The Christmas You Crash (Going Rogue #2)

Chapter 4

four

LEXI

Stay calm, Lexi.

I repeat the mantra over and over in my head as I tromp down the hallway with one of my dad’s players at my heels. Screaming won’t get me anywhere, and neither will having a full-blown nervous breakdown. So, I’ll make hot chocolate and come up with a nice way to tell Ryder Hanson that he doesn’t have to go home, but he sure as h-e-double-hockey-sticks can’t stay here.

I don’t understand why my dad gave him the keys to the cabin. As far as I know, he’s never done that, and this place is for our family. Not his players. They get enough of his time and resources, thank you very much. He doesn’t need to let them encroach on my physical spaces too.

Acid churns in my gut as I wonder what else he’s doing with his players that he should be doing with me. Does he invite them over for dinner? Do they have movie nights as a team? Are they just one big, dentally challenged family sitting around eating popcorn on his couches while he silently wishes he’d been given a hockey-god son, rather than a needy daughter he’s never understood?

I don’t realize I’m grumbling incoherently under my breath until Ryder’s hesitant voice asks, “Um, are you okay?”

“Fine,” I snap. Okay, then. Remaining civil may be more difficult than I’d hoped, but he saw my tits and bits, and all of this is awkward and frustrating.

Once we’re in the kitchen, I ignore Ryder. Maybe if I can focus on the task at hand, it’ll help me chill out. Because, logically, I know this isn’t his fault. Unfortunately, I’m not working on logic right now. No, right now, I’m feeling an uncomfortable cocktail of hurt and anger. It doesn’t matter that I should be used to my father showing more care and consideration for his players than he ever has for me. It still stings.

“Wait.” I turn to Ryder, the realization hitting me hard. “Were you injured last week during an afternoon game?”

He appears confused, like my question is completely out of left field. And for him, it is. But I just put the pieces together. This is the guy my dad ditched dinner with me for.

“Uh, yeah.” He tugs off his leather gloves, still favoring the hand I hit with the wine bottle. Which makes sense, once I see the bandage wrapped around it. Shit. “Yeah, I caught a blade to the hand. Not fun. Why do you ask?”

He looks so adorably confused, with his brow furrowed and his lips twisted to the side, as he eyes me speculatively. It’s almost too bad that I don’t date hockey players. Ever. And that this particular player has the added strike against him of having earned my dad’s concern when I never have. Not that Ryder would want to date me. That would be crazy.

“He was supposed to have dinner with me that night and stood me up.” I turn my back on him and grab a gallon of milk out of the fridge, pouring enough for a few mugs of hot chocolate into a saucepan. Next, I add a splash of heavy whipping cream, a couple tablespoons of powdered sugar, and just a pinch of powdered espresso and whisk them together. “Guess I know why, now.”

“I’m sorry,” Ryder says quietly. “I didn’t know. Coach never said…”

My laugh is bitter, and I hate the sound of it as it forces its way out of my mouth, but it’s been so many years of this shit. “Of course, he didn’t. Why would he?”

The chocolate is next. I pull the bag of dark chocolate out, along with a cutting board and knife, and begin chopping it into fine pieces while the milk and cream slowly heat.

There’s an awkward silence, followed by the shuffling of feet behind me. Ryder’s voice is gentle when he speaks next. Or maybe that’s just fear. He’s not being considerate, he’s afraid I’m a bomb that’s about to detonate. Which is probably accurate.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“No. This isn’t really a two-person job, and, unless my dad is giving out weekend getaways to our family cabin regularly without my knowledge, you don’t know where anything is.”

“As far as I know, no one else from the team has ever been here. Look, did I do something to offend you?”

He’s trying to be nice. I know he is. But I still scoff because I’m feeling a little tender right now, and I’m not exactly the best version of myself. “Yeah. You barged in on my nice, peaceful getaway, saw me naked, and chased me through the house.”

“To be fair,” he drawls, humor lacing his tone, “you flashed me. It’s not like I was trying to see you naked.”

“Not helping.”

