The Right Move: Chapter 16

If there’s anything I know how to do it’s to play a part. Whether it be the happy-go-lucky friend or the girlfriend who shines brightly on her partner’s arm but knows when to dim her light for him to excel in front of his peers.

But tonight, I’m playing the point guard’s girl, and I’ve got to admit, it’s my favorite role thus far.

Skin-tight black leather pants, red strappy heels, and an itty-bitty Devils tee create the perfect costume for the act. My hair is in a slicked-back ponytail, and I finished my makeup with a swipe of red across my lips which I’ll chalk up to team spirit and is in no way meant to distract number five.

“Indy, you’ve got the tickets?” Zanders asks as we exit his G-Wagon, and even though he’s not the one playing tonight, he still has the luxury of parking in the players’ lot.

“Yep.” I hold my phone up. “Ryan sent them.”

“Look at us. Going to your fake boyfriend’s game like a happy little family.” Stevie slips her arm through mine, her other hand threaded with Zanders’ as the three of us walk towards the arena. “Ryan’s plan must be working if the Morgans gifted you their court-side tickets.”

“What can I say? I’m quite the actress.”

Zanders gives the older man at the door a hug before leading the way down the long hall that stretches past the locker rooms.

“That’s the visitor’s training room.” Zanders points out as we follow along on his tour. “Visitors’ locker room and home training room. And here”—he stops us in front of one of the two team portraits on the wall—“are the Stanley Cup champs.”

I lean in close to the picture, examining all the guys I work for covered in confetti after their Stanley Cup win. I didn’t get to see the team after they won at home last season so this is a cool insight.

Maddison’s kids are both in the shot with him. Rio’s goofy grin is splitting, and his green eyes are shining as if he maybe shed a few tears. Then there’s Zanders, who seems less arrogant than he typically is.

“Zee, you look kind of sad in this picture.”

“Understatement, Ind. I was devastated. That was one of the best and worst nights of my life.”

He looks down at Stevie, the two of them sharing an understanding smile. They weren’t together when the Raptors won the Cup and from what I understand, Zanders assumed that was the night he lost her for good.

He pulls her in tight as we continue our tour. “Home locker room,” Zanders says and suddenly I’m hyperaware that Ryan is just on the other side of those doors.

The idea of seeing him in the space which he excels most has been consuming me all day. As if I wasn’t already intrigued by him in every other aspect of life, I now have the privilege of watching him be the best at what he does while I sit front row. That’s not going to fan the flame of my attraction or anything.

I woke up with my leg slung around his hips, his grip holding me tight, and his nose buried in my hair. There was a wave of awkwardness as we untangled from each other, but I won’t lie, it was the best night of sleep I’ve had in months.

Skin warm to the touch. Chest bare and broad. Hand overpowering but gentle.

He’s everything I’ve never had in a man before and everything I’m finding myself desperate for, but as soon as we got home this morning, he grabbed his bag and headed to his morning shoot around, entirely refocused on basketball. I haven’t seen him since.

Zanders leads us through the underground tunnels of the arena, where no other fans have access. I guess that’s the kind of perks you get when you’re the alternate captain of the reigning Stanley Cup champs.

And for the first time in days, Alex runs through my mind. It’s quick and unexpected, painful still to think of him because he would’ve loved this. Alex is a huge sports fan, especially of our local Chicago teams, and call it childish or petty, but a sly smile slides across my lips knowing I’m the one that gets to be here and not him.

The arena is deafening as we exit the tunnel on the courtside, partly from fans who are excited for the game, but mostly because Zanders is recognized instantly. Eager supporters bend over the railings, calling his name, cheering, hoping to touch him or get his signature. It’s odd to see this side of it. To me, Zanders and the rest of the Raptors are normal guys I work for, not idols who finally brought a championship back to Chicago.

Even as we find our seats, fans that have courtside access still approach Zanders while the two basketball teams on the court warm up.

“This is crazy,” I whisper to Stevie. “Is it always like this?”

