“Shut up.”
Wearing an amused smile, I pull the blankets higher over our bodies before wrapping both my arms around her to make sure she can’t get away. With my fingertips, I trace invisible designs over her ribs, memorizing the way she molds against me.
Her breathing slows after some time, but I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink. I can’t recall the last time I shared my bed with a woman, and as sad as it sounds, I don’t want to miss a moment of this.
She inhales deeply. “Ryan?”
“Hmm?”
“Why do you smell like coconut?”
16
INDY
If there’s anything I know how to do it’s to play a part. Whether it be the happy-go-lucky friend or the girlfriend who shines brightly on her partner’s arm but knows when to dim her light for him to excel in front of his peers.
But tonight, I’m playing the point guard’s girl, and I’ve got to admit, it’s my favorite role thus far.
Skin-tight black leather pants, red strappy heels, and an itty-bitty Devils tee create the perfect costume for the act. My hair is in a slicked-back ponytail, and I finished my makeup with a swipe of red across my lips which I’ll chalk up to team spirit and is in no way meant to distract number five.
“Indy, you’ve got the tickets?” Zanders asks as we exit his G-Wagon, and even though he’s not the one playing tonight, he still has the luxury of parking in the players’ lot.
“Yep.” I hold my phone up. “Ryan sent them.”
“Look at us. Going to your fake boyfriend’s game like a happy little family.” Stevie slips her arm through mine, her other hand threaded with Zanders’ as the three of us walk towards the arena. “Ryan’s plan must be working if the Morgans gifted you their courtside tickets.”
“What can I say? I’m quite the actress.”
Zanders gives the older man at the door a hug before leading the way down the long hall that stretches past the locker rooms.
“That’s the visitor’s training room.” Zanders points out as we follow along on his tour. “Visitors’ locker room and home training room. And here”—he stops us in front of one of the two team portraits on the wall—“are the Stanley Cup champs.”
I lean in close to the picture, examining all the guys I work for covered in confetti after their Stanley Cup win. I didn’t get to see the team after they won at home last season so this is a cool insight.
Maddison’s kids are both in the shot with him. Rio’s goofy grin is splitting, and his green eyes are shining as if he maybe shed a few tears. Then there’s Zanders, who seems less arrogant than he typically is.
“Zee, you look kind of sad in this picture.”
“Understatement, Ind. I was devastated. That was one of the best and worst nights of my life.”
He looks down at Stevie, the two of them sharing an understanding smile. They weren’t together when the Raptors won the Cup and from what I understand, Zanders assumed that was the night he lost her for good.
He pulls her in tight as we continue our tour. “Home locker room,” Zanders says and suddenly I’m hyperaware that Ryan is just on the other side of those doors.
The idea of seeing him in the space which he excels most has been consuming me all day. As if I wasn’t already intrigued by him in every other aspect of life, I now have the privilege of watching him be the best at what he does while I sit front row. That’s not going to fan the flame of my attraction or anything.
I woke up with my leg slung around his hips, his grip holding me tight, and his nose buried in my hair. There was a wave of awkwardness as we untangled from each other, but I won’t lie, it was the best night of sleep I’ve had in months.
Skin warm to the touch. Chest bare and broad. Hand overpowering but gentle.
He’s everything I’ve never had in a man before and everything I’m finding myself desperate for, but as soon as we got home this morning, he grabbed his bag and headed to his morning shoot around, entirely refocused on basketball. I haven’t seen him since.
Zanders leads us through the underground tunnels of the arena, where no other fans have access. I guess that’s the kind of perks you get when you’re the alternate captain of the reigning Stanley Cup champs.
And for the first time in days, Alex runs through my mind. It’s quick and unexpected, painful still to think of him because he would’ve loved this. Alex is a huge sports fan, especially of our local Chicago teams, and call it childish or petty, but a sly smile slides across my lips knowing I’m the one that gets to be here and not him.
The arena is deafening as we exit the tunnel on the courtside, partly from fans who are excited for the game, but mostly because Zanders is recognized instantly. Eager supporters bend over the railings, calling his name, cheering, hoping to touch him or get his signature. It’s odd to see this side of it. To me, Zanders and the rest of the Raptors are normal guys I work for, not idols who finally brought a championship back to Chicago.
Even as we find our seats, fans that have courtside access still approach Zanders while the two basketball teams on the court warm up.
“This is crazy,” I whisper to Stevie. “Is it always like this?”
She pops her shoulders. “This is the worst of it. He’ll get recognized out in Chicago, but it’s not with hundreds of fans in one single place like it is here.”
“Does it get tiring for you?”
“Not really. I’d rather they like him so much they want his autograph than enjoy hating him the way they did before. Besides, this is nothing compared to what it’s like when I’m out with Ryan. It’s hard to go most anywhere with him.”
The bucket list hanging on our fridge passes through my mind. How I asked him to make our practice dates public events instead of private the way I know he’d rather. I should amend those when I get home because even I, an extrovert, would be overwhelmed with this kind of attention, let alone someone as isolated as Ryan. It’s no wonder he rarely leaves his apartment unless it’s work related.
Stevie nudges me in the shoulder, gesturing towards the court. “There he is.”
I don’t know how he wasn’t the first person I saw as I exited the tunnel because Ryan commands attention, even in a crowd of 23,000. He’s got a Devils long sleeve on instead of his jersey, a pair of tearaway pants, and he’s by no means the tallest man on the court. However, there’s something about his humble confidence, the way he’s focused that makes it almost impossible for me to look away.
In the same way I saw on my television weeks ago, Ryan secludes himself from the rest of the players, off to the side with two basketballs in his hands. He dribbles them with ease, crosses them over one another, and even as fans scream his name asking for attention, he stays focused on his task.
Much in the way he conducts the rest of his life, Ryan works alone.