Page 1 of Ryder: Shadows and Desires
J U L I E
* * *
They always say notto meet your heroes but never anything about your celebrity crush. Or the protocol if one is unlucky enough to spill coffee on them—let alone how to recover if it’salsothe first encounter.
I observe how the stain—thank goodness it’s lukewarm—spreads on the white sleeveless undershirt of a legendary MMA fighter. My reaction is less than impressive: open-mouthed, palms sweating, staring wide-eyed.
That man isJoey Ryder.
I gawk at the renowned face that my brother would have dropped everything to greet, even if it was a fluffy puppy. Hell, Jeremy might’ve chucked the damn dog to shake the hands of this man.
“Oh wow. I am so incredibly sorry,” I blurt out. “I just—you’re Joey Ryder.”
Andrew, the head coach of the gym, stands next to Ryder as he painfully says, “Great welcome, Stevens. Really sells the gym.”
Well, what does Andrew expect? This man istheacclaimed icon that disappeared over the past three years. His name used to rest on the tongue of anyone following the sport until he was justgone. People could only offer empty guesses as to what happened. Even his old fighting coach went into a quiet retirement.
And now Ryder ishere.
I rub my eyes as if it’ll help me see him better, but it’s him, alright. He’s dressed like a fighter in sweats and an unzipped hoodie, a stained shirt underneath. Even through the thick fabric, his shoulders are pronounced.
He holds his arms out in surprise. He’ll be smelling like espresso and caramel syrup for the rest of the day.
Ryder looks down at himself with an expression that he built a brand on—a rigid, enduring glare. There’s something about his hooded lids—along with the permanent angry shape of his eyebrows—that gives him a certainlook.
My heart pounds like I finished running five miles, still trying to understand why Ryder miraculously appeared in our small-town gym like Andrew summoned him from a genie bottle.
“I’mreallysorry,” I plead, trying to refocus. “Let me get a towel.”
Andrew swiftly interjects, “I have some in my office.”
It’s so quiet in the gym that I can hear the lyrics of the song playing. The men huddle, staring at Ryder like he’s a celebrity in one’s local hair salon.
Ryder raises a brow to intensify those stern blue eyes. He looks like he’s filtering through what to say until he settles on, “Yeah, uh… It’s whatever, man.”
And like a fan that stumbled backstage, I give the weirdest freaking chuckle and continue to say nothing, especially at hearing his gravelly voice in person. There’s so much riding on this first encounter, and I’ve already blown it.
Andrew rocks back and forth on his feet. “Anyway, she’s not normally this broken. Maybe she should take some time off. Right, Stevens? And uh, drink some water instead.”
My head wants to nod, but it goes in many directions as I also want to deny that I’m broken or that I should swap out my coffee for water.
Andrew mutters to Ryder, “So, let’s hope Julie can collect herself. But sheisour sports therapist. We should probably go hammer out some details now that you’ve seen the place.”
Ryder gives me a quick once-over.Get it together, Stevens.My spine stiffens as I gather my frenzied mind. “Yeah, no, seriously, I am just really excited to see you here and kind of shocked. My family used to watch you on the screen years ago. Especially my brother. Welcome to the gym. Aside from spilling coffee on you.”
Slowly biting his broad lower lip, Ryder gives the smallest nod. Andrew guides him away, giving a speech about Rhino MMA.
Little has changed about the fighter since he was last seen, except maybe his pale blue eyes appear to be a little older. Despite being an MMA fighter, his long, slightly wide nose is relatively straight, with only a slight bump in the middle. His square jaw encases everything in a perfect display of an unnecessarily handsome, fierce warrior. He’s still as conversational as always—the man never talked to the press or gave interviews. Jeremy used to say it was all a persona meant to give his opponents only scraps to work with.
Maybe it’s just who he is.
Ryder’s dark brown hair is still short, gel combed through to clean up the front. The blunt end of his bangs hangs just over his hairline.
It’s as if he reappeared right from the screen three years prior.
As the two head to Andrew’s office in the front, a shirtless figure approaches me. It’s Luke Jones, an amateur fighter that’s been really rising in the ranks lately. Sweat glistens on his temples, caution replacing the typical gentle nature of his dark brown eyes. “That was real smooth, Jules.”
“I hate myself,” I mutter.
