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 about a 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.

"Maybe what you need is a night out," Dakota suggests, always quick to prescribe fun as the cure-all.

"Or maybe I need someone waiting for me after the third period ends," I admit. It's not just about sex or companionship. This is about finding someone who won't flinch at my shadows.

"Let's focus on breaking this dry spell on the ice first, yeah?" Kaleb chimes in.

"Right," I say.

"Damn straight," Kaleb agrees, clapping me on the shoulder.

If I can't untangle the mess of my personal life, at least I can lead my team to victory. That's one thing I still have control over.

The gym door swings shut behind us to my own doubts, or to the damn superstition that's been gnawing at the edges of my confidence. It's ludicrous, but the thought nags at me: My stick is cursed. Every shot, every pass—it's like it’s mocking me, whispering failure with each slap against the ice.

The thought haunts me the entire drive to Love Beach and into the parking lot of Sand Dunes Bar and Grill.

I shake my head and get out of my Jeep, trying to dislodge the absurd idea. But what if? What if some twisted strand of fate has entangled itself around my gear, waiting for something—someone—to break its hold? The notion dances a fucked-up tango with my rational mind. Love as the antidote. A partner who might understand me.

"With that look on your face, Wolf, I’d say it’s going to be a big tab with a ugly hangover tomorrow," Dakota's voice pulls me back from the brink of my musings, as we push through the doors of Sand Dunes Bar & Grill.

"Boos or Boobs? Which one is it going to be tonight?" Kaleb teases with a sly grin.

"Shut the fuck up," I respond, stepping inside and heading straight to our usual spot of the booth with a view of the neon-lit bar and the flat-screens above to one side, and an ocean view out the window on our other side.

Dakota chuckles, sliding into the seat across from me and shaking his head.

"Whatever you say," Kaleb adds, taking the seat beside him.

"Let's just order, okay?" I deflect and my impatient fingers tap on the table. That cursed stick... If love could snap its stranglehold on my game, then I’d be damned for not finding it yet.

"Fine by me," Dakota says, raising his hand to signal a server. "I'm starving."

I slump into the booth at Sand Dunes as my friends rehash last night's game, including every missed shot and every fumbled pass.

"Fuck, that was rough," Kaleb says, nursing a beer with a grimace. "That breakaway you had in the third, Wolf… You usually bury those."

I nod, feeling the weight of the puck that might as well have been a boulder. "Yeah, I don't know what happened. Puck just rolled off my stick at the last second." My fingers trace the condensation on my glass.

"Shit happens," Dakota chimes in, trying to lighten the mood.

"Hmph," I mutter, not convinced. The curse of my stick looms over me like a dark cloud, threatening rain.

The vibration against my thigh pulls my attention from these knuckleheads. I fish my phone from my pocket and glance at the screen—unknown number. With a sigh, I push back from the table.

"Excuse me," I mutter, barely audible over Dakota's recount of a play gone wrong.

Outside on the mostly vacant patio, the air is crisp from the ocean breeze. I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear as the dull throb of music fades behind the closing door.

"Hello."

"Ah, Mr. Raines! This is Jimmy from Match Me Bunny," a chipper voice spills through the speaker. "We're hosting a soiree for our esteemed clientele this weekend and thought you'd appreciate an invitation."

My chest tightens at the prospect. I lean against the cool metal railing, trying to ground myself.

"Sounds... interesting." I say. "What's the catch? Will I be paired up with my dating match there."

"No, no pairings will happen. Absolutely no catch, Mr. Raines. Just an opportunity to mingle with those who share your... sophisticated tastes. However, if more comes of the night, there will be preparations for that," Jimmy assures.

"Fine," I agree. "Send me the details."

"Will do. We look forward to seeing you there."

"Thanks." The line goes dead, and I'm left with thoughts of possibilities that could be.

I pocket my phone and take a moment and turn back toward the Sand Dunes.

"Careful there, big guy," a voice chirps up. I glance down to see Jayden, our waitress, maneuvering around me with a tray of empty glasses. Her green eyes gleam with a challenge that stirs something within me.

"Didn't take you for someone who'd eavesdrop," I shoot back, the corner of my mouth twitching in spite of myself.

"Hard not to when you're practically shouting out your love life—or lack thereof—to the moon and back." She sets the tray on the outdoor bar with a clink.

"Trouble on the dating front?" she prods, leaning against the polished wood, all casual curiosity.

"Something like that," I admit, reluctant but intrigued by her audacity. "I'm at the end of my rope with the whole scene."

"Ah, the elusive perfect match," she muses, tapping a finger to her chin. "So what’s your type? Must love dogs, long walks on the beach, and tolerate brooding hockey captains?"

"Ha-ha," I mock, rolling my eyes. "More like must understand why I'm married to the ice first and foremost."

"Sounds like a tall order," she says, her tone light but eyes studying me with an intensity that makes me feel seen in a way I hadn't expected tonight.

"Guess I'll find out this weekend," I say, more to myself, already regretting mentioning it.

"Ooh, got a hot date already lined up?" There's a sparkle in her gaze, a mix of genuine interest and playful teasing.

"Something like that," I repeat, realizing too late that I'm enjoying our banter more than I should.

"Good luck then," Jayden winks, scooping up her tray. "Not that you need it, Mr. Popular." She winks, backing away toward the door, and I watch her return to the vibrant life inside.

I shove my hands into my pockets and let out a breath.

"Mr. Popular, huh?" I mutter to myself, shaking my head with a ghost of a smile.

Back at my seat, my friends continue to talk about stuff that I’m not paying any attention to. I lean back against the booth, arms crossed over my chest as I watch Jayden weave through the tables. I think back to when the guys and I met her at the beginning of last summer when she started working here.

She’s got curly fiery red hair and freckles that seem to highlight her always happy personality.

"Ryder, you're staring," Kaleb teases from across the table, his grin wide enough to split his face.

"Am not," I retort.

"Bro, you've got it bad for the waitress," Dakota chimes in, nudging me with his elbow.

I roll my eyes, crack my knuckles and shake my head. "No way. She’s incredibly bright. Too smart for my tastes."

"Since when is being smart a turn-off?" Asher asks with his brow raised.

"Since always," I snap, maybe too quickly, "Smart means complicated. Complicated means distractions. Distractions mean mistakes on the ice."

They all share a look, one that says they don't buy it, but thankfully, they let it drop. I take a swig of my cold and bitter beer.

"Whatever you say, Wolf," Dakota says, raising his glass in a silent toast to denial.

Jayden catches my eye, as if sensing my attention. She offers a quick, knowing smile before turning away to deliver another round of drinks to a nearby table.

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