Page 29 of Confessions of a Former Puck Bunny

I tossed the block at him. With lightning fast reflexes he caught it midair, adding a wink in my direction.

My stomach relocated to my chest and I forced myself to focus on cooking. Within a few minutes, I had ingredients simmering in a skillet, the spicy aroma filling the air. I added a splash of lime juice and then spooned the mixture onto a flour tortilla.

“Whoa,” I said, when Ryder was still shredding cheese. I put my hand on his to stop the last inch from being fed into the grater. “You were really serious about how much you wanted to shred cheese.”

His gaze met mine. “I never joke about cheese.”

I bit back a smile, but then I went ahead and let it loose. On the bright side, I wouldn’t have to shred cheese for a month. On the brighter side, it gave me an excuse to sorta hold hands with Ryder.

After spreading cheese over the top of my creation, I smooshed another tortilla on top and browned both sides. A few minutes later, Ryder and I sat on my couch to dig into dinner. I subtly studied him, watching to see what he thought of my chicken quesadillas, and how well he handled the jalapeños.

He licked sauce off his thumb and I got lost in the motion for a moment. “Damn, girl, you can cook.”

“Why do you say it like it’s so shocking?”

“I… You just…”

I bumped his shoulder with mine. “Relax. I’m just busting your balls.” He opened his mouth. “And if you say something about your balls now, I’ll actually bust them, and it won’t be funny, I assure you.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” A mischievous glint entered his eyes. “But if Iweregoing to, I’d say thank you from the bottom of my balls.”

A snort-laugh escaped, completely unappealing, but it made Ryder laugh, too. “The peppers aren’t too hot?”

“I’m a fan of hot. I might need half a gallon of water, though.”

I grabbed a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and then returned to the couch. Ryder’s phone rang and he slid it out of his pocket, glanced at the display, and then frowned and shoved it back in.

Politeness made me refrain from asking who could put that kind of scowl on his face, but just barely.

Since he seemed tenser than he had before the mysterious phone call, I took it upon myself to bring back the lighter, joking Ryder. “So, what do you like to do besides…?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The sport that must not be named?” I nodded, and he ran his hand along his jaw. “Is it sad that I don’t really know?”

“Well, you have math.”

His eyebrow arched higher. “Math comes naturally. I don’t consider solving problems a hobby.” He shrugged. “My dad put me in skates and handed me a stick as soon as I could walk, and that’s been the focus for as long as I can remember. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. But it’s always been that, gym time, and more of that.”

“You can say hockey,” I said.

“But then you’ll run away screaming.”

I rolled my eyes and gave his arm a little shove.

He grinned, shoved the last bite of his quesadilla into his mouth, and then wiped his hands together. “I played guitar for a while during high school, and sometimes I thought I might have a future as a rock star.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Not really, but it was a nice escape from the pressure of hockey.”

Despite telling him he could use the H-word, I still flinched a bit. I’d conditioned myself to hate hockey so I wouldn’t slip back into old habits, even if it didn’t always prevent me from backsliding a bit.

Ryder’s expression hardened. “Then of course my dad made me quit, because he thought it was interfering with my time on the ice, even though I only played in my room at night, when I was exhausted and needed to stop thinking about hockey for two fucking seconds. He told me if I wasn’t on the ice, I should be visualizing the next game. He played for the NHL, and he expects me to follow in his footsteps.”

“That explains slapping skates on you so young. Talk about a lot of pressure.” Whitney’s article had detailed the many demands on athletes at the college level, so I knew them, but there was a difference between reading it and seeing the toll it took on a guy I was starting to care about.

He shrugged. “It was, but it did get me to where I am. I always regretted quitting guitar, though, and I told myself I’d never let him take away something I loved again. Which is why when he told me majoring in math as a backup was the same as giving myself permission to fail, I told him I was doing it anyway. It’s the smart move. You never know when your career might be cut short, whether it’s an injury, or a trade, or whatever. Maybe I’ll never use it, and maybe I’ll teach math after I retire from the NHL. Who knows? I’d rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”

“Speaking as someone who’s benefited from your tutelage, I can confidently say you’d be an amazing math teacher if you ever wanted to go that direction. I totally get where you’re coming from, too.” I bit my lip. “While we’re confessing secret career desires and backups, I want to edit novels. That’s why I majored in English, but I minored in journalism, just in case. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the work I do at the newspaper, but it’s not my passion. I want to take a great novel and make it more amazing, and see it all packaged and pretty on a bookshelf.”

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