The Rebound: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance Page 4

  Chapter Four

  The sweet ‘ping’ of the metal bar sounded like music to Ryder’s ears. His shot ricocheted into the back of the net like a stray bullet, straight over the shoulder of the Riot’s backup goalie, Jim Bennett. A whooping shout left Ryder’s lips as he raised his stick and skated around the boards in triumph.

  The drills and conditioning had all come back to him in the past six weeks. Just like riding a bike. The thrill of being on the ice again, sucking lungfuls of frosty air and feeling the sweat collect under his pads exhilarated him like nothing else in the world. He felt like he could do anything – move mountains with a flick of his blade or lift a car off an accident victim with one hand.

  He was unstoppable.

  Cole Fiorino skated up behind him as they queued up to repeat the drill pattern. They’d become closer friends since working through the tryouts, still rivals in a sense but the jealousy Ryder felt toward Cole had dissipated. He realized the weight of those feelings all these years had held him down, embittered him, and made him a lesser man than he could be. If he harbored regrets in his life, these were surely at the top of the list.

  “Nice shot,” Cole said, then changed his tone to a falsetto squeak. “You still got it, Betty… boop boop be doop!”

  “Footsteps, bro. Footsteps,” Ryder taunted him.

  Cole shook his head. “The only footsteps I’m going to hear are the patter of little feet in a few months. My son’s.”

  Ryder nodded but kept his focus on the ice in front of him. “Congrats, man. I didn’t know you were having a boy.”

  “I don’t really know yet. But somehow, I know. Sorry, hard for me not to brag. I forgot that you–”

  “Forget it. Ancient history. As for the Betty Boop comment, that catalog should be arriving in the mail any day now.”

  Ryder flashed a broad smile and skated off to begin the drill again. He’d joked with Cole about a fictional catalog of hockey wife candidates that was distributed to all NHL players. Now that he was literally close enough to smell the Riot’s locker room, he no longer had an interest in ice queens like the new Mrs. Fiorino. And even less in having children. The party was just getting started. The hockey groupies would be falling at his feet in a few short months, he could feel it. All he’d have to do was pick the bra size and hair color.

  He worked his way through the series of pylons, his puckhandling feeling natural and swift, like he’d never been away from the game. His rec team had kept him in tune, but those hacks would never recognize him now. As his speed and game sense heightened, he’d made the first three cuts in the tryouts. His confidence soared. The number of contenders for the coveted spot on the Riot’s roster was down to only two players: himself as a defenseman, and a smaller forward who no one seemed to know – Joe Thibault. Soon, it would be one. And he intended to be the last man standing.

  When the session ended, he showered and changed back into his suit and tie. It was still a workday, and his boss, Kristoff Helios, hadn’t exactly given his blessing for Ryder to participate in the tryouts. As marketing manager, Kristoff had prior knowledge of the impending publicity move, and though it was his job to promote it, didn’t see its value in boosting sales. Potentially losing one of his top sales reps as a result irritated him even further.

  Ryder settled in behind his desk, his mind and body still on a high from the endorphins cycling through him. He hoped it wouldn’t be long before he could leave its shiny surface littered with memos and promotional literature far behind, along with every other unpleasant memory stored in his brain. He saw Kristoff heading toward him. He moved to pick up his desk phone and feign a dummy call when his personal cell buzzed in his breast pocket.

  He threw Kristoff a helpless look as he grabbed for the device, halting the arrogant man’s advance partway across the carpeted floor. “This is Ryder,” he answered without looking at the screen.

  “About damn time,” came a graveled voice over the connection. Ryder felt his blood drain into his toes, the drop in pressure cementing his lower body into his seat. Unable to move, to think. “Why didn’t you answer your goddamn phone before?”

  He hadn’t noticed the missed calls in his scramble to avoid Kristoff’s approach. Jesus, this was the last person he expected to hear from. And it sure as hell wasn’t Jesus. Not now, he thought. Not when things are taking a turn for the better. He swiveled his chair toward the wall of his cubicle so his voice wouldn’t carry. “Dad?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, dipshit. Who’d you think it’d be, Saint fucking Nicholas? Complete with a red velvet sack of gifts for your worthless ass.”

