Before We Become Family

There are exactly three things I actively avoid on this campus. Early morning lectures. The dining hall mystery meat. And the entire varsity athletic complex.

Today my academic advisor forced me to confront the third one. Apparently you cannot declare a sports management minor without a physical signature from the athletic director. So here I am trudging through the freezing bowels of the campus ice arena because it is a shortcut that lets me bypass the football stadium entirely.

Ever since my dad passed away last spring, people treat me like I am a walking glass menagerie. My dad was the legendary Coach Callahan. He built the football program from the ground up. I am sick of the pitying looks. I am sick of the hushed whispers. And I am definitely sick of the smell of synthetic ice and stale sweat.

I am halfway to the exit tunnel when a loud violent crack echoes through the empty arena. A split second later a heavy rubber puck slams into the plexiglass exactly two feet from my face.

I let out an undignified shriek and drop my iced coffee directly onto my favorite white Converse.

"Son of a bitch." I cut myself off and glare through the scuffed glass.

A guy is gliding toward me on the ice. He does not have a helmet on which means I get a front row seat to the messy dark curls clinging to his forehead. He is wearing black hockey pants and a tight dark practice jersey with a crisp white eleven on the chest. And he is large. Ridiculously and unfairly large.

He comes to a sharp halt and sprays a shower of ice shavings against the boards. He leans his massive forearms on the top edge of the partition and flashes a cocky devastating smirk.

"Sorry about that sweetheart," he drawls. His voice is deep raspy and entirely too amused. "My aim is usually better. I did not expect a civilian to be trespassing during private ice time."

I stare down at the iced coffee pooling around my shoes then back up at his stupidly handsome face. "Did you aim at my head on purpose or are you just naturally incompetent?"

His smirk widens and his dark eyes light up with genuine interest. "Ouch. The claws are out. I am just trying to figure out why a girl who clearly hates hockey is skulking around my rink."

"It is a shortcut," I snap. I pull a napkin out of my pocket and attempt to dab at my shoe. "And you do not own the rink."

"I am the captain. I practically live here which makes it mine by squatter rights," he says easily. He tilts his head and assesses me with a slow deliberate gaze that travels from my messy bun down to my ruined sneakers before lingering right on my mouth. "I am Ryder by the way. Ryder Vance." He says it like I am supposed to swoon. Or strip. Possibly both.

"Good for you," I say dryly. "I am leaving."

"Wait." His hand shoots out and catches the edge of the plexiglass. The playful arrogance drops from his face in a fraction of a second. It is replaced by a sharp intensely focused stare. He is not looking at my eyes anymore. He is staring at the hollow of my throat.

"Fourteen," he murmurs.

My hand automatically flies up to cover the silver Roman numeral necklace resting against my collarbone. "Excuse me?"

"Your necklace." His eyes flick back up to mine. "November fourteenth."

A cold spike of adrenaline hits my chest. Nobody ever guesses it is a date right away. Let alone the exact month and day. "How do you know that?"

"You are Avery," he states. It is not a question. "Coach Callahan is your dad."

I stiffen. I cross my arms over my chest and instantly build my defensive walls back up. "Let me guess. You are going to give me the same sad dog eyes everyone else does and tell me what a tragedy it was."

Ryder scoffs. It is a short rough sound. "Hardly. Your dad would have hated the sad dog eyes."

That makes me pause. "You knew him?"

"He was the football coach. I am the starting safety in the fall," Ryder says. He leans closer over the boards. The scent of him mixing with the cold air and mint washes over me. It is entirely distracting. "But more than that he was the only guy on the athletic board who did not let them yank my scholarship when my grades tanked last year. He hauled my ass into his office every morning at six and made me study."

I blink. I am completely caught off guard. My dad never mentioned that. "He did?"

"Yeah. He was a hardass but he saved my career." His dark eyes lock onto mine. The raw unfiltered heat in them makes my breath hitch. "Which is why I am going to let you off the hook for trespassing. And why I am going to buy you a new iced coffee."

"You do not owe me a coffee just because my dad made you do your homework Ryder."

"I know," he says. A slow wicked grin spreads across his face. "I am buying you a coffee because you are gorgeous. You have a terrible attitude. And I really want to see how long it takes for me to get you to smile."