Confessions of a Former Puck Bunny (Taking Shots)

by Madsen, Cindi

  “Anyway, I better get going.” I started past him, deciding I’d come back tomorrow, but he gently caught my arm.

  “Didn’t you need help? I’ve got some time.”

  I glanced back at the dynamic math-tutoring duo, thinking I’d rather take my chances with them, because at least I wasn’t attracted to either one. The simplest touch from Ryder made me think about how he’d gotten the calluses on his fingertips, which in turn caused me to picture him on the ice with his hockey stick in hand, and then there were definite heart palpitations. This boy was dangerous with a capital D. Except I’d edit that out, because it’d look weird on the page.

  Focus, Lindsay, focus. I licked my lips, working to form words.

  “I can tell you’re trying to make up some excuse, so let me save you the trouble. You and I are going to that table right there”—Ryder jerked his chin toward the back of the room—“and I’m going to tutor you.”

  I let out a shallow breath, unable to ignore the heat of his hand seeping deeper into my skin, but doing my best not to show how much he affected me. “What makes you think that regardless of the many people who’ve tried—and failed—to teach me math, you’ll be the one to succeed?”

  “Because once I set my mind on something, I do whatever it takes to achieve it.” Not a single blink, his gaze so steady I fought the urge to squirm. “Tell you what. If I can’t help you understand at least one concept you’re struggling with, I’ll leave you alone.”

  A strange clash of relief and disappointment went through me. Leaving me alone would help my resolve to not crush on him, but part of me died a little at the thought.

  “But…if you do understand your assignment by the end of our session, I get your phone number.”

  My pulse beat faster and faster. That was a bad, tempting, horrible idea. At the same time, I was at the end of my rope. I was close to failing a class I needed to graduate, and I couldn’t afford doing a take two of my senior year. Honestly, I couldn’t afford this one, but thanks to loans I was squeaking by.

  What did I have to lose? Besides an hour of wrestling my unwanted attraction to Ryder, but so far I’d done okay-ish in that area. And I could always ignore his phone calls if it came to that. “One hour,” I said.

  He glanced around and then leaned in, as if we’d made some kind of backroom deal. “One hour,” he echoed, and something about the way he said it sounded way too delicious to possibly involve anything math related.

  Chapter Two

  Ryder

  What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t good at making conversation, especially with this beautiful girl who seemed pretty uninterested in me every time I’d tried to get her to hang out. But once in a while I caught her checking me out—like a minute ago when I leaned against the door—which kept me holding on to that glimmer of hope.

  I followed her as she weaved around unoccupied tables with chairs all askew, my knees constantly bumping into something in the way-too-narrow aisle.

  As a guy who slammed grown men into the boards on a regular basis, I was familiar with people who were hard to pin down, but Lindsay took things to a whole new level. After weeks spent trying to find out more about her, I’d told myself I should move on already, but I couldn’t quite convince myself to walk away. Once I set my mind on something I never gave up, no matter how shitty the odds. But if I struck out tonight, I supposed it was time to listen to my roommate and teammate, Dane, and let go of my crush on Lindsay Rivera, who apparently hated all hockey players, end of story.

  My gut tightened, and instead of dwelling on that, I decided to switch to playing offense for a while, and make every second we had right now count. Taking advantage of the excuse to touch her, I placed my hand on the small of her back and pulled out a chair for her.

  I noticed Brittany scowling at her, but I didn’t have time to wonder what that was about. I had sixty minutes to teach Lindsay math, and somewhere along the way we were going to have a decent conversation that would make her want to have another.

  I couldn’t explain exactly what it was about Lindsay—her tan skin, the deep-brown eyes that were a shade darker than her long, silky-looking hair, and the pouty lips I couldn’t stop staring at were definitely part of it. All of that aside, there was something besides beauty that drew me to her.

  The first time I’d seen her was when we’d burst into the offices of the Heights to “kidnap” Whitney so that Hudson could win back his girl. Lindsay had looked ready to leap over the desk and take us on to protect her friends, and part of me had wanted to tell her to bring it, just so I could see that fiery passion in action.

  After that, I searched out her articles and read a few of them, which only amped up my intrigue. I liked the way she put things. Most of my life I’d done my best to not rock the boat, because the waters were already plenty rocky, so I liked that she obviously cared about a lot of issues and wasn’t afraid to let people know it.

  I’d gone out of my way to talk to her, but she hadn’t exactly reciprocated. But she did come to the party at the Quad I’d invited her to, and there was a connection between us, one I hadn’t felt before.

  We’d shared a smile partway through a game of flip cup, and I thought I’d finally cracked the angry front she threw up. Then she’d bolted.

  Judging from how she’d hidden from me and then tried to flee a moment ago, she did that a lot. She was one complicated girl, and I liked solving equations that seemed impossible. Logically, I knew I should just let it go because with playoffs coming up, the last thing I had time for was a distraction. Even a super sexy one.

  As she twisted to unzip her bag, the back of her shirt rose a couple of inches, displaying a strip of skin that sported ink, and I was definitely distracted. Screw logic. I wanted to know what she’d had tattooed on her body. If she had any others. How soft her skin was…

  I could hear my dad’s voice in my head, telling me not to let a “skirt” get in the way of my future, as if all my hard work could disappear because I let myself care about anything but hockey for two seconds.

