Hot Adventures With The Hockey Star

The heavy rubber floor mats of the Westbridge University arena always smelled the same at midnight: frozen iron, machine grease, and sweat.

​I leaned my elbows against the dark wooden desk in the sub-level film room, my eyes burning from the harsh blue light of dual monitors. On the left screen, a high-angle feed of our varsity hockey team was frozen mid-stride. On the right, my custom tactical software mapped out defensive recovery times down to the millisecond.

​I blinked against the dryness in my eyes, reaching for the worn leather binder resting beside my laptop. The corners were frayed, the leather scarred by years of rink moisture, with black sharpie fading across the spine: M.S. – Westbridge Tactical.

​My father’s handwriting.

​Four years ago, my father was the king of this university. He built the varsity program from scrap, drafted the strongest high school recruits in the country, and turned Westbridge into an unstoppable powerhouse. When his heart gave out right on the bench during a overtime playoff game, the university gave him a sleek brass plaque near the main entrance.

​And they gave me a work-study scholarship to sharpen skates, scrub grease off the ice resurfacers, and log video breakdown for the new coaching staff—all while struggling to keep my head above water.

​I tapped the stylus against the tablet, running the video forward three frames. The puck zipped across the blue line into the slot. Number 87 caught it on his backhand with terrifying fluidity, cutting inside two defenders before unleashing a wrist shot that hit the top corner with a sickening clack against the pipe.

​Ryder Callahan.

​The star captain. The NHL’s projected top draft pick. My late father’s prized recruit... and the man who held me in the hallway after the funeral while I sobbed until I couldn't breathe. 

​He was six-foot-three of dark, brooding perfection, possessive energy, and ruthless athletic instinct. Sinfully handsome like an adonis. And for four long, silent years, he was the secret crush I couldn't cut out of my chest no matter how hard I tried. I desired to be his girlfriend and eventually his wife in the future. If only he would notice the signs...

​My phone on the desk buzzed, vibrating against the laminated shift log.

​I flipped it over. A text from the arena night manager: Maya, clear out the broadcast suite on Level 2 before you head home. The media team left their wireless packs on after the victory party.

​I let out a slow exhale, rubbing the small of my back as I stood up. My muscles cramped from sitting six hours straight after a full afternoon shift. Gathering my late father’s binder and my laptop, I slipped them into my heavy canvas bag and pulled on my coat.

​The corridors on Level 2 were dimmed to a dull emergency amber. The victory party for the team’s pre-season showcase had wrapped up hours ago, leaving the smell of stale champagne and expensive cologne hanging in the hallway.

​I pushed open the door to the secondary broadcast suite, reaching for the wall switch to kill the main console.

​That was when I heard it...

​A low, rhythmic murmur echoing through the connecting glass doorway that led to the VIP lounge.

​"Oh... God, Ryder... don't stop..."

​My fingers froze against the plastic switch. The blood in my veins turned to liquid nitrogen in a fraction of a second.

​"You're so hard..." a girl's voice whimpered, thick, raspy, and loud enough to vibrate off the soundproof glass. " harder, baby...Oh my god I'm gonna fucking cum again..."

​A heavy, breathless groan followed—a deep, gravelly baritone that I would recognize in the middle of a screaming crowd of ten thousand people.

​Ryder.

​My lungs completely seized. I couldn't draw in air. It felt as if someone had slammed a lead pipe directly into my sternum, shattering every rib in my chest.

​I stood paralyzed in the dim light of the control room. Through the semi-transparent acoustic curtains covering the suite door, the shadows were unmistakably clear. A tall, massive frame pressed against the plush leather sofa, a girl draped across his lap, her hands tangled in his thick, dark hair.

​Bianca.

​My roommate. The daughter of the Chicago Bruins' primary shareholder, and the girl who treated the world like her personal playground.

​The thudding against the leather couch grew faster, more reckless. She was getting thoroughly satisfied, her sharp moans rising in pitch, practically taunting the quiet room.

​Get out, my brain screamed at me. Grab your bag, walk out the door, and run.

​Instead, my foot caught the edge of an unhooked audio cable coiled near the floor. The heavy metal jack clattered sharply against the bare tile floor.

​The sounds in the next room stopped instantly.

​Silence fell over the suite like a dropped curtain.