She pops her shoulders. “This is the worst of it. He’ll get recognized out in Chicago, but it’s not with hundreds of fans in one single place like it is here.”

“Does it get tiring for you?”

“Not really. I’d rather they like him so much they want his autograph than enjoy hating him the way they did before. Besides, this is nothing compared to what it’s like when I’m out with Ryan. It’s hard to go most anywhere with him.”

The bucket list hanging on our fridge passes through my mind. How I asked him to make our practice dates public events instead of private the way I know he’d rather. I should amend those when I get home because even I, an extrovert, would be overwhelmed with this kind of attention, let alone someone as isolated as Ryan. It’s no wonder he rarely leaves his apartment unless it’s work related.

Stevie nudges me in the shoulder, gesturing towards the court. “There he is.”

I don’t know how he wasn’t the first person I saw as I exited the tunnel because Ryan commands attention, even in a crowd of 23,000. He’s got a Devils long sleeve on instead of his jersey, a pair of tearaway pants, and he’s by no means the tallest man on the court. However, there’s something about his humble confidence, the way he’s focused that makes it almost impossible for me to look away.

In the same way I saw on my television weeks ago, Ryan secludes himself from the rest of the players, off to the side with two basketballs in his hands. He dribbles them with ease, crosses them over one another, and even as fans scream his name asking for attention, he stays focused on his task.

Much in the way he conducts the rest of his life, Ryan works alone.

Warm-ups end, starting lineups are announced, and the national anthem is sung.

Ryan has yet to look in our direction, and with the attention Zanders has garnered since we sat down, there’s no way he doesn’t know where we are. However, he pays us no notice. Instead, every part of him is dialed into the game, concentrated on the next couple of hours.

As the lights expand over the court, illuminating the arena, Ryan tears away his pants, revealing his basketball shorts underneath, but then he slips his T-shirt over his head, and I’m blessed with a naked chest.

It’s only for a moment, but he’s shirtless long enough for me to catch the cascading beads of sweat dip into the crevices of his muscles, to watch his chest heave much like how I’d imagine it does during a different kind of physical activity.

I had him just like this in bed last night and every fiber of my being ached with the need for him to grab me and kiss me. Just once. My body is burning to know what it’d be like, but Ryan has made it perfectly clear that kissing in public is off the table, so I’m going to assume, unfortunately, that means in private as well.

But my God, that man had no idea what he did to me last night. He may have slept next to me simply because it was the only bed in the room, but I was awake for hours more, hyperaware of how perfectly I fit tucked into his body.

Sometime in the first quarter, a gin and tonic is delivered to my seat as giant sweaty basketball players rush past me, so close I could reach out and touch them.

“Basketball games are the best. I can’t believe I’ve never been to one.”

Zanders laughs from two seats down. “You’re sitting courtside in the General Manager’s seats. It’s a little different in general admission.”

Stevie keeps her eyes on the game as she speaks. “We probably should’ve gone to a game and sat in normal seats before this. It’s almost as if flying first class for your first ever flight then having to sit coach every time after.”

“Well, I guess I’ll need to convince the Morgans to bring me again.” I take a sip of my G&T.

Stevie smiles. “From the sounds of it, I don’t think they’d need much convincing. Ryan said Mrs. Morgan loves you.”

Ryan takes his time dribbling up the court, holding up three fingers and calling out a play. And as always, he’s perfectly calm, cool, and collected as he does his job, even as countless fans eagerly watch his every move.

Houston’s point guard isn’t on Ryan’s level by any means, but he is good. Not as effortless, his moves are choppy and brutish, but I’ve noticed his team makes up for passes that might not be perfect or plays that might not be fully executed. However, he’s a shit talker if I’ve ever seen one. In Ryan’s face every chance he gets, holding on to his arm or jersey while on defense. He’s loud as if his words will make up the difference in talent levels between the two point guards.

I lean into Stevie. “Who is that? The guy guarding Ryan.”

