Page 19 of The Christmas You Crash

A little thrill goes through me. Is Ryder talking about me? No, surely not. And I don’t want him to be. All of this is complicated enough. I don’t need to add in some stupid secret hope that Ryder has any feelings or regard for me. Because I don’t have any for him. At least, not outside of base physical attraction, and I challenge anyone who likes mennotto be attracted to Ryder Hanson.

But that’s all this is. And that’s all it ever will be.

“Well.” Dad blows out a breath. The sound is fuzzy over the phone. “Have a good week. Feel free to stop by on Christmas if you change your mind. Stay safe, son.”

“Thanks, Coach. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

The line goes silent, as does the cabin. It’s heavier than the snow-covered silence outside. Though the cold of this one is more oppressive, and it freezes my heart straight through.

ten

RYDER

Lexi Cross hasn’t movedfor almost a minute. She’s just standing in front of the coffee machine, watching it. Except she hasn’t pressed the start button. And I’m sitting here on the couch, staring at her like an idiot.

She’s upset, that much is clear. After the way Coach brushed off my question about her, I can’t say I blame her. Some of her comments when we first met repeat in my head. I wondered why she didn’t seem close to her dad—he’s a great coach and mostly a solid guy—and I just couldn’t wrap my head around choosing to spend Christmas away from my family. But my mom was an angel, and my dad was always present and interested in my life. He showed up, cheered me on, and always did his best to meet me where I was at.

I’m not so sure Coach does the same with Lexi. The way he brushed aside her absence this week like it was no big deal… But maybe he’s simply hiding his true feelings about all of it. It’s not like I’d expect him to open up and tell me how much he misses her. That’s not something a coach would share with one of his rookie players, right?

Still, I didn’t miss the way Lexi shrank in on herself with every new word he spoke. I’m surprised by how much I hate it. Sure, Lexi’s a little prickly and she’s definitely got her quirks, but she has a fire I can’t help but admire. Hell, even when she thought I was an axe murderer, she stood her ground, squared her shoulders, and let me have it. She’s a fighter. Which begs the question, how many times has she lost the battle for her dad’s affection? Because this—the stooped shoulders and the slight shake of her hands—isn’t the posture of a fighter. It’s the posture of someone who has accepted defeat.

After a few more silent moments, I rise quietly from my spot on the couch and make my way into the kitchen. I have no clue what I’m doing. Am I planning to pull her into a hug? Give her a friendly punch on the shoulder and tell her everything will work out? I’ve learned better than most that’s not guaranteed.

What I do know is that Lexi Cross and I are going to be stuck in this cabin together for days—maybe longer—and despite my arrival throwing a six-foot wrench into her plans, she’s been gracious to me. Annoyed, sure, but gracious. Hell, she’s shared her food without uttering a single complaint. And I know she didn’t plan on feeding two people for a week. I’m an interloper. But outside of being happy to push me out the door before my car got stuck, she hasn’t treated me like one. I’d say kudos to Coach for raising her right, but I’m thinking he doesn’t have much to do with the woman she is today.

“Are you okay?” My hands twitch at my sides as I stop a foot behind Lexi. I want to pull her into a hug, but I don’t think she’d appreciate that.

There’s a sharp intake of breath and I watch Lexi inflate. Her spine straightens, her shoulders pull back, and her hands leave the counter and drop to her sides. She spins around with a painfully fake smile plastered to her too-pale face.

“Totally. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oh, I don’t know. Because you just heard your father refer to you asthat oneand admit he doesn’t worry about you?

Despite the fake-ass smile, Lexi can’t make eye contact with me, and I don’t miss the way her lower lip quivers ever so slightly.

“Lex…”

“So,” she says, cutting me off in a too-cheerful voice, “what should we make for dinner? I brought stuff to make chicken cacciatore. Or hamburger stroganoff. Both are some of my favorite cold-weather comfort foods from when I was a kid. What are you more in the mood for? Chicken or beef?”

I open my mouth again to check on her, but she practically runs away from me and buries her head in the fridge, as if she needs a reminder of what ingredients she brought. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about any of this. And why would she? I’m a stranger and the guy her dad seems to have taken under his wing. In her shoes, I probably wouldn’t want to talk to me, either.

Sighing, I hold myself back from overstepping her boundaries. “Beef, I guess. But both sound great. Can I help you?”

“Sure.” She’s entirely too chipper. “Can you grab a few things from the pantry? I’ll need some cream of mushroom soup, a box of rotini noodles, and garlic powder. Oh, and two cans of sliced mushrooms.” She flashes me a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “I hope you like mushrooms because that’s my favorite part.”

Even if I hated mushrooms, I’d never tell her. Not when that smile on her face is damn so brittle.

“Love mushrooms. I’ll grab that stuff, then you can put me to work.”

“This is really good,”I say for the third time. Anything to break up this god-awful silence.

One corner of Lexi’s lips twitch. At least she’s finding some small measure of amusement in my awkward attempts to bridge this chasm that’s opened between us.

For better or for worse, we’re stuck here together with no buffers, except for Lexi’s books, my sports magazines, which I’ve already read, the internet, and the television. I suspect Lexi is perfectly capable of sitting in silence and reading through every single one of those books she brought, but I’m going out of my mind.

Ever since my dad died, I’ve tried my hardest not to be alone. I spend most of my time with the guys on my team. But when I’m not with them, I’m out at a sports bar or coffee shop, where at least I’m surrounded by people, even if I don’t know them. It’s a compulsion—my need to fill the silence. When I don’t, I’m left with my thoughts, and that can be a dark and lonely place.

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