Ryker

  She doesn't make me beg for the answer. "I cared about your fortitude."

  "My fortitude?" I ask, puzzled as shit. No clue what she's talking about.

  "Your stats weren't that much below Max's, but most scouts and front office execs would have chosen him over you ten out of ten times because they only look at those numbers."

  "But you looked at something else?"

  "No, I looked at numbers. It's what I do. But I was analyzing your fortitude. I boiled it down to numbers. Deep numbers, but numbers all the same." She stares at me a moment, satisfied by whatever she sees on my face. She seems to think I'm following her, but I'm not sure I am. "The median save percentage of starting goalies in the league was .912 percent last year. You were right at it and Max was a little better."

  I nod...because that I understand.

  "Your former team, the Boston Eagles, was the most penalized team in the league."

  I nod, because this I also understand.

  "Which means that thirty-five percent more of your saves were in penalized situations when you were facing a five-on-four situation. The Cold Fury is a low-penalty team, meaning Max faced shots with historically better protection from his teammates because most shots were five-on-five situations."

  I blink at her, marveling at why someone would even bother to analyze this data. I blink, marveling that I half understand what she's saying.

  And she's not finished. "In fact, if you filter down the stats and compare apples to apples, that is your quality start statistics compared to Max in only five-on-four scenarios, you blow him out of the water in both goals against and save percentages. That shows fortitude."

  That is when the light goes on and full awareness filters in. "You also recruited Caysen Rinne and Corey Reimer around the same time."

  She nods. "Only after I had you signed did I ink the deals with them. I had to get you first."

  I finally smile with understanding...because I'm sitting here having a conversation with a real, live genius and I'm getting her. A real, live, very fucking hot genius whose tits are getting harder and harder not to look at.

  "Caysen and Corey are heavily penalized players," I say, overly proud that I've figured this out and kept my eyes above chest level.

  Gray nods with excitement. "I'm a big fan of old-time hockey where the goons rule the ice. I want to protect our stars like Crossman and Samuelson better, and that means putting bruisers like Rinne and Reimer out there. Statistics prove time and again that those teams with more zealous enforcers consistently win not only more games, but more playoff games."

  "And apparently I'm a pretty handy goalie to have around in a five-on-four situation."

  "You are fucking right on the money," she says with glee while pointing an exuberant index finger my way.

  I have to say, I'm really impressed. She's a regular Billy Beane, the Oakland A's general manager who made a name for himself using statistical analysis in making personnel decisions. It's not a new concept, but it's not generally employed in professional hockey either. Scouting in our league is done on hunches and even sometimes on whims.

  If Gray Brannon intends to employ this method to build her team, she's going to make history. It could be very good history, or very bad history, but it will be history.

  "I'm presenting at the MIT Sports Analytics Conference at the end of January on using analytics in hockey, particularly in making contract decisions. I expect I'm not going to be a popular person."

  "Because you're going to use industry averages to get your players to strive. You're setting goals for them based on that."

  She nods gravely. "And if they don't meet them, I'll find someone who will."

  I whistle low through my teeth and shake my head, not in disagreement but with an odd level of amusement. When my eyes meet hers, I decide to take her up on her total honesty without repercussions offer. "You are not going to get much support from the team on this."

  Gray stares at me a moment and then does something uncharacteristic for a certified genius and confident businesswoman. She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth and nibbles on it while she stares at me. I can see the wheels grinding in her head as she figures how to best respond to my brutal honesty.

  I watch those perfect white teeth dig down into her pink lip and it makes me think of my teeth biting down into her. I mentally groan and banish the thought. Christ...I think I really need to get laid. It's been a bit of a dry spell since finding out my wife cheated on me and getting sole custody of the girls. I've barely had time to sleep, much less find a woman to fuck.

  Finally, she releases the hold her teeth have on her lip, taking a quick swipe at it with her tongue, and says, "I expect I won't get support from those who are going to have a hard time meeting my metrics. And I expect those who will meet them will stay silent on the matter. Either way, I don't care. I got this position because as the owner of this team, my father was ready to make some big moves."