She can’t hold back from rolling her eyes. “Connor Easton. He’s a jackass. Played for Duke while we were at North Carolina and he’s in the same draft class as Ryan but went in the fourth round. I’d say they’ve had a rivalry since freshman year, but the truth is, it’s one-sided. Ryan has never once said a word back to him on the court, but Connor can’t shut up.”

She’s right. Connor hasn’t stopped talking, getting in Ryan’s face every chance he gets. He seems like he plays a little dirty, and still, Ryan doesn’t say a word.

Calm. Cool. Collected.

Connor guards Ryan tightly at the top of the key, swiping at his arms and jersey, but Ryan protects the ball with ease as he dribbles around the perimeter. I can’t hear a word Connor says, but his lips won’t stop moving. You’d think after all the years they’ve played against one another, he’d figure out that it’s impossible to rile up the guy.

Even after living with Ryan for a short time, I know it’s rare to get him to show his emotions. It takes more than some adrenaline and shit talking to throw him off-kilter.

Ryan fakes right, throwing Connor off-balance, before he pulls back and hits a three over him. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t wear a deserved smug smile, he simply turns around and jogs back on defense, completely in control of this game.

I have to cross one leg over the other, because it’s really fucking attractive.

The first half goes by in a blur, and I get my second drink of the night sometime in the third quarter. I could get used to this, watching my hot-as-sin roommate while sipping on a cocktail, wearing my red strappy heels, and sitting courtside.

Probably shouldn’t though. This fake relationship has an expiration date. He’ll get his GM’s support, I’ll get through my friends’ wedding, and eventually I’ll have to move out.

My chest hollows at the prospect.

No one has distracted Ryan this whole game, not the fans, not Connor Easton, and not me. Call me needy, but I wouldn’t mind those ocean eyes looking over here once. Wouldn’t mind knowing I have that man’s attention even if it’s only for a split second.

Then the basketball gods smile down on me when the ball gets knocked out of bounds right next to my seat. Ryan walks towards me, directly in my path to inbound the ball, but still, he keeps his eyes down on the floor, utterly focused. The area around me explodes with screams and desperate cries of his name, hoping for a high five or a wave, or even just some eye contact. But what they don’t know is that if his own twin who was sitting at my left can’t get a small look from the guy, there’s no hope for a single fan to garner his attention.

Ryan stands just to my right, so close that if I spread my legs out even a tiny bit, they’d knock into his. The fans around me are quick with their phones, documenting the moment Ryan Shay was breathing the same air as them.

The referee holds on to the ball as both the teams substitute players, and my roommate takes a moment to bend over, palms on his knees, catching his breath.

Corded arms, decorated with veins. Long fingers, big hands. And holy hell, that ass.

His sweaty body smells oddly heavenly to me, and—what the hell is going on? Get control of yourself, woman. His sister, my best friend, is thankfully using the restroom at the moment, but what is wrong with me? I’m in public and trying to smell my roommate mid-game like an addict needing a hit of his pheromones.

“Blue.” My attention is torn away from Ryan’s backside to find blue-green eyes amused and watching me. He’s still bent over but looking back. “Are you checking out my ass right now?”

A flush ghosts my cheeks and under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be embarrassed, but this guy has thousands of fans’ eyes on him, and many more watching from home.

“It’s a nice ass.” I shrug unapologetically.

His chest rumbles, his voice lowering. “Trying to distract me tonight? With those heels and those lips? Because you look fucking stunning.”

Before I can answer, the referee blows the whistle. Ryan’s focus is instantly back on the game. However, the man directly across from him on the inbound, Connor Easton, has his mischievously glinted eyes on me.

His stare is uncomfortable and unrelenting. I offer him a small smile, hoping to pacify the weird sudden interest he has in me, and thankfully the game restarts and he’s gone.

“Jesus,” Zanders laughs. “So, you and Ryan are sleeping together, huh?”

“Define sleeping.”

His hazel eyes narrow with annoyance. “Fucking, Ind.”

