Page 71 of The Christmas You Crash

We're sitting in a booth at this cute little breakfast place I never knew existed, and we're getting quite a few furtive glances. It's probably all in my head, but I can't help worrying thatsomeone will recognize Ryder, take a picture of the two of us together, and that photo will somehow make its way into my father's hands.

"Relax," Ryder says, reaching across the table and grabbing my hand. His thumb rubs little circles over my skin. "Why do you look like you're freaking out?"

Probably because I am?

"I just...people keep looking at us."

Ryder makes a surreptitious sweep of the room with his eyes and shrugs. "They're probably wondering what a gorgeous woman like you is doing out with a big oaf like me."

"Riiiiight," I drawl. But he's accomplished what he wanted, because I can't stop the grin that overtakes my face. He matches my expression, and those stunning, icy-blue eyes of his crinkle at the corners. "Because you're so unattractive."

Every straight woman in this place checked Ryder out when we walked in. And likely some of the non-straight women too. Everyone can appreciate a beautiful specimen like Ryder Hanson. Objectively speaking, he's near perfection. Tall, muscular, with a strong jaw, a straight nose that he's somehow never broken in all his years playing hockey, and a smile that could melt the frozen panties off an actual ice queen.

I don't blame them for looking, and I certainly don't blame them for appreciating him, but that doesn't mean I particularly like the attention he's getting. Nor do I appreciate the hollow pang of jealousy that clangs in my chest.

But Ryder, bless him, hasn't seemed to notice anyone but me. Even when our server comes by and offers him a flirtatious smile, he simply rattles off his order with barely a glance in her direction. He only has eyes for me.

The problem is that it's not only the women who are doing double takes when they notice my handsome date.

"I think that guy recognizes you," I whisper to Ryder when the man sitting a few booths down with his wife pulls out his phone, leans in close to her, and points at Ryder.

"Maybe. I come here a lot, and some of the staff know who I am. But I don't get recognized very often. Not like Maddox or those guys. I'm still a rookie." Ryder shrugs before taking a sip of his coffee. "I'm not sure I really have fans."

He does, actually. I know because I stalked him on social media that first night we were stuck together in the cabin. His profile was completely clean. No pictures of half-naked women, no drunken videos, nothing even slightly scandalous. Just photos of Ryder working out, photos of him on the ice, and a few videos of his most impressive plays.

It's the fan sites and the hashtags that are scandalous. Ryder's a good-looking man. And the women of Minnesota have noticed. They salivate over shirtless photos, speculate about the size of his dick, and discuss—in raunchy, utterly inappropriate detail—all the things they want to do to him. I felt dirty just reading a few of those comments.

I'm not sure if Ryder is unaware of his female fanbase, or if he's choosing not to mention them, but either way, it's adorable. Plenty of guys in his position would crow like roosters about all the women who want him.

He's down to earth. And even though he doesn't seem put off by the occasional recognition by fans, he also doesn't seek it out.

"So, when do you find out if you're cleared to play?" I ask him once our server drops off our breakfast. I have mixed feelings about Ryder's hand healing. Obviously, I want him to get better quickly, but getting better means getting the go-ahead to play, and then he'll be back on the road. Getting snowed in was its own kind of bubble, but Ryder's injury is another.

I know how demanding an NHL schedule is. Not only watching the effect it had on my parents' marriage, but alsoexperiencing the effect it had on me. Relationships where one person is constantly on the road are difficult. They take commitment and work, not to mention a massive degree of trust and understanding. I'm getting to know Ryder in the middle of the season, but with the rare opportunity to have uninterrupted time together.

Who knows how things will go when he's back on the road?

Ryder flexes his injured hand, staring down at the stitches that cut a gruesome path down his palm. "Not sure yet. I'm supposed to see the doc tomorrow, but I'll probably be out for another week at least."

He misses being on the ice, something that is obvious from his tone. And I think, being a rookie and all, he still doesn't feel like his spot is secure. I'm sure he's itching to get back in the game.

"Do you miss it? It must be frustrating to be benched."

"Yeah." He blows out a breath before shoveling a massive bite of eggs into his mouth. He considers his next words while chewing. "I was having a great start to the season before Chase pulled that shit. I felt like I was making a name for myself on the Rogues, you know?"

I do. I grew up on hockey. Loved it for a long time. Until things with my dad soured it for me. But I still follow along occasionally. Not religiously, or anything, but I keep up with the team's wins and losses. And, even though I didn't recognize Ryder when we first met, and I thought he was a serial killer, I've heard a few people talk about the rookie who has the potential to become a powerhouse star.

"I'm sure you'll pick right back up where you left off," I reassure him.

Ryder stares at me over the rim of his coffee mug. "I sure hope so, OTG."

We fall silent, both of us taking a few bites of food. I consider asking Ryder about Chase. He said they were best friends in college and played on the same team, then had a random falling out, but there must be more to the story. I open my mouth to ask him when a throat clears beside us.

"Um, excuse me. I don't want to be rude, and interrupting your breakfast is practically the definition of rude..." The man from a few tables over who'd been pointing at Ryder shifts his weight from one foot to the other while staring at my date. "But I just have to ask—you're Ryder Hanson, right?"

Ryder glances at me, then smiles at the man. "Yeah, that's me."

The middle-aged man claps and does a little shimmy shake with his hips like a teenage girl who's just found out that the boy she's crushing on likes her back. "I told my wife, but she didn't believe me." He glances back at his table. "See, Sheila? I was right."

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