My eyes snap over to Hensley's and she looks at me with a hopeful smile. "My flight doesn't leave until tomorrow, so I figured I could help, and maybe I could sleep in the girls'--"
I cut her off right there before she can say another word.
"Ruby...go upstairs and get your jacket," I say swiftly, a little loudly to drown out Hensley's words.
"But Violet's getting them," she says.
"Let me be clearer then," I tell her with a wink. "Go upstairs because I need to talk to your mommy privately." I follow up with my stern don't-bother-trying-to-argue-with-me look. It's been historically proven to be effective in 97.2 percent of all occasions.
She gives me a quick "Okay" and jets into the living room. I hear her feet pounding up the stairs and she yells, "We have to stay up here, Vi, because Daddy and Mommy want to be alone."
I cringe because the girls probably think we're down here kissing.
When I turn to look at Hensley, she has an amused look on her face because I know she's thinking the same exact thing. "You can't stay here tonight," I tell her firmly.
Her face falls. "But I thought...I mean, it's in the girls' room..."
"No," I tell her without an inch of budging in my tone. "This is my house and it is not a good idea for you to stay here. It sets up unreasonable expectations for the girls. You can help put up the decorations tonight, but then you need to stay at a hotel."
Hensley looks crestfallen but I don't let it touch me. I harden my heart into concrete, and feel equally ashamed, because I know the girls would love it if Hensley stayed with them. But it's a bad move all around. The girls have to get used to the fact that their mom is only part-time, and that's all she'll ever be within the bounds of this household.
Most of all...the absolute most important thing that they need to understand is that their mom and me are over.
Chapter 10
Gray
The team starts filtering off the bus that brought them from the Vipers' arena back to the hotel. I watch as they walk into the lobby where I'm waiting, one by one with their heads hanging low.
They should be hanging low, because it was a terrible game.
It's almost midnight. I'm tired, hungry, and I'm pissed.
Not for the loss but for something else entirely, and I'm waiting for the one person on whom I can take out my anger to get off the bus. He may not be the one who deserves it, but I have to start somewhere.
The minute I see him coming through the revolving glass door, my blood pressure starts to rise because this is not going to be a pleasant conversation. He looks up as soon as he steps free and makes eye contact with me. I don't want to cause a scene so I do nothing more than say, "I need a word with you in private."
He stares at me in surprise, gives a quick glance around, and then nods his head. He follows me through the massive lobby, studded with various areas of seating. I choose a set of chairs that are arranged perpendicular to each other in a corner and sit down, waiting for Alex Crossman to take the other chair.
Flipping through a few screens on my phone, I glance up to Alex looking at me curiously. I turn my phone to show him the screen and in a controlled voice, I say, "I want to know why I'm just now finding out about this."
Alex's face pales slightly and it should. The picture he's looking at is a photo that showed up on Instagram today. It was dark, a little fuzzy, but the people in the photo were clearly distinguishable. Claude Amedee lying on a floor with Ryker on top of him, one arm cocked back and poised to take a punch. Just barely coming into the frame was Alex reaching out toward Ryker in what I'm assuming was an attempt to stop him.
I remembered Ryker's cut and bruise when we had coffee last Wednesday and I asked him what happened. He told me it was nothing, and that thought alone caused my blood pressure to boil with turbulence. I put two and two together, and it's clear that this picture was taken by someone a week ago during our away game in D.C.
For an entire week, my team's captain sat on this knowledge and didn't tell me that two of my players got into a fistfight and I'm just now finding out about it.
But that's not what really has my panties in a twist.
What really has me angry is that Frank Lessier is the one who sought me out to show me the photo. It had been forwarded to him by our director of social media, who saw it not ten minutes before the game against the Vipers started. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was getting ready to hit me with something bad. It wasn't a grave look by any means, but one of slight victory. My stomach rolled as I watched him approach my father and me in the guest owner's suite.
Fuck, he took such pleasure in showing both of us and my father didn't need to say anything. I could feel the anger and disappointment coming off of him.
It didn't help that Frank used the opportunity to launch back into a tirade about why bringing Ryker to the team was a bad decision.
"I told you he wouldn't fit in here," Frank blustered. "For God's sake, he was being let go from the Eagles because he punched a teammate. And now...looks like he's doing it again."
"He had good reason," I pointed out calmly. "He just found out Sutter was screwing his wife."
Frank ignored me and turned to my father. "Brian...it's time to make a change. Max is back at practice and looking strong. He's young and healthy. Evans won't hold up for the rest of the season at the level he's playing at. Trust me...he's going to start tanking and our playoff hopes will go right with him."
My father stroked his chin a moment, and for a bleak second I thought he was going to side with Frank. But how could I have ever doubted him? He merely looked at me, then back to Frank and said, "You need to take that up with Gray. She's the general manager."
God, I wanted to throw my arms around my dad and hug the shit out of him. But I kept my cool and professionalism, instead telling Frank that we would discuss it back at the office tomorrow. I also told him that I would handle this directly with Alex tonight. The game was starting and I really needed to think hard about all of this.
"Why didn't you tell me this happened?" I ask Alex with a level voice. My guts may be churning with lavalike anger right now but I know how to calmly address a situation.
"I had no clue there was a photo taken. There was no one there other than the bartender and it never occurred to me that he would have done that."
"That didn't answer my question."
Alex's face turns gravely apologetic because he understands that as captain, he has a duty not only to his teammates but to the management as well. He of all people knows what it's like to deal with an image problem in the public eye.
"I'm sorry," he says contritely. "I should have said something to you. I knew Claude wasn't going to do anything about it and I dressed Ryker down for it. I thought I handled the problem."
"And yet here I am dealing with it," I say curtly as I stand up from my chair. I can get where he's coming from, and I suppose as team captain he had thought it was handled. It lessens my anger against him, and now I'm left just being pissed at Claude and Ryker.
Ryker more so since I asked him point blank what happened and he lied to me by omission.
"You had a great game tonight," I praise Alex before turning away and heading toward the elevator.
As I walk, I send a quick text to Ryker.
What's your room number?
I can imagine what he must be thinking when he reads this text. I've purposely been distant with him since that kiss in the coffee shop. The same kiss that I continually play over and over again in my mind because it was just that perfect.
He said we could be friends although he wanted more.
He was willing to wait.
When he texted me on Saturday, asking me out to coffee again, I had to almost physically restrain myself from texting back my agreement. I couldn't meet him because I was afraid of what I might say.
Afraid of what I might do.
So I politely declined and I haven't heard from him since.
Unti
l now.
His return text simply says 7056.
--
When the door swings open, I almost expect Ryker to have a sensual look on his face. I almost expect him to kiss me and I'm disgusted with myself that I'm strangely disappointed he doesn't but instead gives me a curt nod and steps back for me to enter.
"I can tell by that look on your face that you know already," I surmise, thinking Alex must have given him a heads up.
"I have no clue what you're talking about," he says, his voice flat. "The look you're seeing on my face is my I'm-pissed-we-lost-a-game look."
For a brief second I admire him even more as a player. Because although I suspected as much, it's clear he takes every win and loss deeply to heart. Tonight's loss wasn't on him either. Other than Alex scoring a goal, the rest of our offense looked sluggishly amateur. It was a team loss for sure.
But I push that aside and instead hold my phone out to him so he can see the screen. His eyes flick down, then he lets out a sigh and turns away from me. "I take it you're pissed."