AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Ryder's broad shoulders are set, stick in hand as he maneuvers the puck with expertise. My heart stutters, and I lean forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on clasped hands.
I wonder what it might be like to date someone like Ryder Raines. I've seen him out there on social media. No women clinging to his arm, no scandals splashed across the tabloids. Just hockey, friends, and the occasional charity.
However, I don't buy it, not for a second. With a jawline like his and eyes that burn like blue fire, he must have admirers and puck bunnies lined up, each one desperate for even a sliver of his attention. It's hard not to picture them, when I see the reactions firsthand while I’m at work and he’s sitting there withhis friends. I watch the way their gazes linger just a little too long, their laughter pitched to draw his interest.
"Look at him," I whisper, more to myself than to Mimi. "Women probably fall over themselves just to get a smile from him."
"Wouldn't you?" Mimi teases, but her voice is soft.
"Shut up," I chuckle. The truth is, I would, but I don’t really know how to be that kind of girl. The flirty type.
Chapter 2
Ryder Raines
The barbell comes down to my chest, making me grunt. "Three more, Ryder," my teammate and friend, Asher ‘Jet’ Gray, barks out. I push up, exhaling sharply, the burn in my arms a welcome distraction from the hollow feeling that's been gnawing at me.
"Come on, Wolf," Dakota chimes in, slapping my back as I sit up and rack the weights. Another teammate and friend, Dakota ‘Lucky’ Miles, gives a nod of respect, his own set forgotten for a moment.
"Yo, guys," Asher starts, towel-drying his jet-black hair. "Elle and I are having a dinner party at our new place. How abouta month from now?" His green eyes sparkle with the kind of contentment that only comes from being blissfully paired off.
"Congrats on the house, man," I reply. "Sounds great."
"Thanks, she's already making it a home, you know?" He leans against the weight bench. "Just yesterday, she surprised me with this little furball of a puppy. Shit, it just melted my heart."
"Hmph," I mutter, imagining the scene of warmth, laughter, love. Stuff that feels worlds away from my grasp.
"Ryder, you good?" Dakota looks at me with his head tilted. Dakota and our other friend and teammate, Kaleb ‘Viking’ Jensen, are roommates still. Asher lived with us also until he found the little pixie of a woman, Elle, last year.
"Perfect," I lie, standing to grab my water bottle. The cold liquid does little to wash away the longing.
"Bro, you need a girl who can keep up with you," Kaleb jokes, punching my arm lightly.
"Yup." My response is automatic, but inside, there's a voice screaming how much I want that. You know that connection, someone to come home to, someone who gets me.
"Can't be easy," Asher muses, oblivious to my internal struggle.
"Hmph," I scoff for the second time in the same conversation.
The conversation moves on, but I'm stuck, trapped in the realization that beneath all my muscles and tough-guy exterior, I'm just another lonely soul in search of something real.
I rack the weights with a clatter that echoes through the silent gym. Sweat trails down my back, and my muscles burn.
No one's managed to stick around long enough to figure out who Ryder Raines really is. They're all about the tough hockey guy, the stories they've heard—never the man beneath. It's not like I don't have my own... appetites. But it seems my tastes are a bit too unique for the women I meet. They crave the jersey, the fame—I crave a connection that doesn't fade when the lights go out.
"Hey, Wolf," Dakota calls out, tossing me a towel. "It’s that one extra set? I thought we were only doing three."
"Hmph," I grumble again, wiping my face. A part of me wonders if I'm punishing myself with these weights, trying to crush the solitude under sheer physical domination.
"Bro, is that the only thing you can say tonight. What's got you so wound up?"
"Nothing."
I look up into the Charleston Renegades’ empty ice rink beyond the gym's glass wall, and I know the truth. My game has been off—passes not as sharp, shots not as ruthless. It's like there's a fog in my head that no amount of body checks can clear.
"Ryder," Dakota presses, "you're the Captain. We need your head in the game."
"Tell me about it," I mutter, feeling the weight of the 'C' stitched into my jersey even though I'm not wearing it.
