13. Emma

A day later,I settle into the plush leather seat of the limo, my gaze drifting to Ryan, who is napping across from me. The first couple of hours of our drive to Detroit have been awkwardly silent, with me focused on my phone and Ryan quickly falling asleep.

My phone buzzes with a new text from Lukas. Yesterday, Alex and Lukas exchanged numbers with me, and Lukas's flirty texts have been non-stop in the best way. I can't help but smile as I read Lukas's latest message.

"Missing me already? Just wait till you get back ;)"

I bite my lip, heat rising in my cheeks as I type back a coy reply. Lukas has a way of getting under my skin, teasing me until I'm desperate for his touch again.

I glance back up at Ryan, hoping that he's not awake and seeing me blush stupidly at my phone.

Ryan looks different in sleep, his usually stern features softer, more vulnerable. I can't help but let my eyes wander over his muscular frame, the way his suit clings to his broad shoulders and thick thighs. There's something almost brutish about him, a raw masculinity that sets him apart from the other guys on the team.

It hits me then that despite working together, Ryan and I have barely interacted this season. He's always been a bit of an enigma—the stoic defenseman, intense and aloof. All I really know about him is that he's the one who hit Lukas on the ice.

The thought makes my stomach twist with conflicting emotions. Loyalty to Lukas wars with a growing curiosity about Ryan…and if I'm honest, an undeniable pull of attraction that unsettles me.

I force my gaze away, focusing on the passing scenery outside the window. But I can still feel the weight of Ryan's presence, the steady sound of his breathing. Questions swirl in my mind, pieces of the puzzle that is Ryan Thompson.

Who is he really, beneath that gruff exterior? Why did he hit Lukas?

And why, despite myself, am I so drawn to him?

Lost in my turbulent thoughts, I don't notice Ryan stirring until he shifts, suit jacket rustling. My gaze darts to him, only to find his brown eyes already open and fixed on me. Heat floods my cheeks at being caught staring.

"We're about an hour out from Detroit," I inform him quickly, trying to cover my embarrassment.

Ryan nods, a sluggish motion as he stretches, his large frame filling the space. "Thanks. Didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

His voice is deep, still rough with sleep, and it sends a traitorous thrill down my spine. I watch as he rolls his neck, working out the kinks.

"I always drive back home instead of flying when I can," he continues, suppressing a yawn. "Sorry it takes a bit longer."

"No need to apologize." I tilt my head, considering him. "I'm just surprised. I would've thought flying would be easier."

Ryan shrugs, his gaze meeting mine. "Probably. But I don't like the idea of creating extra pollution when I can avoid it, you know?"

I blink, taken aback. Ryan Thompson, star defenseman…an environmentalist? It doesn't fit with the aggressive, unrefined image I've constructed of him.

"That's…admirable," I manage, still processing this unexpected facet.

The corner of his mouth lifts, a ghost of a smile. "Don't sound so shocked. I'm full of surprises."

A laugh escapes me. "I'm starting to see that."

As we lapse into silence again, I mull over this revelation. It's a stark reminder not to judge a book by its cover—or a hockey player by his penalty minutes. Clearly, there are hidden depths to Ryan that I've never glimpsed before.

The thought intrigues me more than it should.

Shaking off my wayward musings, I pull up the itinerary on my phone. "So, about the youth hockey organization we're visiting?—"

"The Detroit Ice Dragons," Ryan interjects, a note of what almost sounds like pride in his voice. "I know them well, actually."

My brows lift in surprise. "You do?"

He nods, his gaze distant, as if seeing into the past. "I was one of their mentees growing up. They're the reason I made it to the NHL." A pause, weighted with memory. "I've been volunteering with them every off-season since I graduated high school."

For the second time in minutes, I find myself struck speechless. Not only is this clearly more than a PR stunt for Ryan, but he's just revealed a piece of his history I never would have guessed.

An underprivileged background, a debt to this very organization…details completely absent from his official bio.

Questions burn on my tongue, but I hold them back. There's a vulnerability in Ryan's expression, a rawness that tells me this is not a subject to probe carelessly.

So I simply nod, offering a small smile. "That's incredible. They must mean a lot to you."

His answering smile is brief but genuine. "They do. I don't know where I'd be without them."

An understanding passes between us, a moment of connection. For an instant, the air feels charged, heavy with unspoken things.

But then Ryan clears his throat, the moment breaking. "Anyway, I'm looking forward to working with them again. Showing these kids that their dreams are within reach, you know?"

"Absolutely." I nod, still a bit dazed by these revelations. "That's what this is all about."

