Ryker

  The knife drops from his grasp as he sags to the floor. I let him go and watch as his hands scrabble at his throat, as if that's going to help give him oxygen. He goes to his knees, one hand on the floor, the other at his throat while he tries to suck air in. He still has good color in his face, which means he must be getting a little oxygen, which just won't do at all.

  Not at all.

  I draw my leg back and kick his ribs, feeling the satisfying crunch. If I'm lucky, a rib will pierce the lung and he'll suffocate in no time at all. He grunts, flips over onto his back, and his eyes roll into the back of his head. His chest moves shallowly, which is too much movement in my opinion and I pull my leg back for another kick.

  A soft hand on my arm and Gray says, "Don't."

  I drop my foot to the floor and turn to look at her. She smiles at me in gratitude and then walks into my arms. My fury immediately dies and I pull her in close to me, one arm around her waist, the other wrapping securely around her upper back. She puts her cheek on my chest and murmurs, "I knew you'd save me."

  My legs almost buckle as I realize just how close I came to maybe not making it in time. Just how close I may have come to losing her.

  "I saw blood on the porch," I say, and she pulls back from me, pressing her fingers gingerly to the back of her head. She winces, and when her hand clears free, I see red staining it.

  Spinning her around, I gently pull her hair away. "You got a pretty nasty gash. It's going to need stitches."

  The wail of sirens in the distance has me on alert again and I quickly turn back to Claude. His chest is moving and his eyes are closed. I don't know if he's dying or just unconscious and I don't care. The police can take care of him while I take care of Gray.

  I turn back to her. "I think we should call your father. This is going to hit the media pretty quickly."

  She nods with a grimace. "I know. He'll figure out a way to contain it."

  --

  "All right," the police officer says. "I think that's all. If I need anything more, I'll be in contact, Mr. Evans."

  "Okay, thanks," I say before turning around to look for Gray. Her front yard has turned into a three-ring circus. The sun has set but everything is aglow with flashing lights from four police cars and an ambulance.

  Another ambulance has already left, carting Claude to the hospital. The police officer that took my statement told me that it didn't look like the damage was too bad--pity--and that they had to take him as a precaution to have him checked out.

  Brian Brannon stands in the middle of the yard, talking to two police officers. A few neighbors are loitering.

  And there's Gray...sitting on her front porch step with a large white bandage around her head and her arm in a sling. As I walk toward her, I notice an EMT closing the back doors of the other ambulance and then it's pulling away.

  "Why aren't you in that ambulance, Miss Brannon?" I say with a smile.

  "Dad will take me to the hospital. The ambulance just seems...a little dramatic, don't you think?"

  I shake my head, smiling as I walk up the two steps and sit down beside her. "Yeah. You've had a little too much drama today."

  Reaching over, I take her hand. I wait to see if she'll pull away, as this is our first true display of public affection, and her father is standing ten feet away. He actually looks over at us, eyes dropping to our clasped hands, and with a neutral expression turns back to listen to whatever the cops are telling him.

  Gray and I just sit there and watch.

  Cops come in and out of her house, walking around us on the porch steps. Brian Brannon makes about a dozen phone calls.

  And Gray and I just sit there and hold hands.

  When a news van pulls up, Gray gives my hand a squeeze and I know what that means. Time to part ways.

  I stand up from the porch along with her, and we walk down toward her father. When Brian turns toward us, he doesn't spare me a glance but looks at Gray. "You ready to head to the hospital?"

  "Yes," she says, but then gives a pointed look at the news van. "But what kind of damage control do we need to do?"

  "Damage control?" her father asks sarcastically, but I hear a tone of teasing. "You mean the fact that a player you fired came to your house and assaulted you at knifepoint, only to have you saved by your secret boyfriend who also is a player?"

  I wince because damn...that needs some damage control.

  Brian looks between the two of us. "How long has this been going on?"

  Gray doesn't touch me but she does take a step closer. She's presenting a united front. "Three months."

  "And you--what?" Brian asks with a cocked eyebrow at me. "Just thought you could keep it secret?"

  "We thought it best for Gray's career not to rock the boat," I tell him truthfully.

  He gives me a nod of gratitude and then sifts his fingers through his silvered hair. "Look, I'm going to give a statement to the news and basically tell them what happened. Except I'm going to tell them Ryker was coming by Gray's house to work on a charity campaign. I'll say I was set to be here at this meeting too, and that should quell any questions as to why Ryker saved the day."

  "I don't think that's necessary," I say as I cut a quick glance at the reporter standing outside the van. "I made a decision today. I'm going to announce my retirement after this season. That removes any conflict for Gray and me to be together, so why don't we just come out with it?"

  "Don't you dare," Gray hisses at me, and my gaze snaps to her. "You are not going to announce your retirement. The way you're playing, you can score a lucrative deal next season, if not with our team, definitely another."

  "She's right," Brian says. "You've got a lot of play left in you. I don't think you should let your career go just yet."

  "With all due respect, sir," I say, and then turn my gaze to Gray. "I don't give a shit about my career. I love you and this lets us be together."