“No,” I quickly answer, but there’s not much conviction behind the word. “Do I want to?” I cock my head to the side. “Very much so.”

Zanders’ amused laugh shakes his chest as we lean over Stevie’s empty seat to talk.

“I can’t though,” I continue. “Stevie will be upset. I tell her I’m planning to bang her brother all the time, but she knows I’m joking. Well, she thinks I’m joking.”

“Nah,” he reassures. “She wouldn’t be upset. I don’t know that she’d be cool with you using him as a rebound, but if it’s more than that, I’m sure she’d be supportive.”

Is that what this is? Is this unrelenting attraction simply the rebound I’ve been needing to get out of my system for the last seven months? Possibly. The last person I was with is Alex and now Ryan is a part of my daily life. It’d make sense if it was my body’s form of begging for a release. Would he want that? Do I want that? Yes, I want to sleep with him, but I also want to have breakfast with him every morning. I want to sit on the couch and read with him. I want to spend my days off work holed up in that apartment. I’m not sure those are rebound feelings, but I might need a rebound to figure it out.

By the time Stevie’s back in her seat, Ryan has a game high forty-two points, but the Devils are still losing by three in the fourth quarter. Connor Easton has continually tried to knock Ryan off his game, to get him to react to something, anything he says, but to no avail. The guy is a brick wall of emotions, and though I give him a hard time for his sometimes stoic and robotic personality, I can see why it works so well for him on the court.

That is until the final few minutes when Houston has a bad pass, and the ball comes bouncing over to where I sit on the sideline. It’s already out of bounds by the time Connor dives for it, and there’s truly no possible way he could save it. I don’t know why he’d even attempt to. His giant body falls into my lap, spilling my drink all over my chest. The crowd around me yelps, and the heavy blow to my body is a bit painful.

“I’m so sorry,” he says as he stands from my lap. He holds on to my shoulders, bending down and making himself eye level. “Are you okay? Let me get you another drink.” He slides a thumb over my cheekbone. “You’re far too pretty to be covered in—”

“Get your fucking hands off her.” Ryan shoves Connor. “Fuck you! You could’ve hurt her.”

I’m front row to watch Connor laugh as the ref blows the whistle and awards Ryan with a technical.

“Oh, bullshit!” Ryan protests. “He’s diving into the crowd for no goddamn reason! The ball was already out of bounds.”

“Technical foul. Chicago. Number five.”

“Whoa,” Stevie exhales. “Ryan’s never been tee’d up before.” She turns to me. “Are you okay?”

I nod in silence, hoping to regain the breath that was knocked out of me.

Connor saunters past Ryan on his way to the free-throw line, knocking his shoulder as he goes. “Finally found a weakness, Shay.”

“Fuck you, Easton.” Ryan charges at his back, but one of his teammates holds him back.

The typical calm, cool, and collected basketball player I’ve come to expect is nowhere to be found at the moment.

He stays as close to the sideline as possible while Connor shoots his free throws. Ryan watches the court but speaks to me over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I quickly blurt out. Because I am and that was a far bigger scene than it needed to be. “I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re not hurt?”

“No.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Ocean eyes sweep up my body, taking me in as if he’s double checking that I really am okay. I am, it just scared me a little. Finally, his eyes glide to mine and a soft smile graces his lips, those sweet dimples concaving into his cheeks.

“I like having you sitting so close.”

I laugh. “Ryan, I just caused you to get a technical foul.”

Connor makes both of his free throws.

“Worth it.”

The game continues, everyone’s attention back to the court.

Leaning over to Stevie, I speak quietly. “Daily update—I hope your brother wears his jersey when he fucks me.” I pop my shoulders. “Or I could wear it.”

Ryan’s teammate, Ethan, hit two back-to-back threes in the final minute, and the Devils pulled out the victory by one. It was thrilling to watch, seeing my roommate excel at the thing he’s best at. I knew he was good, even from my minimal knowledge of the sport, but talented and gifted don’t suffice.

He was magic.