Well, actually, this is all about trying to drum up some good press for a new player who immediately landed himself in fan purgatory, but who's counting?

As Ryan turns to gaze out the window, I find myself studying his profile, seeing him in a new light. The hard planes of his face, the determined set of his jaw...they tell a story I'm only beginning to glimpse.

Intrigue coils within me, along with, again, that startling flare of attraction.

Ryan Thompson is a mystery.

The entrance to the Detroit Ice Dragons facility is filled with bright, fluorescent lights and the sound of excited chatter. The walls are adorned with motivational posters and photos of past teams and players. Hockey sticks and equipment are scattered around the room, ready to be used for practice and games. Through a set of glass doors at the end of a hallway, I spot the ice rink.

A group of kids, decked out in colorful hockey jerseys, rush towards us. "Ryan!" the kids shout, their faces lighting up at the sight of him. They swarm towards Ryan like moths to a flame, tugging at his sleeves and chattering animatedly.

I watch in amazement as he greets each one by name, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection.

"Hey guys!" Ryan laughs, high-fiving the eager youngsters. "Ready to hit the ice?"

A resounding cheer is their response. As Ryan leads them towards the rink, I trail behind, my camera at the ready. On the ice, Ryan is a natural—patient, encouraging, bringing out the best in each kid as he runs drills.

How could I have been so wrong about him? I think to myself, snapping candid shots of Ryan kneeling to adjust a little girl's helmet, his large hands surprisingly gentle. The man I thought I knew from afar—gruff, closed-off, quick to anger—is nowhere to be seen.

In his place is someone warm and nurturing, completely in his element.

"He's really something, isn't he?" a voice says beside me. I turn to see an older man, a program coordinator judging by his badge, watching Ryan with a fond smile.

"He is," I murmur in agreement. "The kids adore him."

The man nods. "Ryan's one of our most dedicated volunteers. Has been for years. It's a damn shame, all this negative press lately." He shakes his head. "If they could see him here, they'd know the real Ryan. The size of that boy's heart…"

A pang of guilt hits me square in the chest. I'd been guilty of the same rush to judgment, letting one heated moment color my entire perception of Ryan.

But as I watch him laugh with the kids, his joy unguarded and infectious, I realize how much more there is to him than meets the eye. And for the first time since this assignment began, I find myself genuinely eager to discover it.

The day wears on, and I document Ryan's visit through my camera lens throughout it all, capturing candid moments of him laughing with the kids and showcasing his skills on the ice. His humility strikes me—the way he deflects praise and instead focuses on uplifting the young players.

During a break in the action, Ryan glides over to me, his cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion. "Having fun?" he asks, his deep voice sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the chill of the rink.

I nod, feeling a blush creep up my neck. "You're really great with them," I say softly, gesturing to the kids who are eagerly awaiting their turn to run drills with the NHL star.

Ryan shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. "They remind me of myself at that age," he admits. "I just want to give them the support and encouragement I didn't always have."

My heart clenches at his words, a newfound understanding washing over me. Beneath his tough exterior, Ryan is a man who deeply cares about making a difference in the lives of others, who understands first-hand the struggles these kids are facing.

He skates back out to center ice, patiently correcting a young girl's grip on her stick, and I find myself watching him with new eyes. The more I learn about Ryan, the more I realize how much there is to admire—and how dangerously easy it would be to fall for him.

When the sun begins to set, Ryan and I say our goodbyes to the kids and head to our hotel. There's a new kind of energy between us that makes my skin tingle.

The front desk at the hotel is made of sleek, polished wood and is adorned with modern light fixtures. The receptionist sits behind it, typing away on her computer, her brow furrowed in concentration. Behind her, a large screen displays images of the hotel's amenities and services. The lobby is spacious and tastefully decorated with plush couches and vibrant paintings.

The receptionist—Gina, judging by her name tag—frowns, tapping at her keyboard. "I apologize, but it looks like there's been a mix-up with your reservation," she tells us. "We only have one room booked under your name."

My stomach leaps into my throat, my mind racing with the implications.

"Can we at least get two beds?" I ask weakly.

Gina winces. "Unfortunately not. The only room type we have left are king bedrooms. There's a convention in town, and we're overbooked."

My eyes widen in shock as my mind races to process this information. My gaze darts around the stylish lobby, trying to come up with a solution. I can feel my shoulders tense.

One room. One bed.

Ryan, for his part, seems unperturbed. "That's fine," he says calmly, taking the room key from the receptionist. "We'll make it work."

Has this man never seen a romantic comedy?!

And just like that, my carefully laid plans for a simple, straightforward work trip fly straight out the window.