Page 195 of Pucking Wild

“Ryan…baby, can you read?”

“Of course, I can fucking read. I’m not an idiot, Tess.”

“Okay…then read it out to me. Read the first line. Just the first one.”

He groans, looking around hopelessly before he flashes the camera light over at me. “Is…do you spell your name T-E-R-E-S-A?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Yes, that’s Teresa.”

His eyes narrow at me. “Teresa?”

“That’s my name, Ryan. My legal name is Teresa. Is that the first name listed?”

“Yeah.”

Oh, shit. Troy, what the hell did you do?

“And…do you see R-Y-A-N—”

“I know how to spell my own name.”

“Okay,” I say, as gently as possible.

“But this font is—fuck, he did it on purpose. He made the font so fucking small. He shrunk it down so I can’t read it. The letters—they all blur together.” He looks down at the page again. Then he looks back up at me, his expression anguished. “If I have time, if—I just need to take some time, and I can usually work it out, you know?”

I just nod. “I know, baby.”

He shakes the papers in the air. “But that fucking monster knew! He served me this and told me I’ll go to fucking jail over it, and I couldn’t even argue with him because he knows I can’t—” His words stop as he drops the papers to his side. Looking out at the dark surf, he just shakes his head, battered and helpless.

Weeks of missed clues suddenly align themselves in my mind, and I feel like the biggest fool. How did I not see it? How did he hide it from me so well? At the same time, my hatred for Troy grows exponentially. Somehow, he dug deep enough into Ryan’s private life to learn this about him, and then he found a way to weaponize it. It’s truly the most base, demeaning form of cruelty. I could kill him for it.

And it makes me love Ryan even more. He’s strong. He copes. More than that, he thrives. My sweet beach puppy, my valiant protector. God, he’s justmine. I need to bring him back to me.

“Ryan, honey, are you dyslexic?”

His gaze darts to me and he glares, his walls firmly up. For once in our relationship, he’s the one feeling backed into a corner.

“It’s okay if you are,” I say. “And I’m not angry at you for hiding it from me. I just need to know.” I point to the documents in his hand. “If Troy gave you that, we need to be able to read it, so we know what we’re dealing with, okay? So…are you?”

Slowly, Ryan nods. “Yeah.”

“How bad is it?”

“Severe,” he admits. “I have dyslexia and dysgraphia. Most days it’s so bad I can hardly read anything. My spelling is worse. It’s…fuck, it’s exhausting. And embarrassing,” he adds.

I close the space between us, looking up at my handsome hockey boy. The knot of his tie is loosened, the top button undone. His hair is no longer slicked back behind his ears. In his anxiety, he’s been fiddling with it. And now the wind from the coming storm whips some of the loose blond strands across his brow.

In his body, I see the man, powerful and strong. Millionaire NHL hotshot Ryan Langley, star forward of the Jacksonville Rays. But in his pretty green eyes I see the boy, lost and embarrassed and coping in a world that has been unkind.

“The oven,” I whisper. “Bake and broil. You—”

“The font on those dials is always so damn small,” he says. “And I was in a rush and the words look the same. That’s why I don’t cook. I can never follow the stupid instructions. I always mess it up. I mess everything up.”

I nod, more pieces clicking into place. “And the voice memos?”

“Easier than texting.”

“Your contracts…your finances…”

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