There’s an odd sense of pride flowing through me as Zanders, Stevie, and I wait for Ryan outside the players’ parking lot. Some admirers have found their way down here, but the game ended long enough ago that most of the crowd has gone home, leaving only a handful of fans hopeful for a glimpse of Chicago’s basketball team.

Zanders is once again asked for photos and autographs to which he obliges, pulling Stevie along with him as well.

“Indy?”

The voice stops me in my tracks because I know it. I’ve memorized the way my name rolls off his lips, but I’m not ready for this. No part of me is prepared. There’s a wedding date on the calendar that I need to be ready by, and that day is not today.

“Indy,” Alex repeats when I don’t turn around the first time.

Unfortunately, there’s no out for me so I turn on my red heels and face him. “Alex,” I exhale in disbelief.

Kevin and two more guys from our friend group stand a few feet behind him, but they’re not who I’m looking at.

Blonde hair, brown eyes, the boy I loved my entire life stands in front of me. I haven’t seen him since the night I fled our apartment, so why does he look so goddamn good? Shouldn’t he be profusely apologizing or something other than smiling that fucking megawatt smile like he’s running into an old friend? As if I’m not the woman he’s known for twenty-two years and dated for the last six?

He shakes his head, still smiling. “What are you doing here? You’ve never been a basketball fan.”

“I um…” I swallow, words stuck in my throat as I throw a thumb over my shoulder to where Stevie and Zanders are entertaining fans, entirely unaware of the way my life has turned upside down in the last thirty seconds.

“That’s right. Your old coworker is Ryan Shay’s little sister.”

“They’re twins.”

Really? The first words I say to him after all this time are to correct him on my best friend’s birth time?

“Right.” He nods, hands in his pockets, looking me up and down. I’ve still got a wet spot on my T-shirt from my spilled drink, and I’m frozen in shock. Not exactly the impression I wanted to make the first time I saw him again. “So, what’s new with you?”

Is this really happening? How is he so casual right now? Am I the only one in this situation who feels completely thrown off-balance?

He always hated when I wore my heels because we’d be the same height, or in his opinion worse than that, I’d be taller. He’s six feet on his best day, but we all know that means somewhere around five-ten. And right now, he’s standing on a curb to give himself the added inches to be able to stand over me.

Metaphorically I feel about two feet tall, as it is.

“Indy, what’s new with you?” he repeats.

“Flying.”

He nods again. “Always on the road.” The insinuation is heavy in the air, and there’s something about the inflection in the way he says it that speaks volumes. I cheated because you were always on the road. It’s your fault there was someone else in our bed. “Will you be at Kevin and Maggie’s wedding or are you flying during that too?”

What the hell? It was Alex’s suggestion for me to become a flight attendant. The financial firm he’s a part of offered me a job right out of college with a much higher salary than his. Even though I went to school for business, the kind of work he does wasn’t for me, so I detoured to a completely different route. One that would allow me to travel and socialize. He was stoked for me when I got on with the hockey team last year, or so I thought.

“I’ll…um…yeah, I’ll be there.” This is going horribly. I’m a fumbling mess. “Will you…will you be there too?”

“Of course. I’m with the group almost every day. I can’t wait.” He looks down for a moment, kicking the cement with his shoe. “Maggie said she’s giving you a plus-one. I have one too. I’m planning to use it, so I thought it’d be the right thing to give you a heads-up.”

I wasn’t aware I was so forgettable. It’s a humbling and humiliating revelation. Alex has etched his way onto my heart, and I assumed that sentiment was mutual. I’d rather he regret our relationship or maybe even wish that we had never crossed paths. But to look at me as if I’m the most forgettable woman in the world hurts more than the rest ever could.

“Are you bringing someone?” he continues.

“Blue.”

Somehow the name pulls me into focus to find Ryan standing outside of the players’ entrance. Gym bag slung over his shoulder, hands in his pockets. His eyes bounce to Alex then back to me, as if he were studying the situation.

“Holy shit,” Kevin whispers. “Ryan Shay.”