  Gray's eyes soften and she smiles at me. I'm itching to grab her...kiss her...show that reporter standing over there what she means to me. But she shakes her head and her voice is gentle. "Ryker, please don't make a decision like that until we can talk about it further. Let my dad smooth this over for right now. Let's get pass this mess, and then we can decide what to do when our emotions aren't so high."

  "But--"

  "I love you too," she murmurs. Her eyes slide over to her dad. "I love him and we're going to figure this out, but for right now...do what you have to do so we minimize the impact with the media."

  Brian Brannon looks at his daughter a moment, then turns a shrewd gaze toward me. He's sizing me up and I can see the wheels turning in his head. But he ultimately gives her an acquiescent nod.

  She looks at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.

  "Fine," I grumble. "We'll keep it secret for a bit longer."

  "And...?" she prompts me.

  "And I won't announce my retirement," I add like a little schoolboy.

  "Thank you," she says softly. "Let me go get my purse and I'll be ready to go to the hospital."

  "I'll follow in my car," I tell her.

  "No, you can't come," Brian Brannon says, and my protective instincts over Gray kick in.

  I'm not really caring at this moment whether he's the owner of this team or the father of my girlfriend. "Like fuck I can't."

  Brian narrows his eyes and steps in toward me. His voice is low, authoritative. "I appreciate your concern for my daughter, but I'm not going to come up with some glossy lie to protect you and Gray, just to have you ruin it by coming to the hospital. It's too personal. A player wouldn't do that."

  "I could say--"

  Gray touches my arm. "He's right, Ryker. It would look suspicious, but I'll be fine. It's just a few stitches to my head."

  My gaze drops to her splinted wrist. "And a broken arm."

  She shakes her head. "I don't think it's broken. Just badly sprained."

  "Are you lying to me?" I ask her.

  "Yes," she says with a smile. "But please...f
or me. Just go home and my dad will take good care of me. I'll call you later."

  Gray stares at me, eyes pleading for me to let it go. For me to push her and our relationship back into the closet. My shoulders sag and I nod my head. "Fine. But will you stay with your father tonight?"

  "Of course," she says with a smile. "Now I'm going inside to get my purse. Let's just pretend I'm giving you a kiss right now, okay?"

  I can't help but smile at her. "Okay."

  Brian and I watch as Gray disappears into the house. The silence becomes awkward but I refuse to budge. I want to at least see her off.

  "Why would you give up your career?" Brian asks me out of the blue.

  I turn to look at him. "Pardon?"

  "Why would you retire? Best goalie in the league. A decorated league veteran. You can all but name your price next year and that doesn't even include the endorsements that would come your way. You'll be passing up millions and I want to know why."

  "I thought it was obvious," I chide.

  He waves an impatient hand. "Yeah...I heard your declaration of love. But that still doesn't answer my question. It seems I heard my daughter say she loves you too. Why isn't she the one giving up her career?"

  My jaw sort of drops and I know I look like an idiot as I stare at him in astonishment. "You seriously can't think that's a valid option."

  Brian shrugs his shoulders. "Why not? If we're all about equality, why are you the one giving up your career? Why shouldn't she?"

  I think about this for a moment. It's a good question, I guess. Not one I really considered, but on its face, who's to say whose career is more important? Mine or hers? One option is fair to one while being unfair to the other. Someone is going to suffer. Why is it me and not her?

  "Because she deserves it more," I tell Brian, knowing that's the right answer.

  He merely cocks his head in curiosity.

  "She's making history," I explain. "Important history for women, showing the world there aren't any gender barriers in this sport. I have two daughters, so I think you understand me when I say this is very important to me personally. This is important history for the Cold Fury. She's offering a new business model that could help to create an indestructible championship team. I'm just a hot goalie. One who's had his chance to make his mark on history. I've reached all my goals and Gray is just starting to seek hers out. She not only deserves this chance more than me, but this team deserves her vision more than they need me."

  I will look back on this moment and pinpoint it as the exact time when Brian Brannon became Ryker Evans's number-one supporter for his daughter. I can see the pride and respect in his eyes from my answer. And relief. Relief in knowing his daughter now has someone who will put her first and who will take care of her the way he has all his life.

  He reaches a hand out to me and I take it.

  As we shake hands, his voice quakes. "Thank you for saving my daughter's life. I'll never be able to repay you, but trust me...I'll be searching hard for a way."

  I release his hand and see Gray coming down the porch steps. Beautiful Gray with her head bandaged and her arm splinted. Telling a knife-wielding man to go fuck himself. Without taking my eyes off her, I tell him, "No need to thank me. Saving her was as much for me as it was for anyone."

  Chapter 28

  Gray

  The fact that we're winning makes this easier.

  It makes it easier because this is going to distract Ryker, and we have enough of a lead with under three minutes to go that if he lets a puck or two dribble in, they still can't catch us. The score is 6-2, and even if this does distract Ryker, he's so freaking great under pressure that this might enhance his skills.

  My palms sweat as my I make my way down the arena steps as the game rages on down below me. Closer and closer I get to the ice, until I'm at the very first row, right behind the net.