  A long pause. “Where are you?”

  A rough grunt issued from Walter Martin’s throat. “Right where you left me. In the joint.” Ryder swallowed hard. It was no one’s fault but his father’s as to why he had landed in jail. Ryder had no words to speak that he could utter in his workplace. “But not for much longer, if you get your candy ass out here to pick me up. I’m out on Thursday. Parole board wants my ugly mug outta here. I’ll expect to see you waiting outside the exit gate. In your expensive ride.”

  Panic crawled up Ryder’s neck, threatening to choke him. The old man was out, and with his older brothers both out of the country, Ryder was his last resort. The day Walter had left for the penitentiary, hadn’t been a good one. Ryder still had nightmares. “That so,” he muttered, not inviting further discourse. He never wanted anything so badly as to hang up at that moment. Except getting an NHL contract. And he refused to let this alcoholic bastard fuck that up.

  “Well? You gonna be there or not?” Walter growled, then coughed.

  Ryder ground his teeth. “Where am I supposed to take you?” he argued. “Your house got auctioned off in the foreclosure years ago.” He dreaded the answer.

  “You have a fancy-ass apartment in Rochester, don’t you? I got no place else to go.”

  ***

  “You shouldn’t be doing that!” Hannah exclaimed, rushing to her sister’s aid. She laid her hands on the cardboard box that Eloise had lifted off the delivery pallet. “For heaven’s sake, El, do you want to give birth right here in cold storage?”

  “Don’t be such an alarmist,” Eloise scoffed. “I feel perfectly fine.”

  Would her sister ever stop trying to do everything herself? After a tense moment, she released the package to Hannah’s outstretched arms with a long-suffering sigh. She straightened, putting one hand on her back and the other on her protruding abdomen. Her face creased in discomfort.

  “See? That’s why I’m here,” Hannah scolded, placing the box on a metal shelf. “To stop you from trying to do everything yourself, like you always have.” She took Eloise by the elbow and led her into the gleaming warmth of Casa Fiorino’s kitchen. “Let somebody else take charge for a change. Don’t you dare put yourself and my future niece or nephew at risk, especially not over a twenty-pound box of lamb chops!” She seated Eloise in a chair and shook her pointer finger in her sister’s puffy face.

  “Hanna-bee, you are becoming a certified tyrant,” Eloise said with a weak laugh, still rubbing her belly and wincing in pain. “Guess I’m not used to taking orders.”

  “You know what your doctor said,” Hannah stated. “With your gynecological history, the chances of early delivery are high. It’s nearly Thanksgiving, the fundraiser’s next week, and your due date is only a few months away. Are you trying to get an early Christmas present for yourself? One that’s wanted but not until it’s fully incubated?”

  Eloise smiled. “Maybe he or she will be born on my birthday, the sixteenth. That’d be convenient. The sooner the better, I say. I hate taking things easy. I hate rolling around here like an overinflated beach ball. I hate not being able to ask my hot husband to ravish my naked body. I–”

  “Ew, too much information. Just this once, El, quit trying to control everything, okay?”

  Uncharacteristically, Eloise seemed to give up and relax in her chair. “Okay.”

  Hannah nodded in sa
tisfaction. “Okay. Now, we were going to go over the checklist for the fundraiser. I’ll get it.”

  “Wow, you really can be an ogre when you want to be.” Eloise chuckled. “Wanna-bee. You’re becoming more like my clone daily. I bow down. Too bad Dad’s not here.”

  Hannah would ordinarily have chafed at that name, but since she finally had the upper hand over big sis, she could only laugh. “According to Dad, I’m a princess.” She made a leering face and held her hands up, fingers wiggling. “Just call me Fiona, and I can be both green-faced ogre and diamond tiara-wearer.”

  She retrieved El’s tablet from the adjoining office and pulled up a chair next to her. “Menu… check. Liquor delivery… check. Decorating crew… that’d be me… check. Silent auction items… fifty and counting.” She looked up. “Ticket sales?”

  Eloise lifted a shoulder. “That’s Cole’s department.”