  "I bet Frank Lessier had to just love this," I muse out loud, not giving a fuck that the derision in my voice is aimed at one of the front office suits. Frank Lessier was the assistant general manager under Brian Brannon and you would think a natural replacement if Brannon wanted to step down. The fact that he is still the assistant general manager I bet is chapping his ass.

  And it's a pompous ass at that. I've never liked the dude, but fortunately, the players are pretty removed from the front office. He's one of those guys who thinks only his opinion matters. He's one of those guys who likes to stare at himself in any mirror he passes by, he's that stuck on himself.

  Gray grimaces and actually looks pained. "Yeah...pretty sure both me and my father are on Frank's shit list."

  "Don't worry about it," I say as I lean forward in my chair. "He's going to naturally have a chip on his shoulder because you're far prettier than he is."

  A tiny smirk surfaces--the corners of her mouth curving nicely upward. She tilts her chin down and fucking bats her lashes at me. In an overly dramatic, shy-flirty manner, she says, "You really think I'm pretty, Mr. Evans?"

  More batting of her lashes.

  I laugh and ease back into my chair. She said honesty with no repercussions, so I go ahead and lay it out. I'm not joking back when I say, "You're a fucking knockout, Miss Brannon. And you don't need a statistical model to prove that. Just take a look in any mirror."

  I hadn't meant that to come out so bold.

  So assured.

  So...almost...challenging to her.

  Gray's eyes flare wide and her neck flushes red. I expect a fair-skinned woman with Irish ancestry blushes on the neck first rather than the cheeks. For some reason, it makes her even more attractive.

  But only after showing me a few mere seconds of vulnerability, Gray gives a cough and then a genial laugh. She plays it off well. "No need to flatter, Brick. I have all the confidence in the world you're going to exceed the goals I'm setting for you."

  And just like that, we are back to business.

  Chapter 4

  Gray

  What in the hell was I thinking?

  What in the hell?

  I wasn't.

  That's the answer.

  It happens rarely, but I just wasn't thinking. My IQ level dipped. Maybe I'm hormonal. A moon phase...that's what it is. It's the pull of the moon making me do stupid non-Gray-Brannon-like shit.

  I pace back and forth outside the door to the yoga studio, nodding here and there with a strained smile at some of the other students making their way inside. It looks like I'll have a full class today, which normally feeds me with excitable energy. It's like a triple espresso shot to my system.

  But right now I just want to head home and crawl back into bed, put my head under the pillow, and hide from the world. I want a "do-over" for the day, because I had no fucking business inviting Ryker Evans to this class. It crossed a professional line that I firmly put between me and the players, because my job as general manager is not to take a proprietary interest in their
training and health.

  It crossed a very, very personal line, because part of me made that invite as a woman. Simply put--I wanted to be around him more. There is an undeniable attraction, pull, chemical harmony...whatever, that I have with Ryker and I don't like it. I don't do hockey players, particularly ones that are in my employ.

  So I ask again...what in the hell was I thinking when I made the invite?

  I think back to my meeting with him day before yesterday, and yeah, okay...I get why I'm undeniably interested and fascinated by this man. Put his insanely gorgeous looks and Thor-like body aside, when it boils down to it, he ended up soothing my entire ego during that meeting.

  He actually accepted my plans for the team.

  He didn't sneer, or look dumbstruck. He didn't glance at my tits once. He immediately got my analysis of his stats, and the part that really satisfied my psyche was that he was actually impressed with what I was doing. Ryker didn't question my abilities either as a woman or as a general manager.

  He is the only one other than my dad so far who has decided to give me a fair shot.

  And that ramps up my attraction.

  It's insane, and stupid, and irrational for me to ever get caught up in those types of feelings, but I did it just the same. At the end of our meeting, we talked about what it meant to be a goalie.

