Page 88 of No Rhyme or Roughing
He left, and as I moved to follow, Sam called me back.
“Sydney.”
I turned, expectant.
“Ryder is… complicated,” she said, her voice quiet.
I sighed, dropping into a chair at the small table. “I know.”
“After what…” She closed her eyes briefly. “After things fell apart between me and him, when I chose Sullivan… It’s not easy for him to let himself care again. I know Ryder as well as I know myself. I love him—not the way I love Sullivan—but he’ll always be family. And I can tell you without a doubt…”
She hesitated, but then her gaze softened. “He’s never looked at me the way I’ve caught him watching you.”
I didn’t knowwhat to make of Sam’s words. Long after I left the kitchen, I wandered the party, untethered. Jameson was busy being fawned over by half the team, including my brother. Ryder was still nowhere to be found.
Rowan eventually sat beside me on the couch and offered me a beer. I declined. He shrugged and saved both for himself. The enigmatic goaltender, who also loved to cook, sometimes seemed out of place among the team—like the only adult in a room full of children—even if he was currently double-fisting beers.
He leaned closer so I could hear him over the music. “I saw him head upstairs.”
I jumped to my feet and pushed through the crowd, making my way to the stairs.
On the top floor, the bathroom door opened, and Jules walked out shirtless.
He hiccupped, then ran a hand down his admittedly beautiful chest. “Hey, Sydney.”
“Um, hi.”
He was objectively gorgeous, but I felt nothing when I looked at him. No desire, no longing.
Jules tried to lean against the wall but missed and stumbled backward through the bathroom doorway. “I’m okay!” he yelled.
Before he could reappear, I slipped into my room and stopped short.
Ryder sat on the end of the bed, head in his hands. He swayed slightly, the only tell that he’d been drinking. I shut the door behind me and approached him cautiously.
He lifted his head, and those eyes locked onto mine. A small smile curved one side of his full lips. “Sydney,” he breathed.
“How much have you had to drink?” I asked.
“Not too much to know. I like you. Drunk or sober. It’s out there.”
“Ry—” I started, but I couldn’t let him go there. I couldn’t let myself fall from the safety of this haze of desire into the uncertainty of actual feelings, even if it was already too late.
He reached for me, tugging me into the space between his legs. “No, your talky time is over.”
That crooked smile appeared again, and I nearly melted. Drunk Ryder wasn’t stoic; he was charming and disarmingly adorable.
His hands moved from my arms to my hips, pulling me closer until he pressed his face against my stomach.
My fingers, as if they had a mind of their own, brushed the hair from his forehead and scratched lightly along his scalp.
He hummed in contentment.
“I really like you, Sydney Valentine.” My shirt muffled his voice. “I think I might even?—”
I bent down suddenly, capturing his lips with mine. It was a cop-out, silencing the words before they could exist in the world.
Ryder couldn’t love me. True love didn’t exist. I was sure of it.
