14. Emma

Ryanand I head toward the gleaming silver elevators. I spot Ryan and myself in the mirrored walls, his strong form towering over me. My mind spins thinking about the situation awaiting us upstairs. I never imagined we'd end up in such…intimate accommodations together.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't noticed how his muscular frame fills out a suit, or the intensity of his brown eyes when they lock with mine.

Why are all the guys on this hockey team so freaking hot?!

I bite my lip as we step into the elevator, trying to tame my racing thoughts. It's not like anything can actually happen between us. I mean, yes, maybe I've dabbled in some extracurricular activities with Lukas and Alex—but that's all very new and casual. We're nowhere near defining things or having The Talk.

Hooking up with a third coworker would be ridiculous. Unthinkable.

Deeply hot.

I groan internally at myself.

This thing with Ryan has to stay completely platonic.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. I follow Ryan down the generic hotel hallway, the plush carpet muffling our footsteps. He swipes the keycard and pushes open the door to our room. I step inside and can't contain a small gasp.

The room is surprisingly spacious and modern, with sleek dark wood furniture and accents of deep blue. Floor to ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the glittering Detroit skyline. But what immediately draws my eye is the room's centerpiece—the single king-sized bed, adorned with plump white pillows and a fluffy duvet that I long to sink into.

Ryan immediately turns to me, his brow creased with concern. "Hey, don't worry, I'll take the floor. You should have the bed."

"What? Ryan, no, I can't let you sleep on the floor!" I protest, even as a warmth blooms in my chest at his thoughtfulness. "Seriously, I don't mind sharing…"

If only he knew the truth to that.

Ryan shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Emma, I insist. You take the bed. I'll be perfectly fine, I promise."

"Are you sure?" I search his face. "I really don't want you to be uncomfortable."

His smile widens. "I'm positive."

I feel myself melting a little at his chivalry, at the way he's putting my needs first. Here he is, this hotshot NHL star who could have anyone he wants, putting himself out for little ol' me. Once again, he's defying all my preconceived notions about how a celebrity athlete should act.

"Well, thank you," I say softly, hoping my voice conveys the genuine gratitude I feel. "I really appreciate it."

"Anytime." His eyes hold mine, dark and intense, and for a charged moment, I forget how to breathe. I lick my suddenly dry lips.

Then Ryan blinks, and the spell is broken. He clears his throat. "Right, well, we should probably get settled in."

"Yeah, definitely," I agree quickly, my cheeks flushing hot.

I open my suitcase and start unpacking, but I can't ignore the way my pulse pounds and my stomach flutters at the prospect of spending the night mere feet away from this beautiful, enigmatic, utterly tempting man.

I busy myself hanging up my clothes in the small hotel room closet, trying to calm the racing of my heart. Behind me, I hear the rustle of Ryan unpacking his own bag. The domesticity of it all, the intimacy, makes me hyper-aware of his presence.

When I can't avoid it any longer, I grab my toiletry bag and slip into the bathroom to freshen up before dinner. I splash some cool water on my heated face, trying to get a grip.

As I emerge, I catch sight of Ryan in the mirror. He's changed into a fitted polo that hugs his broad shoulders and muscular chest in all the right ways. My mouth goes dry as my eyes trace the divots and planes of his impressive physique. God, this man is beautiful.

Averting my gaze, I busy myself with putting away my toiletries, but I can feel his eyes on me, an almost palpable caress against my skin. A whisper of desire unfurls in my belly, despite how hard I try to tamp it down.

"You ready for dinner?" His deep voice rumbles through me.

I turn to him and nod, not quite trusting myself to speak. My stomach chooses that moment to let out an embarrassingly loud growl.

Ryan's lips quirk in a grin. "I take that as a resounding yes?"

I laugh, the desire diffusing slightly. "What can I say, it's been a long day. I'm famished."

He chuckles, eyes sparkling with mirth and something harder to define. "Well, I know just the place. Trust me?"

"Always," I reply automatically, startling myself with how much I mean it. When did that happen?

Something flickers across his handsome face too quick for me to decipher. He clears his throat. "You ever been to Coney Island?"

I blink at the seemingly random question. "In New York? No, I haven't. What about it?"

