Chad stares at me, fascinated.

“Want to know what I told her?”

He nods eagerly.

“I told her to get out of my office. I told her she had thirty seconds to clear it or I’d have security escort her out.”

Chad bends over his tablet, types a few notes, and then looks back up at me with respect. But still he chides me, “If that’s supposed to scare me, you have to know I’m still going to ask you questions about your role as a woman.”

I laugh and give him a nod of acknowledgment. “I’d expect no different. Just so you know, you ask the wrong kinds of questions about me being a woman, and you’ll be asked to leave.”

“Fair enough,” he says with a chuckle, but then his eyes immediately turn serious. “I have a theory. My theory is that most people don’t think a woman can do this job because they don’t understand what a general manger does. Let’s educate them. I’ve watched you today, but you tell me what you consider to be your role in this organization.”

I like it. It’s a damn good question and it is absolutely a chance for me to educate the morons who don’t understand. “You’ve watched me today, Chad. I can sit here and talk for hours about operating this organization, because let’s not forget, I’m merely running a business. It’s why I have my MBA. I manage budgets, oversee operations, and make decisions that affect our P&L statements every year. Anyone, man or woman, can do that. But that’s boring. Who wants to talk about that?”

“Not me,” Chad quips with a smile.

I return it and say, “I gather information. I’m competing against twenty-nine other GMs to make my organization the best. So I watch, I absorb, and I collect. I try to find out every scrap of information that will help me put together the best hockey team imaginable and I try to get to that information first.”

“Statistics,” Chad merely says.

“Yes,” I agree. “I use analytics to drive personnel decisions.”

And now we’re really getting down to business in this interview.

—
I watch as the timer counts down.

In my silk pajamas, tucked into my bed, my eyes glued to the forty-two-inch TV mounted to my bedroom wall.

Three, two, one.

The Cold Fury players swarm the ice, surround Ryker, and give him rubs on top of his helmet. He got a shutout, and part of me is thrilled by the prospect of having coffee with him and terrified that he’ll turn me down. He hasn’t responded to my text at all, and I have no clue if he just hasn’t seen it or doesn’t want to get involved.

Maybe I imagined the desire I saw in his eyes.

Maybe I’m taking his open-mindedness about me as the general manager and projecting things that just aren’t there.

The camera zooms in on the Cold Fury as the announcer goes over some of the game highlights. I can’t see Ryker’s face as his teammates congratulate him but I know he’s smiling.

And I’m smiling as I look at his mask. It’s charmingly juvenile, but in a good way.

Every goalie in the league has a custom-painted mask. And it can be whatever they want.

Ryker got a new mask this year, a tribute to his two girls who I know through the grapevine—that would be Coach Pretore—came to live with Ryker full time this summer. He has their names on the left side of the mask surrounded by custom-painted holographic hearts that seem to contract and swell when he moves. As the light catches the graphic design, it’s almost as if the hearts are a pulsing symbol of his love for his daughters. I’m normally not affected by gooey shit like that, but for some reason…it sort of gets me right in the center of my chest.

I click the TV off and roll out of bed, deciding on a late-night snack of some kettle popcorn. I know I should abstain and get my ass into bed, but I’m actually wired right now. I’m hyped up on the dangerous path I’ve put myself on with Ryker and yet I can’t seem to stop myself.

I know Ryker is separated from his wife because she cheated on him. I know this because it’s what caused Ryker to flip his shit and break the nose of his teammate who was the one boning her. That led the Boston Eagles to look at releasing Ryker from his contract, because he was more expendable than Sutter.

Now that I think about it, I should probably send flowers and champagne to both of them for having an affair, because that landed me the hottest goalie in the league.

After I make my popcorn and get a bottle of water, I head back into my bedroom, intent on watching a movie. I hope it will occupy my thoughts enough so I can get drowsy and fall asleep.

Just as I set the bowl of popcorn on my nightstand, my phone lights up simultaneously with my ringtone of Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack.”

It’s Ryker.

My heart rate skyrockets and that euphoric excitement sizzles through me again. Like a fucking schoolgirl.

I snatch the phone, take a deep breath, and hope I sound casually cool. “Nice shutout.”

“I was just calling to see what time tomorrow you wanted to meet up for coffee.”

Pleasure skitters through me over how he’s taken control. Of how he’s showing me at this very moment that he wants to see me. Hell…he can’t even be more than five minutes off the ice.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Standing outside the locker room,” he says in a low voice, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to be overheard. “So let me know where you want to go tomorrow. The team plane lands around 10:30 A.M., I think.”