  Hannah blinked in disbelief. “You let a man be in charge of something that important? What if no one shows up?”

  “He’s all over it. He has all the contacts with the team, and he’s the face of hockey in this town.”

  “Has he sold any yet?”

  Eloise frowned and bit her lip, clearly not wanting to answer. “I don’t know.”

  Hannah flipped the cover on the tablet. “Well, we’d better ask him then, shouldn’t we?”

  Eloise touched the screen on her cell phone and handed it over. “Be my guest.”

  Hannah watched Eloise as she waited for the call to connect. She didn’t like that grey cast on her skin, and the discomfort she wasn’t hiding well… at least not from someone who’d known her all her life.

  “Hey, PDL. What’s up,” Cole’s voice said in a rush, using his nickname for Eloise, Pretty Doughnut Lady. He sounded anxious. Hannah guessed that any time a man got a call from his very pregnant wife, he would be snapping to attention.

  “Wrong. It’s Hannah, I’m using El’s phone.”

  “What, what’s happening?” His voice rose to a high-pitched squeal. He sounded like a piglet wiggling away from a farmer’s grip. “Is El alright?”

  “Yes, yes. She’s right here. We’re just being proactive about the fundraiser. How are the ticket sales coming? We’re counting on you, brother-in-law.”

  “Jeez, don’t scare me like that. I thought the time had come, and I stink so bad I’d have to creep up on my bathwater.”

  “Sorry, sounds like a personal problem to me. So about the tickets?”

  “Tickets… yeah. Uh, with all the extra ice time I guess I forgot. I’ll get on it. I’ll get one of the guys to help out.”

  “Cole! The party’s next week! Doesn’t the club have a marketing team? Why aren’t they flogging the hell out of this?”

  “Well, it’s a private function, but you just gave me an idea. I know just the guy for the job. Let me talk to Eloise.”

  “Okay, here she is.”

  Handing the phone back to El, Hannah crossed her arms and observed her sister even more closely. Something didn’t seem right. Instead of radiant, Eloise seemed tired and pale. A little inner voice told her that Hanna-bee needed to stick close to the hive. The Queen Bee might need a little more help than she was letting on.

  ***

  “Yo, Ryder!” Cole shouted amid the din inside the dressing room. Men were slobs, and professional athletes weren’t much better. Gear and clothing items presented an obstacle course between the two men, and Cole had to pick his way through.

  Already on his way out with his bag on his shoulder, Ryder stopped in the doorway and turned. “S’up?”

  “What’s your hurry?” Cole asked, gesturing to Ryder’s fully dressed state. “Part of the experience is hanging with the team.”

  Ryder gave a condescending nod. “Some of us have real jobs, you know. I can’t hang, or I’ll be fired by my nemesis… er, boss, Kristoff Helios. Ever heard of him?”

  Cole grinned and caught up to him in a few strides, still wearing his skates. “Yeah, El’s mentioned him once or twice. She’s not a fan. But maybe you won’t have to deal with that douche for much longer. Gotta tell ya, I’m impressed. I didn’t realize you’d kept in such good shape. I think the club’s close to making their decision.”

  Ryder waved his free hand. “Don’t jinx it, man. Let the chips fall where they may.”

  “Hey, credit where credit is due. If you’ve got the skills, luck has nothing to do with it.”

  Ryder pursed his lips, suspicious of Cole’s sudden interest. “Thanks for the pep talk. Gotta go.”

  “Wait, you know I’m setting up an event at the restaurant, to introduce our new player to the city. A fundraiser for youth hockey in Rochester. It’s really close to my heart, man.”

  “Yeah. I heard.”

  “Well, I kinda dropped the ball in selling tickets. Since you’re technically still in sales, think you could flog a few? It would mean the world to me, and with El about to explode with our baby, I’m kind of in a shitstorm.”

  Ryder’s eyebrows went up. Even though he and Cole had propagated some quasi-bromance while on the ice, Cole Fiorino had everything Ryder wanted, including the girl. The pregnant girl. The last thing he wanted was spending his very limited down time doing the heir apparent a favor. “Kinda self-serving, don’t you think? Not to mention awkward. They could still pick the other guy.”