​I scrambled backward, grabbing my canvas bag, but before I could take two steps towards the exit corridor, the connecting glass door burst open.

​Bianca stood in the frame. Her dark hair was wildly tossed, her silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to expose her collarbones, and her eyes wide with initial shock.

​Then, her gaze landed on me. On my pale face, my trembling hands clutching my bag, and the sheer, exposed agonizing truth shining in my eyes.

​A slow, toxic smirk spread across Bianca’s glossy lips.

​"Well, well, well," Bianca purred, stepping into the broadcast suite and leaning against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest. "Look who's slinking around in the dark."

​"I was clearing the audio packs for the manager," I said, my voice coming out raspy and tight. I swallowed hard, trying to force my throat to work. "I'm leaving."

​"Are you?" Bianca mocked, taking two slow steps toward me. Her heels clicked sharply on the tile. "Or were you standing here listening like a desperate little brat?"

​"Keep your private business in your own apartment, Bianca," I retorted, injecting as much coldness into my tone as humanly possible, even as my internal world crumbled into ash.

​"Oh stop the tough girl act, Maya," Bianca sneered, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper that cut straight to the bone. "You think I haven't seen the way you look at him? You actually thought because your dead daddy brought him here, you had some kind of claim on him?"

​The slap of her words felt like a physical blow. My fists clenched so tightly inside my jacket pockets that my nails bit deeply into my palms.

​"He doesn't look at you like a woman, Maya," Bianca whispered, stepping close enough that her expensive floral perfume filled my lungs, mixing with the lingering scent of Ryder's cold cedar cologne. "He looks at you like a chore. A charity case his father pays for out of pity. When he touches me, he isn't thinking about you. He doesn't care about you. He touches me in ways you can never imagine. Stop loving him Maya. He belongs to me now."

​"Get out of her way, Bianca."

​The deep, gravelly voice cut through the air like a rusty blade.

​My breath hitched.

​Ryder stepped through the glass doorway. He was broad-shouldered, towering over the threshold, his dark hair disheveled and dark gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips. His chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged cycles, his jaw set so hard the jawline looked like carved granite.

​He didn't look at Bianca. He didn't even acknowledge her presence.

​His dark, intense eyes locked directly onto my face. He took in my pale skin, my tight jaw, and the unshed tears I was desperately fighting to keep from spilling over.

​"Ryder, sweetie," Bianca immediately whined, putting on a pouting smile as she turned to grip his bare bicep. "She was sneaking around outside the lounge, listening to us. She's completely lost—"

​"I said get out, Bianca," Ryder growled. It wasn't a shout; it was a low, terrifying baritone that carried a weight so heavy it made the air in the room drop five degrees.

​Bianca blinked, her smooth smile freezing. "What? Ryder, she—"

​"Go to the car," Ryder repeated, his gaze staying entirely, obsessively glued to me. "Now."

​Bianca’s face flushed a deep, humiliating red. She glared at me with pure venom, her heels clicking violently as she grabbed her designer coat off the couch, slamming the outer door behind her so hard the acoustic paneling rattled.

​The silence that followed was suffocating.

​Ryder didn't move for three long heartbeats. Then, he stepped fully into the broadcast room.

​He reached behind his back, pulled the heavy soundproof door shut, and turned the lock.

​The sharp click of the deadbolt echoed in the quiet room like a gunshot.

​"What are you doing, Ryder?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans. I took a step back until the edge of the editing console dug sharply into my spine. "You need to leave. Go back to your girlfriend."

​He didn't answer. He walked toward me, slow, deliberate, and broad enough to cut off every exit in the room. He stopped less than an inch away from me, the heat radiating off his body hitting me in waves. He smelled of sweat, ice, and that agonizingly familiar cedar scent that had invaded my dreams for four straight years.

​Ryder reached out. His large, calloused hand was warm as his fingers wrapped around my jaw, his thumb catching my lower lip and tilting my face up, forcing me to meet his dark, stormy gaze.

​His eyes searched mine, raw, dangerous, and possessively intense.

​"What did she just say to you, Maya?" he whispered, his voice dipping low, rough and thick. His thumb brushed slowly across my bottom lip, sending a sudden, agonizing spark of electricity straight to my core. "Look at me and tell me."