Page 55 of The Right Move

RYAN

“We had too many turnovers in the third and we couldn’t recover. That’s something we’re going to work on in practice this week.”

At least thirty hands shoot up, but I can barely make out the reporters’ faces thanks to the blinding camera lights.

“That’s enough questions for tonight,” our media coordinator announces in the post-game press conference.

I stand, fixing my suit and offering my most diplomatic wave and smile after making sure my answers were perfectly poised for the media. “Thank you, everyone.”

The buzz of chatter is behind me as I make my way back down the tunnel to the locker room. The rest of the team is gone. Only Coach and I had to stay back to be drilled with questions about why we played like shit on our home court. I had my worst game of the season and since I lead my team with the way I play, we collectively played like garbage.

I’d like to say my lack of focus was a random one-off, but the truth is, I know where my head was tonight.

It was stuck on my roommate who I was texting with pregame when she dropped the bomb that she was driving rideshares tonight. She was stoked it was going to be busy thanks to the drives to and from the arena. However, all I could think about is her being stuck in her car with strangers. Doesn’t she realize how potentially dangerous that could be? Doesn’t she understand how drunk some of these fans are after a game?

Worse than that, she hasn’t texted me back since I got to my phone.

“Ry.”

My zoned-out daze is broken to find Zanders casually leaning on the wall outside my locker room, one leg crossed over the other.

“Hey, man. Were you here for the game? I thought Stevie said you were out of town for some sponsorship deal.”

“Just landed and headed here.”

I push the door open. “Want to come into my locker room?”

“You mean my locker room?” He wears a smug smile.

“Not until tomorrow night.”

The Raptors and the Devils share the United Center, so on nights where I’m not playing, there’s a good chance you could find my sister’s boyfriend on the ice.

“Are you picking up Stevie or what?”

Zanders takes a seat in one of the locker stalls as I collect my phone, wallet, and keys, still frustrated from the lack of Indy on my phone.

“No, she’s home already, and doesn’t know I’m here. I wasn’t sure if Indy was at your place, and I was hoping to talk to you alone.”

Well, that catches my attention. I turn around to find Zanders’ expression completely serious, an uncommon occurrence for the defenseman.

“Everything okay?” I take a seat in my stall, elbows on my knees.

“I wasn’t at a sponsorship deal. I was in Nashville.”

Stevie’s and my hometown.

“To talk to your dad.”

Oh. Oh shit.

“Do you remember the night we met, and I told you I wasn’t going to ask for permission to date your sister?”

I attempt to hold back the slight tug on my lips remembering the charity gala where I formally met the arrogant hockey player. Going into that night, I hated him. He was a walking stereotype, but here we are, almost a year later. The guy sitting in the stall across from me is one of my best friends and loves my sister in the way she deserves.

“I’m all for Stevie making her own decisions, so again, I’m not going to ask your permission, but this time, I do care how you feel.”

“Zee, you’re being sappy as fuck about this,” I laugh. “Spit it out.”

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