His grin turns mischievous. "You'll see. Come on."

And with that cryptic statement, he's ushering me out the door, one warm hand at the small of my back. That simple touch is enough to set my nerve endings aflame.

The Coney Island restaurant is a bustling throwback to simpler times - cherry red vinyl booths, black and white checkered floors, and the tantalizing aroma of grilled hot dogs and French fries. I slide into the booth across from Ryan, our knees bumping under the cramped table.

"So this is a Coney Island," I muse, glancing over the laminated menu. "Chili dogs and root beer floats. Color me intrigued."

Ryan grins, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "Every kid from Detroit has a soft spot for Coney dogs. My family didn't have a lot growing up, but we'd come here for special occasions. Birthdays, good report cards, stuff like that."

There's a wistful note in his deep voice that makes my heart squeeze. I've always seen Ryan as this imposing, chiseled machine on the ice. But in this moment, I catch a glimpse of the scrappy boy underneath, the one who fought tooth and nail for every opportunity.

"Are your folks still in the area? Planning to see them before we leave tomorrow?" I ask.

Ryan's gaze drops to the paper placemat and he starts fiddling with the straw in his water glass. "Ah, no. My dad passed from cancer when I was in college. Mom's remarried and living in Florida now. So it's just me and my little sister these days."

"I'm so sorry, Ryan." Without thinking, I reach across and lay my hand over his. "I lost my parents young too. It's really hard, being on your own like that."

He meets my eyes, surprised and appreciative. "Thanks, Emma. Most people don't get it. They think because I ‘made it', I should be over it. But it never really goes away, you know?"

"Believe me, I know." I squeeze his hand. A beat passes, filled with mutual understanding.

Then I take a breath and decide to open up to him. "Can I tell you something? My dad was a hockey coach."

Ryan's eyebrows shoot up. "No kidding? Who?"

"Jack Collins."

"Holy shit, the legendary Blizzards head coach Jack Collins was your dad?" Ryan gapes at me. "Why doesn't everyone know this? It all makes sense now—why you love the game so much, why you know it inside and out…"

"I don't exactly advertise it." I shrug uncomfortably. "I want people to respect me for my work, not my name. Hockey is in my blood and all I've wanted my whole life was to work for the Blizzards, but I wanted to earn it, not be handed it because of my dad's legacy or because people pitied me. You have to keep this between us, okay?"

"Yeah, of course." He mimes locking his lips and tossing away the key. "Your secret's safe with me."

Ryan gives me an assessing look, one that I'm used to receiving once people learn about my dad. It's usually followed by a look of pity—poor Emma Collins, orphaned when her parents died in a horrific plane crash. But to my immense relief, there's no pity at all in Ryan's eyes. In fact, I feel like I've grown in his esteem.

I feel myself relax. Somehow, I know I can trust Ryan. Under that brawny exterior, he's deeply principled.

The waitress appears to take our order, and the moment passes, but I feel like a wall has come down between us. Like maybe he sees me—just Emma, not the person who's been sent by the PR team to manage him—for the first time.

"So you love hockey and are from a legacy family…why didn't you want to work in strategy or coaching or something?" he asks. "Why marketing?"

I shrug. "Well, I wasn't ever able to play women's hockey because I have asthma. And yeah, I've seen more games than I could possibly count, and I have a lot of opinions on plays. But look around, how many women in coaching positions do you see? Maybe I could use my dad's name to get my foot in the door but…" I grimace. "That's just so not me. Marketing seemed like a guaranteed way that I could get myself into the industry on my own."

Ryan nods thoughtfully. "I guess it's probably tough to break into coaching when there aren't a lot of women paving the path. And you do seem to like what you do."

I smile. "I do! And I'm able to put those would-be coaching skills to work after-hours when I'm dominating my fantasy hockey league."

He laughs. Our food shows up, but as Ryan digs into his chili cheese fries and I devour my Coney dog, we keep talking.

"So tell me about this sister of yours," I say between bites.

Ryan lights up as he describes Rosie—a brilliant college student finishing the last year of her philosophy masters before moving to Chicago.

"No way, I was a philosophy minor!" I exclaim.