  Cole shook his head. “I don’t think so. And you’d want your family there, wouldn’t you? You have parents in the area, right? And a couple brothers, as I recall.”

  The comment took Ryder by surprise but he didn’t correct Cole. Ryder didn’t want to talk about his deceased mother or his drunken father. The dude had a long memory. Maybe he wasn’t such an arrogant, self-centered pain in the ass. So much had changed since juniors. “C’mon, you know how important the minor system is. Neither of us would be here if we hadn’t been given a chance to play as kids,” Cole continued.

  “Sure,” Ryder agreed after a moment. “Since it’s for kids, after all.”

  “Thanks, man. I know you’ll want as many eyeballs there as possible when Rochester meets the Riot’s newest member.” Cole punched him on the arm.

  Ryder could only nod and move on. His thoughts were elsewhere than Cole’s fundraiser. As focused as he needed to be on his performance in the tryouts, another crisis required his attention. The comments about his family ripped through him like a rusted knife. And just as toxic. Cole didn’t know that Joan Martin passed away from cancer ten years earlier. Didn’t know that his brothers had taken off as soon as they graduated, taking jobs overseas – as far away from their hometown and their abusive father as they could get. How could he? He hadn’t been in touch.

  And Ryder didn’t make a habit of advertising that Walter Martin was serving an eight-year sentence for criminal negligence. He was the last person Ryder would want in attendance at his moment of glory. He dreaded the drive out to Rochester FMC. Even more, he dreaded the prospect of being in his father’s company. Most likely listening to his diatribe on how the union had fucked him over, didn’t protect him after the incident. Talk about a man who didn’t want to take accountability. He wanted to point out to the old man that when the person who’s always at the scene of the crime is you, that’s a growth opportunity.

  He’d have to find the old man a place to stay, fast. The idea of having him bunk in at Ryder’s apartment made him feel nauseous. He didn’t need this extra stress – not now. Not ever. His anxiety gave way to anger. What did the world have against him? When opportunity finally knocked, why did Walter Martin’s shadow have to be hanging over the doorway?

  Chapter Five

  “Hmm, just like I thought. Some white collar yuppie’s gay-ass pad,” Walter grunted as he looked around the room, breathing heavily from their climb up the stairs to Ryder’s second-floor walk-up. He’d chosen it for its historic charm and as an excuse to keep himself in shape by force. Climbing the stairs multiple times a day was good for the old ticker as well as the leg muscles.

>   Ryder’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, well. It’s better than the Mission Street shelter. Which is where you’ll be going next if you’re gonna talk shit like that. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  Walter tossed his duffle bag down with a whump. His civilian clothes were ill-fitting and out of style but were all he had for the time being. If his old man thought he was going to spring for some fancy new duds, he was sorely mistaken. The fucking gravy train had pulled out of the station.

  Ryder wondered what it would be like to actually have a father that gave a shit. That stepped up to the plate to provide instead of the other way around. Ryder felt like he’d stepped into an alternate universe where he was the victim of some random role reversal. If he wanted to be a father, he’d knock up some loose broad. His eyes scanned his father. The older man had lost a lot of weight since he’d been behind bars.

  He cleared his throat. “I suppose I should thank you.”

  Ryder snorted and walked to the galley-style kitchen. “I gotta get back to the office. There’s food in the fridge. And don’t bother to look for booze. There isn’t any.”

  “You don’t drink?” Walter eyed him suspiciously. “Since when?”

  “Didn’t say I didn’t drink. Just not here. And not with you.”

  “Some host you are.”

  “Door’s behind you,” Ryder said. “Nothing stopping you from leaving.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. I get it. I’m persona non grata. Just give me a few days to figure things out, then I’ll be out of your sissy GQ hair.” Walter slumped into an oversized leather armchair near the window.

  “What’s your plan?” Ryder asked. “I doubt they’ll let you back on a job site.”

  “I wouldn’t even if they did. None of your concern.”

  “It is if you think you’re going to hole up here for a while. I don’t want any illegal activities to be even remotely associated with my apartment. Or me.”

  “I’ll make my way. And not the easy way, like you,” Walter said, pointing a finger at Ryder.