The Christmas You Crash (Going Rogue #2)

Chapter 7

seven

LEXI

I wake to a world filled with white. It’s almost enough to banish the early-dawn darkness. Snow still falls outside the massive wall of windows in the main bedroom. The trees are heavy with it, their branches sagging beneath the weight of the magical fluff, twisting their forms into something otherworldly. It’s also quite cold. Putting a wall of windows in a bedroom like this is gorgeous, but man, can it make getting out of bed in the winter a nearly impossible task. Especially when the floors are gleaming oak wood, with only area rugs to break up the chilly surface.

My phone tells me it’s only six a.m., and I consider going back to sleep. Except, I promised my best friend, Rachel, I’d text her once I got here, and I haven’t. By my best guess, I’ve got two more hours before she FaceTimes me to check for proof of life. I’ll text her. But first, I decide to do a bit of internet stalking to learn about my unexpected cabinmate.

The first thing I check out is Ryder’s Instagram account. You can tell a lot about a professional athlete based on what they post. Are they focused on their sport? Or is every third photo of them drinking and partying? Is there a half-naked woman clinging to them in every frame?

Ryder’s account is surprisingly wholesome. At least, the stuff he posts. I click on a photo of him training at the gym, and holy crap. The women in his comments are thirsty . The clip of Ryder sailing a wrist shot through the five-hole is impressive as hell, but again, the comments are filled with women telling him he can shoot his puck into their goal or commenting on how well he handles his massive stick. It’s cringey as hell, and I wonder how anyone can post crap like that without dying of embarrassment.

The comments lead me down a rabbit hole, and soon, I’m trolling Ryder Hanson social media fan groups and contemplating the life choices that brought me there. I want to unsee some of the gross things people have said about him.

When I can’t stand to read a single additional comment objectifying the man who was nothing but polite to me last night, despite the awkwardness of our situation, I close out of my browser. Still nestled under my blankets, I open my messages app and shoot off a text.

Me

Hey. Sorry I didn’t text last night. I’m here, safe and sound, but there were some complications.

Immediately, the ellipsis that tells me Rachel is responding flashes across the screen. I should have guessed she’d be up already. She has a marketing internship that doesn’t break for Christmas. Knowing my best friend, she’s probably already power walking through downtown Chicago on the more than mile-long hike between her apartment and her work. I don’t know how she does it, but Rachel wakes up at four in the morning five days a week for her internship.

Rach

Thank god you’re all right. I was worried a yeti got you or something. They have those in MN, right? LOL.

Me

Ha ha.

Complications? Spill it, Alexis.

She must have been worried. Rachel only calls me Alexis when she’s pissed or exasperated.

Me

Well, there’s no yeti, but there is a hockey player. And I did think he was going to murder me for a minute there.

Those three little dots flash across the screen, disappear, then flash again.

Rach

WHAT? Explain. Now.

Me

Well, seems Dear Old Dad gave his set of keys to the cabin to one of his players. My dad must have a real interest in this one, because he banished Ryder to the cabin when he almost got into a fight with some rival who injured him on the ice. I walked inside after a naked dip in the hot tub and found a massive stranger wearing leather gloves standing there.

You accused him of being a serial killer, didn’t you?

In my defense, he LOOKED like a serial killer.

You have got to stop listening to so many true-crime podcasts.

Never. But that’s not the worst of it.

Oh, god. Do I want to know?

He saw me naked.

WHAT?

I threw my wineglass and bottle at him, and when he didn’t run away, I got ready to fight for my life and accidentally dropped my towel.

Is he hot?

What difference does that make? I tell you this complete stranger I thought was going to garrote me saw me naked, and your first question is if he’s hot?

I think it’s a totally valid question. I’m trying to decide if this is the plot of a holiday rom-com or a holiday slasher flick.

Neither. God, you suck.

So, what happened? Did he leave?

I wish. His car got stuck. We’re snowed in together.

He’s hot, isn’t he?

Fine. Yes. He’s hot. Are you happy?

Very. Because you’re living a rom-com. Which is great, because it’s been way too long since you cut loose and got some dick.

I’ve dated plenty of guys.

Not since you started your master’s.

Whatever. That doesn’t matter, because I’m sure as hell not doing anything with my dad’s player.

Maybe the best way to get your dad’s attention is by banging one of his players. It’s pretty much the only angle you haven’t tried.

No. There will be no banging.

Famous last words. Listen, Lex, I gotta go, but I want updates. At least twice daily. I love you. Be safe.