  I started playing hockey when I was five years old and I didn't quit until the last Olympics I played in nine years ago at the age of twenty-two. While I played many positions growing up in Hartford, Connecticut, by the time I was thirteen I'd settled into my permanent position as goalie because my reflexes were lightning fast and my focus was sharp. I wasn't recruited by Princeton to play hockey there, as I went on a full academic scholarship after I graduated high school at sixteen, but I played there nonetheless. I actually had the credits to graduate high school much earlier, but my father held me back. He didn't want me being too far away in age from my peers so that I could have a better social experience through college.

  It was during our talk of my Olympic experiences that I started feeling a little guilty for lying to Ryker. I lied to him when I told him I was only interested in his abilities and what he could do for the Cold Fury because of my analysis of the numbers. I boiled him down to numbers and lied because I didn't want to ever admit to him I felt a bit of a kindred pull.

  I know exactly what it's like to have something very important riding on your shoulders as a goalie and then lose it all. I know this because the reason I have a silver medal instead of a gold from my first Winter Olympics at the age of eighteen is because I missed a save during a shootout. A single puck escaped my clutches, and the entire team wore silver around their necks rather than gold, and we had to listen to the Canadian national anthem versus "The Star-Spangled Banner."

  It is because of that experience that I understand Ryker and his motivations this season better than any other person except perhaps Ryker himself.

  And so I let that guilt and my stupid attraction and the fact that my ego and pride were all validated by him lead me to invite him to my yoga session today. I hold this class--Flexibility with Yoga--twice a week in a rented studio. I've been doing yoga since I was about fourteen and there hasn't been any other exercise or workout plan that has met my needs as a goalie. When you're in the net, you depend first and foremost on your reflexes, but then your body had better be ready to bend and stretch to accommodate when those reflexes demand you to stop the puck. A goalie had better be prepared to go down into a full split if need be to catch a dribbling biscuit on the ice. After I stopped playing hockey, I stuck with the regimen and even trained to be an instructor. It's my way of keeping me connected to the world outside my hockey bubble.

  When I asked Ryker if he did yoga, he just looked at me with one eyebrow cocked skeptically. For the first time, I could see that there were some things that Ryker felt shouldn't be shared by both women and men. I could tell he thought he might lose testosterone if he did yoga.

  I assured him that no one would question his masculinity and that there were a few guys in the class. When he still looked doubtful, I realized just how much I wanted to see him again when I threw down a challenge.

  "I get it," I said with a shrug of my shoulders as I stood up from behind my desk. "Most people can't make it through a full workout. I'll give you a pass."

  Sparks sizzled in his eyes and I had to practically bite my tongue in half not to laugh when he stood up from his chair and said, "I can handle anything you throw my way, Big Bang. I'll be there."

  And then he left.

  Just left, although he did say, "Catch you later" over his shoulder. I didn't know whether to be incensed by his lack of professionalism toward me as the GM or charmed by his comfort around me.

  And what in the hell did he mean by Big Bang?

  "You're wearing a groove in that sidewalk the way you're pacing back and forth," I hear from my left and my head snaps that way. "Too much on your mind?"

  Ryker walks toward me with a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He's wearing a pair of red workout shorts and a dark gray sweatshirt, which is all that's really needed because Decembers in the Carolinas are pretty mild. All of my stressful thoughts actually dissipate as I take him in, and I get a slight flutter in my belly when I notice his eyes quickly rake over me. It's the first time he's ever done that, having always maintained his focus on my face. I don't think I'm looking particularly sexy with my black yoga pants and a long-sleeved fitted workout top, my hair pulled back into a very short ponytail essentially to keep it out of my eyes. I don't have an ounce of makeup on and for some weird reason, I'm a little self-conscious of that now.

  Shaking my head and banishing such girlie thoughts, I give him a sharp nod of my head in greeting. "I thought you were chickening out."

  "Never," is all he says as he reaches for the glass door and holds it open for me.