  Ryker's back is to me, of course, and the jersey that I'm wearing right now is identical to his.

  Black with the silver Cold Fury tornado on the front. The number 28 on the back.

  I have a hat on because I don't want to be recognized.

  Yet.

  The poster board I have in my hand is rolled up and secured with a rubber band. I make my way into the row, to the lone seat that's right in the middle, directly behind the net. It's been empty the entire game, as I've been in the owner's box watching. I've been watching the clock ticking down more than the action, so very ready to get this over with.

  The past two days have been a little surreal. My father took me to the hospital, where I received twelve stitches to the back of my head and the good news that my arm was not broken. It's in nothing more than an Ace bandage, which only seems to make it hot and sweaty.

  We made it back to my dad's house just before midnight, where I called Ryker and we talked for a few minutes. He told me the eleven o'clock news had the story of the attack, but that the details were surprisingly minimal. Only that Gray Brannon had been attacked in her home and received minor injuries, and that the assailant was in custody.

  The next morning, however, the real story--well, sort of the real story--hit the news early. The story had been fleshed out and it was now revealed that Gray Brannon had been attacked by Claude Amedee, a former player who had just been released. The reports were fuzzy, but it appeared she had been scheduled to have a meeting with her father and veteran goalie Ryker Evans to discuss a new charity campaign, and that Evans happened to show up fortuitously and stop the attack. He was being lauded as a hero, and there was not one hint that Ryker Evans and Gray Brannon were involved personally.

  My father was a miracle worker.

  That day, Tuesday, was incredibly busy and insane at the offices. We had to talk to the police again, field calls from other team managers, make sure this spectacle didn't put a hold on the other trade deals, and of course deal with the public media frenzy over it. I gave a small press conference Tuesday afternoon whereby I spent all of ten seconds assuring the public I was fine and back to work, and then talked for the next ten minutes about our playoff hopes. I minimized Claude's attack and put the attention back on our hockey team.

  All was right in the arena of public opinion.

  Ryker stayed relatively low key on Tuesday. We texted back and forth a few times checking in with each other, but per my dad's request, we didn't want to do anything that would put the attention on the two of us. This didn't sit well with me. I had been bugged mightily over the fact that Ryker was just so ready to give up his career so we could be together. At first, I thought it was an incredibly rash decision and wondered how he could do something like that for a woman he'd only been with for three months.

  But then I thought about everything I knew about Ryker. His dedication and loyalty. The way he loves deeply and surely. His joy and the way he just masters his life as if it's effortless. He has such confidence in himself and doesn't waste time on second-guesses once he's given something careful consideration.

  He has practically every character trait that I aspire to have, and I realize he's actually my role model. He's my lover, but he's also my role model.

  My father told me as we sat in the hospital what Ryker told him. About why he would give up his career.

  That I deserved my chance more than he did.

  It's something that I might have agreed with him on just a few days ago. But when I saw the way Ryker saved me, protected me, was willing to give up his life to fight a knife-wielding maniac, it made me realize I didn't deserve that chance more than he did.

  It made me realize I just had to work harder to find a way that we could both have what we want, and if I couldn't, then I was prepared to give up everything up for him. I just knew in my gut that it was the right thing to do.

  My father and I talked long into wee hours of the next morning. The next night, we talked some more. We discussed the future and my goals. We've had those talks before, but they always focused on education, business, hockey, and career decisions. Now I was th
inking about love and relationships and children, and my dad actually liked that.

  It was weird...and yet, not weird.

  My father helped me seek clarity, and by Wednesday morning we figured out what needed to be done.

  "We" figured it out, because I would not be sitting here in this middle row right behind the goalie net if it wasn't for my father and his brilliance.

  Now, I have no clue if this is going to work. If both Ryker and I will get all that we want, and hopefully more. But if it doesn't, the worst that will happen is I'll lose my job. The best that will happen in any scenario is that I will have Ryker.

  And then my moment is upon me. It's put up or shut up.

  The red light goes on in the official booth between the penalty boxes indicating a TV timeout. This gives me two unfettered minutes to get my message across.

  I take off my hat, shake my head, and fluff my hair a bit. I pull the rubber band off my poster board and unroll it. I stand up from my seat and step up to the glass, right behind the goalie net.

  Ryker is doing what he always does during a TV timeout. It's a testament to how hungrily I watch him during a game, knowing all of his little patterns and rituals. He'll skate a few small figure eights in front of the net, his head bowed and tapping his stick against his leg. He's taking a moment to mentally prepare for the next round of action.

  But then he does exactly what I expect him to do. He goes for a sip of water, which has him turning for his net, atop which the water bottle sits. I raise the sign high above my head, press it to the glass, and watch him. I wait for him to make that inevitable scan of the crowd behind the net, maybe looking for a little kid so he can come up to the glass and give him a fist bump.

  He raises his head, arm outstretched for the bottle, and his eyes come right to mine. I can't see much of his face behind the cage of his mask, but I can see those eyes laser right on to me. Then I see them slide slowly up and he reads the sign.

  It's kind of dorky, but it gets the message across.

  MY NAME IS GRAY BRANNON.