His low chuckle skates over my skin, and I’m glad I’m fully covered in an oversized hoodie because my nipples pebble at the sound and goosebumps break out along my flesh. Dammit. No, Lexi. You cannot be attracted to this guy. He’s off-limits. Forbidden fruit. A hockey douchebag. Your dad’s player.

When tiny bubbles form around the edges of the milk and cream mixture, I add the dark chocolate and stir with a wooden spoon. The smell is rich and heavenly. This recipe is thick and creamy comfort in a cup. I grab cinnamon out of the cabinet and shake a small amount in, then go back to stirring.

“Damn,” Ryder says, “that smells amazing. Where’d you learn how to make it like that?”

“The internet,” I reply. “It’s not hard, and it tastes so much better than the powdered stuff.” I turn to him. If he’s offering to help, I guess I might as well take him up on it and make some whipped cream. “Would you mind gently stirring this?”

“Sure.” Ryder’s icy-blue eyes meet mine and he searches my face. Not that he’ll find anything there. I’ve mostly locked down my emotions by now.

When he steps beside me to take over the stirring duties, I finally get a feel for just how massive he is. He’s got to be around six-five with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and those thick hockey player thighs that strain against what I am just now realizing are gray sweats.

Shit. Do not look at the dick, Lexi. Do not look at the dick.

My eyes drop to his crotch, and the very sizable bulge hidden behind a layer of what can only be described as fleece-lined-lady-catnip, before I can stop myself. Cheeks and lower belly warm, I step away, hoping he didn’t notice me checking out his crotch. His soft chuckle tells me I’m not so lucky, so I busy myself with making the whipped cream.

More heavy whipping cream and powdered sugar go into a bowl, then I grab a whisk and beat the hell out of the mixture. At least it will give me a reason to ignore Ryder and his bulge and get some frustration out at the same time.

“So, what happened to your hand?”

“Oh, uh, got into it with a guy on the opposing team. We used to be close friends in college, but he turned into a real piece of work, and now we end up brawling every time we play. I got shoved onto the ice, and Chase’s skate sliced right through the center of my palm. Pretty fucking deep too. He says it was an accident, but I don’t buy it. I know he did it on purpose.” Though Ryder’s voice is tinged with anger, I can hear the hurt as well. I should know, I’m a pro at masking my hurt with anger. “He could have cost me my career and the use of my dominant hand.”

Ah, crap. Now I don’t feel so smug about hurting him with the wine bottle. “I’m sorry. Are you okay? I hit you with the wine bottle, and it looked like you were in a lot of pain.” I look over my shoulder to steal a glance at him and find Ryder frowning as he stirs the hot chocolate, his attention completely on the thick, dark mixture.

“Didn’t feel great,” he says with a shrug. “But you thought you were in danger, so I can’t be mad at you for it.”

My arm burns as I continue to whisk the whipped cream. “Still, I’m sorry.”

He glances up at me, and my traitorous knees wobble when he gifts me with a melancholy sort of smile. “You’re forgiven. I’m sorry for scaring you and seeing you naked and ruining your peaceful night. I’ll head out as soon as we’ve had hot chocolate. This smells amazing, and I’d leave now, but I really want to try it.”

That earns a chuckle from me as I switch hands to whisk with my left. The cream is getting thicker, but it’s not as fluffy as I’d like. As we lapse into silence once again, it’s less tension-filled. After a few more minutes of stirring, the whipped cream is done. Instructing Ryder to turn the stove off, I pull two mugs from the cabinet before doling out the hot chocolate, scooping a generous serving of whipped cream into both, then sprinkling some chocolate flakes on top.

“Cheers,” I say, clinking my mug against his. “And here’s to never ever telling my dad you saw my tits. Or even that I was here.”

He smiles brilliantly at that little toast. “Cheers. And I definitely never will. I’d like to keep my balls attached to my body.”

We both sip our hot chocolate and let out simultaneous groans of pleasure. Drinking hot cocoa with an attractive stranger isn’t the worst way I could have spent an hour during this long week of solitude, but I can’t forget he’s a hockey player. One of my d ad’s hockey players. And an hour is all we’ll ever have.

I’m ready to go back to the quiet of my regularly scheduled plans. Plans that definitely do not include Ryder Hanson.