  I walk in before him, and mentally imagine his eyes are pinned to my ass. I say a silent prayer of thanks to the yoga gods for keeping it firm and nicely rounded.

  Once in the studio, I do a quick count and see we're almost full at twelve students. I put myself in instructor mode, clearing my thoughts so I can focus on the fundamentals once we begin.

  "You can drop your bag over near the wall and grab a mat," I tell Ryker as I point him in the direction. "Lose the shoes and socks."

  I purposely give my back to Ryker, making my way to the front of the studio, which is nothing but one large mirror that takes up the entire wall. I greet a few of the students as they unroll their mats and make small talk, and then sneak a quick peek in the reflection at Ryker. He's shown no hesitation in coming to the front of the class, a testament to his confidence, and I see he removed not only his shoes and socks, but his sweatshirt too, leaving behind a matching dark gray T-shirt that clings to every muscle in his chest and abdomen.

  Ryker also didn't hesitate to park himself right beside Melissa Graves, blond, big-chested recent divorcee who once confided in me that she was taking this class to keep herself limber while considering the possibilities of a second marriage. She gave me a wink and a nudge to my shoulder and asked, "You know what I mean?"

  Yeah...I got it then, and as she introduces herself to Ryker, I get it now. Her eyes are hungry as she eats him up, her finger twirling a lock of hair. And is that...did she?

  She just adjusted the top of her tank to pull it down and reveal another two inches of cleavage.

  Fucking hussy.

  "All right everyone, let's get started," I say as I look into the mirror at my class. The tight feeling in my chest uncurls a little as Ryker gives Melissa a polite smile and then turns to face me.

  Most of these people have been taking this yoga class from me for months. It's the only real thing I do outside of the Cold Fury and I enjoy it immensely. I have several athletes in this class as well as a few older people who want to maintain their strength and flexibility. And then there are those like Melissa who just want to keep up a fantastic-l
ooking body, which hey...seriously, more power to her.

  Because everyone knows me and what I do for a living, I go ahead and take a moment to introduce Ryker. Everyone in here is a Cold Fury fan and he really needs no introduction, but I want him to feel welcome and also secure in this room that no one will treat him differently because of his fame.

  Except for maybe Melissa, who keeps leaning her body over toward his and whispering little tidbits that make him smile, and once laugh.

  Ugh.

  The best way to nip that in the bud is to start, and that is exactly what I do. I lead them through some centering work, having them focus on their breathing. Easy stuff really, and as I see him in the mirror, Ryker follows right along as he watches me. I never really thought of yoga as a sexy sort of exercise, but watching the muscles in his legs contract and release is pretty hot stuff. And why do I find myself arching my back a little deeper or sticking my ass out a little bit more?

  I groan internally.

  I have the hots for Ryker Evans, no two ways about it.

  But I can't have the hots for him. He's my employee for God's sake.

  I move the group into Big Toe pose, which is essentially where you keep your feet together, legs straight, and bend your body reaching for the floor. This gives me an upside-down glimpse of Ryker, and this may be his first class, but he's mastering this pose well.

  "Let's move into the Extended Triangle pose," I say in my calm, gentle yoga voice. I watch in the mirror as Ryker mimics my movements, my eyes dropping only briefly when his T-shirt rides up as he leans to the side.

  Ryker is doing very well. So well, in fact, that Melissa has no business breaking her own pose and moving over to Ryker to "help" him out. The minute her hand goes to one of his shoulders to encourage a deeper lean, I break my own pose and turn to them.

  "I'll help him with that, Melissa," I say, as I round them both and come up behind Ryker. "Why don't you go to the front and lead us through the rest of the poses while I make sure his form is proper."

  Melissa's eyes flash with annoyance, but she does as I ask. She's actually very good at this and I've had her lead the class before when I was out of town. As she walks to the front of the room, I have to give Ryker credit. He's not watching her, but has his head turned to me, pulling his body up straight again. "How am I doing, Big Bang?"