In my periphery, I can see Kevin, Alex, and two of my old friends, lightly smacking each other to ensure everyone sees who just walked out of the arena.

Ryan’s eyes dart between Alex and me again, and maybe it’s the fact that I’m about two seconds away from crying or that he can physically see that I’m living out my worst nightmare, but he drops his gym bag and in a few quick strides, charges towards me.

Before I can think any further, his palms cup my face, long fingers threading into my ponytail, and his lips are on mine.

Soft lips, warm to the touch. Commanding yet measured, as I’d expect any kiss from Ryan Shay to be. My mouth yields to his, parting to take him deeper and his tongue ever so slightly sweeps across mine in an electrifying slide. One of his hands drops, curving around my throat to bracket the back of my neck as the other pulls my hips to his.

His imposing touch makes me feel small and the deliciously domineering way in which he kisses me makes me feel entirely out of control.

I knew I’d like it. I knew it would be good, but what I didn’t expect was to feel light as a feather from my fingers to my toes. To fall completely under a spell just from feeling his mouth, especially when he told me I’d never have it.

My palms find his shoulders, sliding over his broad frame to hook around the back of his neck. A small, unpermitted moan creeps up my throat and I feel Ryan’s lips curve up against mine before pulling away.

Moving his hand to my lower back, he presses my body into his. His lips dot a map of soft kisses along my jaw, until his mouth ghosts my ear, whispering. “Are you okay?”

My chest is heaving uncontrollably so no, I’m not okay. What the hell was that? And when can we do it again?

I lie, nodding my head against him.

He breaks our connection to look around me. “Hey, I’m Ryan.”

Oh my God, Alex is here.

Then Ryan continues. “How do you know my girlfriend?”

An uncomfortable breath escapes Alex as he steps off the curb to his natural height. “I uh…we used to…”

Now who’s fumbling?

Ryan slides a forearm around the front of my shoulders, holding my back to his chest. He nods towards Alex’s jersey. “Oh,” Ryan says sweetly, patronizingly. “You’re a fan of mine.”

I didn’t notice the Devils jersey he had on, but I especially didn’t pick up on the fact there’s a number five on the front and my fake boyfriend’s last name on the back.

I have to bite my lip to keep it from curving.

“Were you waiting for an autograph?” Ryan continues.

Is it too soon to tell him I love him? Because I think I might love him in this moment.

“Yes!”

“Kev,” Alex quietly scolds.

“It’s Ryan fucking Shay.” Kevin rolls his eyes, pulls out a Sharpie, and turns around for Ryan to sign his jersey.

He continues to autograph the other two guys’ as well, but Alex goes on to claim the jersey he’s wearing isn’t his and doesn’t want to return it to the “owner” with Sharpie on it.

“We should get home.” Ryan slides his hand to my lower back, turning me towards his car. “See you at the wedding, huh?” he calls to the guys over my shoulder before placing another lingering kiss on my temple for them to see.

He opens the passenger door for me and once I’m inside, he gets down on his haunches, making us eye level. “Are you okay?”

No. Yes. What the hell just happened?

I nod. Quickly, maybe too quickly, but I’m more okay than I ever thought I would be just five minutes ago.

My gaze drops to Ryan’s lips and the bucket list item he refused. I don’t feel comfortable faking intimacy.

“What was that?” My words are low, breathy, hopeful for him to lean in and kiss me again.

He tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. My slick ponytail must’ve gotten messed up while his fingers were threaded through it and his mouth was on mine.

“It was acting, Ind.”

Oh.

The balloon filled with reckless hope pops in my chest.

“I thought kissing was off the table. You didn’t want to fake it.”

“I made an exception. You were drowning out there. Besides, I owed you a rescue after I bombed at the fall banquet. Call it even?”

Call it even? He just gave me the best kiss of my life and it was to settle a score?

“Yeah,” I breathe out. “Sure. We’re even.”

“Good.” He offers me a smile and a reassuring squeeze of my thigh. “Let’s go home.”