Love you too. Talk soon.

Locking my phone, I stare at the ceiling. I should get up, but I don’t want to leave the comfort of the blankets I’ve been nesting under. Unfortunately, my bladder has other plans. A minute later, I almost leave the bathroom without washing my face or dragging a comb through my tangled hair before remembering my uninvited guest. Guess I should at least look somewhat presentable. I don’t want to care what Ryder thinks about me, but I also don’t want to scare him half to death by walking out of here looking like some grouchy yeti. Stupid Rachel, putting yetis in my head.

And I am grouchy. The moment I remember the too-attractive, hockey-playing interloper sleeping down the hall, my mood sours. Although he said he’d stay out of my way, I’m going to feel obligated to include him. I might not like it, but that’s just who I am. A reluctant people pleaser. Thanks, Dad.

Yoga. I need to start off my day with some yoga. Tugging on a pair of leggings, a long-line sports bra, and an oversized sweatshirt, I quietly open the bedroom door and peer down the hall. Why? I don’t know. It’s not like I’m expecting Ryder to be standing, unblinking, outside my door like some weirdo. But I’m uncomfortable after the way the evening ended last night, and I have no idea what to expect when I see him today.

The house is silent, and I make sure it stays that way as I creep down the hall to the closet in the mudroom that holds my yoga mat. Carrying it out to the living room, I start a quick fire to banish the chill, then get set up. The snow falling outside is even more beautiful as the barest hint of warmth from the sunrise tints the swollen clouds a delicate pastel peach.

My anxiety fades as I take deep, steadying breaths and move through my favorite poses. The stretch of my muscles and the familiar routine of the movements help quiet my mind.

So this trip isn’t turning out the way I had hoped. So my father has, once again, done something that led to my disappointment. None of that is new. I can overcome my anxiety and frustration. Throughout the years, I’ve learned to center myself and cope with unforeseen changes.

Deep breath in.

Hold it for a count of four.

Slow breath out .

Soon, I’m completely in the zone. Nothing exists outside of my breath and my body. Nothing matters except for the familiar strain of my muscles as I flatten my palms on the mat, pull my knees and legs off the floor, and move into Crow Pose.

I’m okay.

Everything will be fine.

You are strong and resilient.

“Mornin’, Lexi.”

Zone obliterated, I fall on my face, narrowly avoiding smashing my nose into the floor. “Ow.”

“Shit.” Ryder’s feet move into my line of sight as I groan. And then his hands are untangling my limbs and lifting me easily off the floor, where I’d wanted to stay so I could melt into it in a puddle of shame and embarrassment. His voice is low and so close to my ear when he asks, “Are you okay?”

I groan again, this time less from the pain and more from shame as he sets me down on the couch and settles in next to me. “I’m fine. My pride stings more than my face.”

Ryder’s low chuckle rolls through my body in a way that should be illegal. Especially since I cannot like him. Not even as a friend. It would be highly inconvenient. He’s already got that damned dark-haired, blue-eyed thing going for him. Plus, he’s annoyingly polite. It would be really great if the universe would stop stacking this guy up with all my favorite yums and throw some yucks in there to balance things out.

“Don’t laugh at me,” I grumble.

Of course, that just makes him laugh harder.

“Sorry, Lexi,” he says once he gets himself under control. That’s when I allow myself to look up at him. Which, I quickly realize, is a mistake.

Ryder Hanson is hot as hell. There’s no denying that. But morning Ryder? He’s adorable. His blue eyes are squinty and just the slightest bit puffy as he blinks at the world, attempting to acclimate to the sun. His dark hair has more pronounced waves this morning, and they’re sticking up at all angles. But it’s his sleepy, lazy smile that gets me. Which is how I find myself returning said smile against my will.

“Why are you up so early? Shouldn’t you be sleeping in? I know you guys don’t get time off very often.” The question is gruff, but he pretends not to notice.

“Force of habit. I have a hard time sleeping in, even during the off-season. I’m too used to early mornings. Why are you awake?”

“Same reason,” I say, staring at the fire, so I’m not tempted to look at Ryder. “I go to an early yoga class most mornings at home.”

Silence stretches between us, and I’m unsure whether I should apologize for whatever I said that shut him down last night or just pretend it never happened and hope I don’t ask something stupid again. I get not wanting to talk about your family. Besides distancing myself from my dad, because I’m not actually sure he gives a rat’s ass about me, I’ve also distanced myself from him because this is Minnesota. As soon as people find out that I’m Coach Cross’s daughter, they stop seeing me and start seeing a way to get free Rogues tickets or to meet the team.