  More often than not, the fatherly part of his personality was MIA, leaving only the former NHL star who’d lived and breathed the game and accepted nothing less than perfection. No longer having him as my coach was a blessing, but that didn’t stop him from calling to tell me what I could improve on, or keep me from hearing his words in my mind sometimes, usually when I least wanted to.

  My head’s still in the game. Frozen Four or bust. The team won the NCAA Division I Hockey Tournament last year, but as a freshman, I’d sat the bench for most of the season and all but ninety seconds of that game.

  Lindsay opened her book, and I scooted closer—I needed to see her assignment, after all. The fact that being this close made it easy to inhale her perfume and study her profile was just a bonus.

  She twisted her face toward mine. “For the record, I do very well in my other classes.”

  “I believe you,” I said. Then I added, “For the record,” the way I’d done that night at the Quad. The tiniest smile touched her lips, and I considered that a win.

  Over the years, I’d taken the smallest victories—like even getting to play ninety seconds of a championship game—and worked my ass off to turn those into more. It was how I’d gone from a scrawny kid who face-planted whenever anyone skated too close to a big dude who could skate across the ice and use his weight to force other guys to move—or not move—the way he wanted them to. It was why I was the youngest starter on the team, and I planned to break as many records as possible during my college career.

  Once I went pro, I also planned to break more NHL records than my dad. Maybe if he didn’t have anything to hold over me, he’d finally recognize how far I’d come, and that I’d done at least some of it on my own merits.

  Lindsay detailed her assignment, and I tried to focus on the words instead of the way her lips formed them. With that out of the way, we started in on her first problem, but partway through, she growled and tossed her p
encil. “Math makes me feel stupid, and I really hate to feel stupid.”

  “Not understanding something isn’t the same as stupid. Basically, right now, you and math are just not…simpatico.”

  She raised an eyebrow at me. “Are you trying to use Spanish in an attempt to make me feel better just because I’m Hispanic?”

  “Do you speak Spanish?”

  “Yes,” she said, and for such a little word she managed to pack a whole lot of go-ahead-and-make-my-day-and-say-the-wrong-thing-about-it into it.

  “Then definitely not. My Spanish is muy poquito and sorta mal. But I have to take two credits, and I’m working my way through it.”

  “Well, I was going to point out that in Spanish, simpatico doesn’t mean getting along. It means nice. And in that case, I’d use it more like math is not very simpatico to me. But since you’re using the Merriam-Webster definition, you used it properly.”

  I made a big show of wiping the back of my forehead with my hand. “Phew. That was a close one. Do you edit everyone when they attempt talk to you? Or am I special?”

  She scowled at me. Looks like she enjoys teasing about as much as math. Since this conversation wasn’t earning me any brownie points, I picked up her pencil and walked her through the problem.

  Her knee pressed into my thigh and her arm brushed mine as I made a few more scribbles with the pencil. I swallowed, my thundering pulse making it harder to concentrate on the actual math. I explained the last step and then underlined the solution. “Does that make sense?”

  “The way gibberish does,” she said, but then she took the pencil from me and started the next problem. I was about to point out she’d skipped a step, but she caught it and fixed it.

  “Now how do you say tomato?” I asked, nudging her with my elbow. “Fun, huh?”

  Her forehead scrunched up and then dawning overcame her features, as she realized it was a throwback to our earlier conversation. A reluctant smile curved her lips. “I say it the same way I did before. Math sucks—I’m never taking it back.”

  “Math’s offended. He says he’s trying really hard, but you’re not an easy girl to get through to.”

  Lindsay leaned closer to me, close enough I could see the darker rim of brown around her lighter irises. “Does math want me to be easy? Because I’m not.”

  Finally, we’re getting somewhere.

  “Math wouldn’t mind that—he doesn’t judge, either way, just to be clear—but he already got that message when you wouldn’t play flip cup with him.” Flirting with her was so easy, my words coming out before I even thought about holding back. Good thing, because after focusing on hockey, hockey, and more hockey to cement my position on the team this past year, I was a bit rusty. Honestly, I’d never done the official dating thing. I stuck to off-season and casual, because my life never allowed for much more.

  Her mouth dropped. “I’m starting to suspect this conversation isn’t about math at all!” A laugh escaped her lips and she shook her head, and all I wanted was to make her laugh again.

  “I better, uh, start on the next problem,” she said, pulling from our intimate bubble to write out the next equation.

  In this moment, math did suck. I owed it for allowing me to get this close to Lindsay in the first place, but it’d be great if it stopped cockblocking me about now.

  If only I hadn’t exhausted all my conversation efforts in that one admittedly super-nerdy attempt. Usually I heard my dad’s disappointed voice in my head when I failed at something, but Dane’s voice popped into my head instead. Bro, you really need to work on your moves. Besides, I told you that Lindsay Rivera would never go for you.

  His nearly impossible situation with our teammate’s little sister had worked out, so maybe it wasn’t as hopeless as it seemed.

