Page 10 of The Christmas You Crash

I can’t stand the weight of Ryder’s gaze, so I focus on my soup and sandwich. This turn in the conversation has significantly lowered my enjoyment of it. “So, how come you’re not spending Christmas with your family?”

Ryder’s spoon is halfway to his mouth when he goes completely still. Crap. Does he have a poor relationship with his parents like I currently have with mine?

Way to step in it, Lexi.

His gaze goes distant for a few beats as his chest rises and falls slowly. Like he’s taking in deep, measured breaths to calm himself. I’m practically squirming in my chair when he finally says, “Unfortunately, it’s not possible to spend Christmas with my family.” He sets his spoon in his bowl and pushes away from the table, grabbing his now-empty plate and almost-empty bowl, bringing them to the sink. “Are you done? I’ll do the dishes.”

Well. Idefinitelystepped in it, somehow, but I’m not dumb enough to ask any sort of follow-up question after that reaction. “Uh, yeah. I’m done. You don’t have to do the dishes, Ryder. You’re a guest.”

“I pull my own weight,” he replies with his back to me. “I’m sure as hell not going to expect you to wait on me when I’m the one intruding on your vacation.”

I finish my food in uncomfortable silence. Ryder’s movements are jerky as he washes his dishes and the pot and pan, but he’s still careful. I don’t know why my question set him off like that, but I make a mental note not to bring up his familyagain. Once I’m done, I set my dishes in the sink for him to wash. He doesn’t even acknowledge me. It shouldn’t bother me—shouldn’t affect me at all—but my chest tightens at the slight, and I rub my sternum as I busy myself building a fire. Anything to keep from dissecting why even the smallest dismissal from a complete stranger can undo me in spectacular fashion.

Ryder isn’t my dad. He isn’t anyone to me. Plus, he’s clearly upset, which is somehow my fault.

I’ve just ignited the kindling when Ryder’s dull voice makes me pause.

“Thanks again for dinner, Lexi. I’m beat. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to head to bed.”

My chest squeezes tighter. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Good night, Ryder. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Night, Lexi.”

For some reason, I hold my breath as he walks away. Only when his footsteps grow quiet and the softsnickof a door shutting breaks the silence, do I breathe again.

I have the room to myself for the night. That should be a relief, but I can’t seem to muster any excitement about it.

seven

LEXI

I waketo a world filled with white. It’s almost enough to banish the early-dawn darkness. Snow still falls outside the massive wall of windows in the main bedroom. The trees are heavy with it, their branches sagging beneath the weight of the magical fluff, twisting their forms into something otherworldly. It’s also quite cold. Putting a wall of windows in a bedroom like this is gorgeous, but man, can it make getting out of bed in the winter a nearly impossible task. Especially when the floors are gleaming oak wood, with only area rugs to break up the chilly surface.

My phone tells me it’s only six a.m., and I consider going back to sleep. Except, I promised my best friend, Rachel, I’d text her once I got here, and I haven’t. By my best guess, I’ve got two more hours before she FaceTimes me to check for proof of life. I’ll text her. But first, I decide to do a bit of internet stalking to learn about my unexpected cabinmate.

The first thing I check out is Ryder’s Instagram account. You can tell a lot about a professional athlete based on what they post. Are they focused on their sport? Or is every third photoof them drinking and partying? Is there a half-naked woman clinging to them in every frame?

Ryder’s account is surprisingly wholesome. At least, the stuff he posts. I click on a photo of him training at the gym, and holy crap. The women in his comments arethirsty. The clip of Ryder sailing a wrist shot through the five-hole is impressive as hell, but again, the comments are filled with women telling him he can shoot his puck into their goal or commenting on how well he handles his massive stick. It’s cringey as hell, and I wonder how anyone can post crap like that without dying of embarrassment.

The comments lead me down a rabbit hole, and soon, I’m trolling Ryder Hanson social media fan groups and contemplating the life choices that brought me there. I want to unsee some of the gross things people have said about him.

When I can’t stand to read a single additional comment objectifying the man who was nothing but polite to me last night, despite the awkwardness of our situation, I close out of my browser. Still nestled under my blankets, I open my messages app and shoot off a text.

Me

Hey. Sorry I didn’t text last night. I’m here, safe and sound, but there were some complications.

Immediately, the ellipsis that tells me Rachel is responding flashes across the screen. I should have guessed she’d be up already. She has a marketing internship that doesn’t break for Christmas. Knowing my best friend, she’s probably already power walking through downtown Chicago on the more than mile-long hike between her apartment and her work. I don’t know how she does it, but Rachel wakes up at four in the morning five days a week for her internship.

Rach

Thank god you’re all right. I was worried a yeti got you or something. They have those in MN, right? LOL.

Me

Ha ha.

Complications? Spill it, Alexis.

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