Page 78 of No Rhyme or Roughing
“This can’t be real.” The San Jose Sharks were interested in stepping up their in-game entertainment, especially during intermission shows. They wanted more butts in seats, just like we did. Hockey wasn’t the number one sport in America—or numbers two, three, or four. Many teams struggled with attendance.
“They want a conversation, Sydney,” Angela said, her smile clear in her tone.
“A conversation,” I repeated, still processing.
“Yes. Someone in management saw the videos of your boys in San Francisco. They want to see the effect it has on crowds, and they’d also like to set something up with you—if you can make it to San Jose soon.”
“Soon,” I echoed, biting my lip to keep from laughing. I’d go whenever they wanted. Working in San Jose would let me stay in the area. “Is it steady?”
She knew what I meant. “You’d become a member of their staff.”
Not just a temporary gig, then. Stability. I glanced at the open door leading to the hall of my brother’s house. I could stay close to him. And Ryder? Shit, I hadn’t even considered that.
“Can I think about it?”
Angela laughed again. “Of course. Just know they’re willing to pay you well, with a bonus structure.”
We ended the call, and I sat there, not thinking exactly, just basking in the possibility. My phone beeped with a reminder, and I checked the time.
“Oh, crap.” I was going to be late.
Ryder, Teddy, and Rowan were already at practice, but there was a secret session on the ice afterward, just for the guys who’d agreed to dance in the game tomorrow night. I’d stayed up most of the night working on choreography I thought they could master in such a short time.
These were hockey players. They were used to cramming a lot into their heads and turning it into muscle memory. There was no stupidity in this sport. Sure, some of them may have barely finished high school, but to excel in this game, they needed that elusive factor—the ability to read plays, know exactly where to be, and communicate nonverbally.
I scrambled off the bed, stuffed my feet into a pair of sneakers, and dashed outside to my car, still dented from my initial run-in with Ryder.
Maybe it was time to upgrade from a Prius anyway. If I went no-contact with my parents, using the trust fund Dad gave me might not feel so terrible. It wouldn’t beabout benefiting from the relationship but taking what I was owed after everything he’d done to us.
First-world problems—trust funds and teaching hockey players to dance.
I shook my head as I turned out of Teddy’s neighborhood and headed toward the Bay Bridge. Traffic was mostly at a standstill, inching forward painfully slowly. By the time I reached the rink, nearly an hour had passed.
When I walked onto the ice, they were all waiting for me. Red-faced and drenched in sweat, they’d clearly stripped out of their pads after practice, leaving only thin workout shirts that clung to every ridge, every... bulge. Of their chests, obviously.
Lord help me. Ten of them, each beautiful in their own way.
Ryder smirked as I stepped onto the ice. I’d never been a great skater, so I opted to walk in sneakers.
“Something wrong, Sydney?” he asked.
Snapping out of my trance, I shook my head. “No.”
“Because you’re staring.”
It was nearly impossible to rip my gaze away from his soaked shirt and that wicked curve of his lips.
The player to his right, a giant with a thick black beard and arms I doubted I could wrap both hands around, ran a hand down his chest.
Another stretched, raising his arms high above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin.
“For fuck’s sake,” Teddy groaned. “Jules, put your fucking arms down. Vasiliev, stop leering at my sister. Yes, she probably finds you impossible to resist, but right now, I find you both impossible not to hit.” He scowled at Ryder. “And you can shove that damn smirk up your ass.”
Rowan chuckled.
Teddy shot him a glare.
He laughed harder.