  We covered the rest of the problems, went over a few of the concepts she stumbled over, and my determination to break through this girl’s tough exterior and figure her out only grew stronger.

  At the end of the hour I held my breath, wondering if she’d tell me my time was up and I’d failed—even though I saw that she understood more than she had when we’d first sat down.

  She bit her lip and I’d never been so jealous of someone else’s teeth before. “Okay, so I do kind of sort of understand this particular concept better now.”

  “But you still don’t have anything nice to say to math?”

  “If he’s holding his breath for an apology, then good, because he’ll be dead soon and I’ll never have to look at another equation again.”

  I put a hand over my chest. “Harsh.”

  “As for the messenger…” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, not looking directly at me but more in my general direction. “Thanks, Ryder. You’re a surprisingly good teacher.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, basking in the jolt of pleasure hearing my name on her lips brought on and ignoring the “surprisingly.” I didn’t mind blunt or honest. I’d rather that than play a guessing game, although Lindsay was still a mystery. In the moments she laughed and fired off those quick comebacks, I was sure she felt the same spark I did, but before she let herself fully enjoy it, she’d quickly pull away. Almost like she was forever playing defense, and as a guy who specialized in that, I supposed I was just foolish enough to think I could break through if I found the right play.

  “So, if a girl was in need of a tutor, how would she go about figuring out if she could even make it work with what I assume is a hectic, hockey-filled schedule?”

  There was my opening, and I planned to charge through with all the grace of a bull in heat. “Hypothetically speaking, if said girl was you, I’d find a way to fit you into my schedule, no matter how hectic. It would probably also be easier if we exchanged numbers, but I’m not going to hold you to giving yours to me. Even though my tutoring skills are obviously off the hook.”

  As she fought the smile that clearly wanted to break free, she tapped the end of her pencil on the desk, the tapping noise causing Brittany to look our way and scowl, although Lindsay didn’t seem to notice.

  “A deal’s a deal.” She handed her phone to me, the cursor blinking in the section for the phone number. “Plus, it would be handy to have a way to contact my math tutor.”

  I didn’t miss the way she’d emphasized those words, but I didn’t let it phase me. I inputted my number and then texted myself so I’d have hers.

  And with a little extra persistence, this D-man just scored…

  Chapter Three

  Lindsay

  I’d always claimed that no matter how good the teacher was, I’d never understand math, and that was all there was to it. Up until the other night, that’d been true. It wasn’t like I suddenly understood everything about algebra—as convenient as that’d be—but I’d be lying if I said that Ryder’s tutoring session was like every other one I’d experienced.

  For one, I’d never been so aware of every inch of my tutor, from the ridiculously blue eyes to the thigh that’d pressed against mine every time he’d leaned in to explain a concept to the toes that tapped out a rhythm while waiting for me to solve the problem. Somehow it’d been soothing instead of annoying, like he was perfectly happy to be there patiently waiting to provide help whenever I needed it.

  And for two, even when I did need help, he never made me feel stupid.

  Still, I shouldn’t actually text him to see when we could do it again, even if I’d gotten every homework answer right, which had never happened before. I’d already learned my lesson about guys I was so wildly attracted to that my common sense took a vacation. Getting burned hurt, and a big no thanks to going through that again.

  I controlled my interactions with guys. I didn’t rely on them for anything and that made me stronger and more focused. All things I needed to be to survive my last semester.

  I returned my attention to the computer screen in front of me, scrutinizing the layout for the next edition of the Heights. Whitney’s article called to me, and I clicked on it. Over
the past several months she’d become a great sports writer, and as I read her words I could vividly picture the game. Could smell the ice, feel the chilly air in the arena on my skin, hear the zing of skates, and that loud slap hockey sticks made when players fought for control of the puck.

  The image in my mind shifted so I could see the guys holding the sticks, all the gear they wore making them look that much bigger. But even when they took off those pads, there’d be rippling muscles and scars from past games. There’d be unbridled testosterone crackling through the air, just waiting to be released in other ways.

  My internal temperature shot through the roof, and I quickly minimized the screen and reached for my water bottle. It wasn’t nearly cold enough to calm my raging hormones.

  Confession #3: I’m still ridiculously attracted to hockey players, and sometimes, in my weaker moments, I Google images of famous ones to get my fix.

  I told myself that I was playing with fire, but I also rationalized that if I stuck to NHL players, I wouldn’t fall into old habits. It wasn’t like I’d see one of them strolling around campus.

  Unlike the guys on the Boston College hockey team. Those were the guys you ran into walking to class, or say, bumped into after you’d hidden from them for the express purpose of not spending the next few days thinking way too much about them.

  That’s it. No matter how good Ryder Maddox is at helping me with math, I need to find a different way to pass my class.

  Where’s the nearest crossroads? I’m not using my soul all that much anyway.

  Since I couldn’t do anything more with the next edition of Heights until the article I’d edited earlier this afternoon came back, I pulled out my math book and flipped to my next assignment. The library was no longer a safe zone, which meant I’d risk my ass fusing to my chair and stay in the newspaper office for another hour or so to get a jump on the homework that was due in two days.