Nothing is more demoralizing than finding a guy you really vibe with, dating, and then having to break up with him because his eyes glaze over any time you speak and it doesn’t have to do with hockey. Hell, there were a few times guys stopped being interested in sex with me because they didn’t want to piss off my dad. Just in case they ever met him. Which they never would.

So, yeah. I get it. Family can be a sore subject, and I won’t ask again.

After another few minutes of silence, I can’t take it anymore. “Listen, I?—”

“I wanted to apologize—” Ryder says at the same time. We look at each other, laughing awkwardly. “Go ahead,” he says with a reserved smile.

“Oh, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for last night. Whatever I said that pissed you off, I’m sorry.”

Ryder runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and grimaces. “You didn’t piss me off, Lexi. There’s no need to apologize. It’s just… It’s a sore spot for me, that’s all. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

I shrug. “I’m not offended.” The rejection had stung a bit, but it obviously wasn’t about me. I can respect that. “Want some coffee?”

Coffee is part of my morning ritual, especially on days I don’t do yoga. Not because I like the taste, because I don’t, really. At least, not unless there’s a metric ton of sugar and cream in it, or it’s one of those fancy drinks that cost way too much at a coffee shop. But I developed a pretty intense caffeine habit in college, and graduate school doesn’t seem like the time to detox. Nor does a week trapped in a cabin with an attractive stranger. Not unless I want to become the serial killer.

Ryder’s attention stays glued to my back as I push off the couch and stride into the kitchen. Hopefully, I brought enough coffee beans for this trip. There’s enough for one person, but two? We shall see.

The smell is rich and eye-opening as I pour a decent amount into the grinder. Even the little tink, tink, tink of the beans hitting the blade has me anticipating the jolt of energy they’ll bring. I glance over at Ryder to see him watching me.

“Well?” I say, arching one eyebrow. “Speak now, or be forever sad and tired.”

He laughs at that, and it erases the frown that was marring his striking features. “Sure. I’ll have a cup.”

I prep the drip machine and press start. It’s not long before the cabin fills with the energizing scent of freshly brewed coffee, and I hum my approval. My ass does a little wiggle before I can stop it, causing my cheeks to warm when Ryder lets out another one of those low chuckles that vibrate through my body and somehow end at my clit.

Down, girl. We are not going anywhere near the hockey player.

The problem is, we haven’t gone anywhere near anyone in way too long, so my body doesn’t really care that Ryder is on my dad’s team and therefore completely off-limits. Nope. My body just sees a glorious specimen of a man with thick thighs, a round ass, and a sexy-as-hell laugh, and that’s all she needs to know. She can only think about ending this prolonged dry streak. Because, between school and my shitty part-time job waiting tables on campus, it’s not like I’ve had the time. Things are probably looking a little dusty down there.

“So,” I say, needing to fill the silence. “What were you planning to do while you’re here?”

Ryder chuckles. “Uh, well, I guess I didn’t really have a plan. Coach…” He glances at me, his hands rubbing up and down his thighs. Thighs that are again encased in a pair of those damned gray sweatpants. “Your dad sort of sprang this on me last minute. I was hoping there was a bar in town and some decent takeout places. But that’s clearly not an option.” He motions to the still-falling snow.

“Wait.” I turn to look at him fully. “Did you bring groceries and stuff with you?”

The pink that creeps up Ryder’s cheeks is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. He grimaces, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. “Uh, no? I was planning to find a store once I got here.”

He was planning to find a store once he got here.

“Did you even check the forecast before you started driving?”

“I meant to,” he says, ducking his head, so he doesn’t have to meet my gaze. “But I guess I got distracted.”

“Seriously? You drove almost three hours up to a town you’d never been to before for a week-long trip, and you didn’t even check the weather or pack food? What would you have done if I wasn’t here?” There are always some cans of soup and some snacks that have a long shelf life stocked in the pantry. My dad pays someone to stock it up every six months just in case of emergencies. But Ryder doesn’t know that. He could have ended up stranded and starving.

His cheeks flame brighter as he shifts on the couch. “I, uh, I’m not really much of a planner. I…” He glances up at me, and my heart does a funny squeeze. Ryder looks ashamed. Like he’s a child who was just scolded for the hundredth time about something he knows he did wrong. I don’t enjoy being the one to make him feel that way. I know all too well what it feels like to disappoint someone.