"Me too," Ryan chuckles, and before I can stop it, I feel my eyebrows raise. "Crazy, right? Guess I'm not just a dumb jock after all…"

"I never thought that," I protest, even as I kick myself internally. Because I'm realizing that I did assume Ryan was all brawn, no brain. God, I can be a judgmental ass sometimes.

We launch into a spirited discussion of Kirkegaard and Sartre, Nietzsche and de Beauvoir. Ryan matches me point for point, leaving me feeling unbalanced in the best possible way. Listening to him wax poetic about existentialism, I'm struck by a wave of attraction so strong it steals my breath.

I take a long sip of my root beer float, trying to cool the heat rising in my cheeks. As a silence stretches between us, I decide to broach the elephant in the room.

"Ryan, I have to ask. What's the deal with you and Lukas?"

He tenses, his knuckles whitening around his glass.

"Sorry, you don't have to answer that," I backpedal quickly. "Not my business."

"No, it's fine," he sighs. "Ancient history. I need to get over it already." He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. "Back in college, Lukas hooked up with my girlfriend at the time. I was visiting Slade at school and brought Madison with me…and she cheated on me. With him. I caught them in the act."

"Oh, Ryan. I'm so sorry." My chest tightens imagining a younger, even more earnest Ryan having his heart shattered.

"I was an idiot. A naive idiot." He shakes his head ruefully.

"You were betrayed. By Madison and by Lukas. You didn't deserve that," I say fiercely. I know that I've just started seeing Lukas, but now that I've gotten to know Ryan on this level, I can't help the indignation rising up in me. What the hell was Lukas thinking?!

I need to get Lukas's side of the story, if he has one. Being a playboy is one thing, but I don't mess around with cheaters. But that's something for another day. Right now, I just want to focus on this soulful, magnetic man sitting across from me.

"I need to find a way to let it go and be professional," Ryan says. "It's fucking with our line chemistry, I know that."

I'm speechless for a moment, impressed by his clear-eyed self-awareness.

"That shows a lot of growth and maturity, Ryan," I say softly. Impulsively, I reach for his hand again.

This time, he interlaces his fingers with mine. My skin sparks at the contact, and I have to bite back a gasp. His hands are so big, his skin work-roughened and warm. I have the wild urge to bring his knuckles to my lips…

My insanity is interrupted by our waitress setting down our desserts.

I mentally shake myself and pull back, grabbing my spoon to attack my extravagant root beer float.

The night wears on, our empty dessert dishes pushed to the side, as Ryan and I linger in the cozy vinyl booth. I've lost track of how many beers we've had, but a pleasant warmth suffuses my body, making me loose and pliant. Every accidental brush of Ryan's arm against mine sends tingles across my skin.

Finally, Ryan glances at his watch and sighs. "We should probably head back. Early morning tomorrow."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Back at our hotel, the short walk down the hallway to our room is charged. I'm acutely aware of Ryan's tall, solid presence beside me, the spicy, masculine scent of his cologne.

What might happen when we're finally alone?

At our door, Ryan fumbles with the key card, his hand brushing against mine as he pushes it open. The fleeting contact makes me inhale sharply, my eyes jumping to his. In the dim light of the hallway, his gaze is molten.

We hover on the threshold, the moment stretching taut between us. I can hardly breathe. My eyes flicker down to his sensual mouth, my own lips parting on a shallow exhale. Unconsciously, I sway towards him, drawn like a moth to his flame.

And then his control seems to snap. His strong hands cup my face as he swiftly closes the distance, slanting his mouth hungrily over mine. I moan into the kiss, my fingers clenching in his shirt. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I open for him eagerly, desperate to taste him. He walks me backward into the room, kicking the door shut, never breaking our fevered kiss.

Oh god, I'm insane, I think wildly before all rational thought flees, lost in a maelstrom of sensation and need. There's only Ryan's lips moving urgently against mine, his hard body pressing me into the wall, his hands skimming my curves.

We break apart, panting harshly. My body is alive, arousal pulsing between my legs. I stare at him with dazed eyes, my lips kiss-swollen. His hair is mussed, eyes blazing with want. But there's a question there too. Waiting for me to decide how far this goes.

In this charged moment, I know with bone-deep certainty that I want him. Consequences be damned.

Slowly, I start unbuttoning my blouse.