind me before flopping onto the bed face first. This was a problem.
A giant fucking problem.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RYDER
The team was not happy.
Early this morning, we all got messages from Coach Frankie letting us know practice had been moved to the morning. It didn’t matter to most of the guys that we’d have most of the day off to rest. Many of them had gone out last night and gone hard.
Now, they leaned in their stalls, heads in hands, groans echoing through the room. We were not a team this morning—neither working hard nor happy to be at the rink.
And Griff was pissed.
He walked into the lockerroom with purposeful steps, sending a scathing look around the space. “Cassidy,” he barked. “My office.”
Sullivan gave me a sympathetic smile, but I ignored it. He wasn’t my chief worry at the moment.
Exhaustion dogged my steps as I headed for Coach’s office, dragging a shirt on as I went. I rapped on the door only once before he yelled, “Get your ass in here.”
He perched on the corner of his desk, dressed in his usual black sweatsuit with the team’s golden logo emblazoned on his chest. Arms crossed, he fixed me with a hard stare.
I’d always hated this office. Unlike Mr. Mac’s, it was cold. Less greenery, more hard lines and cool colors.
An eternity of tense silence passed before he spoke.
“What’s going on out there, Cassidy?” He sighed heavily, not letting me answer. “I’ll tell you; this team is rudderless. Tell me something—do you think that was a good practice?”