With a bright smile, I wave off his explanation. He doesn’t owe me one, and besides, I’m always overly prepared. What would be the point in making him feel bad? “Well, never mind that, now. I brought plenty of food for both of us. And if, for some reason, we run out, my dad keeps the pantry well stocked.” The coffee maker hisses and burbles as the pot fills. “Do you like cream and sugar in your coffee? I also have peppermint mocha creamer. It’s so good.”

The tension of the moment melts off of Ryder as he gifts me a brilliant smile. “I normally drink it black because creamer isn’t really a part of our nutrition plan.” He chuckles as I make a face.

“Seriously? Only serial killers drink their coffee black. Everyone knows that coffee is simply a vehicle for flavored sugar.”

He laughs as he rises from the couch and wanders into the kitchen, where he leans against the counter less than a foot away from me. “Flavored sugar?”

“I like a little coffee with my sugar. What can I say?”

“Well, I guess I am out for a few weeks. No one will know if I cheat on my plan.”

“That’s the spirit. Creamer’s in the fridge. Can you grab it?”

Ryder flashes me a lopsided smile that makes my belly flip. While he grabs that, I pull two mugs out of the cabinet and fill them three-quarters of the way up. After he hands me the creamer, he watches me pour enough to turn my coffee from a dark umber to a light tan.

“Jesus, woman. You weren’t kidding.”

“Don’t yuck my yum,” I tease, bumping him with my shoulder. His responding chuckle vibrates through me.

“I’m not the one who equated your coffee preference with serial killers.” He spears me with an arched eyebrow and a crooked smirk. He probably has puck bunnies falling at his feet, with looks like that.

Another reason I can’t and won’t like him. You never know what’s an act and what’s real with these guys. Something I’ve learned the hard way. Still, I can banter and tease without dropping my panties, right?

“Yeah, but that’s a proven fact. A university in Austria did a study that found a correlation between preferring black coffee and being a sadistic psycho.” I grin at him over the lip of my favorite mug. It has an illustration of a hedgehog that says I’m prickly without my coffee .

“I call bullshit,” Ryder says, laughing.

“Google it, then. You can’t make stuff like this up.” Don’t ask me what possessed me to do a search for that little tidbit, but I suppose it all comes down to my slightly unhealthy obsession with true crime stories.

Dark, messy waves bouncing, Ryder shakes his head but does as I suggest. His long fingers tap a steady rhythm across his phone screen, and I watch with a smirk as one eyebrow rises. He barks out a laugh, side-eyeing his still-black coffee. “I swear I’m not a psycho. I just have to watch my intake.”

“Suuuure,” I tease. “That’s what all the serial killers say.”

“Would a serial killer like the movie, Elf? ” he asks.

Elf ? “I don’t know, why?”

“Because I’ve been itching to watch it all month and haven’t had a chance. Why don’t I make us some breakfast and we eat on the couch while we watch it?”

He’s lucky that Elf is one of my all-time favorite Christmas movies. The offer to cook breakfast doesn’t hurt, either.

“There’s pancake mix and chocolate chips in the pantry. Or is that too much of a cheat for a big, muscly hockey player?”

A slow grin creeps across Ryder’s face. “Big and muscly, huh?”

It’s my turn for pink cheeks. I roll my eyes. “Shut up. All of you are big and muscly. Isn’t that basically a requirement of the job?”

He shrugs, still grinning. “Sure, Lexi. But to answer your question, yes, it’s probably too much of a cheat. But I’m going to have one, anyway. I’m going to make some eggs too. How do you like them?”

When was the last time someone made me breakfast that wasn’t being paid to do so by a restaurant? I can’t even remember. It’s nice.

“Over easy?”

Ryder nods. “You got it.” He grabs the creamer from the counter and pours a small amount into his coffee. “And now that I’ve proven I’m not a psycho, I’ll get started on that.”

God, he’s charming. Not good.

“Want some help?”

“Nope. Go shower, if you want to. I’ve got this.”

Chewing on my bottom lip, I study him for a few moments while he putters around the kitchen, opening cabinets and searching for supplies. I don’t know how to feel about any of this. I’m still annoyed that my plans for the week were shot to hell, but I also can’t deny that it could have been much worse. Ryder is sweet and charming, and he doesn’t seem to carry an ego the size of a jet plane, like so many other pro hockey players I’ve had the misfortune of meeting. I’m still not sure if that’s a good thing, or if it’s going to spell trouble for me.

I guess, for now, all I can do is take it as it comes and hope this snow stops falling.