The Not-Outcast Read online

  Booze breath. It’s a thing.

  I edged back a step. “Totally.”

  So not totally.

  “That’s awesome.”

  Really so not awesome.

  It was a great PR day for the kitchen and for the team, I was sure that’s why they agreed to do it. It wasn’t uncommon for Come Our Way to have local celebrities pop in for a day or an hour to volunteer, but the media that followed them was always too much for me. I either stayed in the back kitchen, or I took a personal day. Media days were something extra extra. Flashing cameras. Razor-sharp reporters. Sometimes you got a good one who just wanted to spread good news about our mission, but sometimes you got the reporters who wanted to swing things to a more controversial article for the click-baits.

  I wasn’t down for that poundage.

  Plus, the extra buzz in the entire building was like hay fever for my meds. I couldn’t handle it, and therapy had taught me to avoid those types of situations, so hence why I usually disappeared—and if the entire team was coming for two days, it’d be insane. I was already not looking forward to it, and yes, I wasn’t letting myself think of him being in my place of business. At all.

  I thought he’d known me in high school, but that turned out to be a result of some slight delusions from my undiagnosed hyper disorder, so that was embarrassing, and then when college rolled around, I intentionally stayed in the background. But if he was going to be at my place for two days—forty-eight hours—there’s no way he wouldn’t see me, and that information was already bumbling through my head like an intoxicated bee hooked on coke and champagne. It just didn’t know what to do or where to sting. Super painful.

  Dean was still talking. “...and that’s why I’m here. They reciprocated with an invite here, and by the way, it’s so on-the-down-low that there’s no security outside. Did you see that? To even get in here, you had to know about it.”

  That made no sense.

  Dean didn’t care. “And I’ve already met half the team. Oh!” His eyes were bouncing around just like my intoxicated inner bee. “I got tickets to their game on Sunday. They rocked preseason, did you see?” He kept edging closer and closer to me the more he talked, something that was so un-Dean-like that I was having a hard time processing all this newness of what was happening around me.

  Dean was around the same age as me, a few years older. Coming straight from grad school with a masters in reinvigorating the world to give a fuck about homeless and runaways, he had an axe to grind and an agenda to save the world. He liked to cut loose. You had to in our profession because burn-out had the highest success rate, but seeing him this tricked out had that bee flying sideways. He didn’t know if he was in my bonnet or my hair braids.

  Then I remembered; Dean was a hockey fan.

  I was, too, but I kept my undying adoration on the down-low like a lot of things.

  Not Dean. He was out of the closet and loud and proud about his love for the Kansas City Mustangs. He also turned traitor and was a Cans fan, as well as the Polars (boo, hiss), but both those teams weren’t in this current building or city. So yeah, it made sense now. He was geeking out on the full freak-out reader.

  That, and I was wondering how much champagne he had already consumed because he just downed both those two flutes in front of me. He was so drunk that my own lit meter was heading down into the empty zone. Not cool. Not cool, indeed, and where were my girls?

  Just then, I saw one of them.

  And my lit meter skyrocketed right into the red zone.

  The crowd parted. I had a clear view right smack to the bar, and there she was. And she wasn’t alone.

  Sasha had her sultry and seductive pose out, clearly liking what she saw, gazing up at him.

  2

  Cut

  This chick was saying she was Russian.

  She wasn’t Russian. I knew this because one: she was seriously faking the worst accent in the world. It sounded more like she was trying to sound Australian mixed with a German flavor to it, and two: if she thought I didn’t remember her from college, she was fucking loco. I knew she went to Silvard, the same college I came from because she hooked up with my best friend in the year that I was there.

  He told me all about a certain one-nighter he had that he wished could’ve been a whole one-monther, but he wouldn’t go into specifics about why she couldn’t have her ‘deadline’ extended. That was his thing. He gave his girls ‘deadlines’ about how long he’d stay with them. They never knew, but I did.

  I never wanted to know.

  He just whined about her, a lot, and complained about all the fun he could’ve had with the wannabe-Russian. He said she had no accent back then, so that was new. I was tempted to text him, let him know his one-nighter was back if he wanted another go? Whatever reasons had to have expired by now since we’re what? Four years after college? Hell. Longer. He said he bagged her our freshman year, but since that was the only time he and I were at Silvard together, I never thought to ask him about an update on his Russian one-nighter.

  Me, because I obviously got drafted the next year to Kansas City. And him, because he followed me and attended Kansas University, going into their business program. He was a club promoter now, which was perfect for him since my boy liked to party. A lot.

  Her hand started rubbing up and down over my bicep.

  Totally texting my boy.

  I was pulling my phone out when another person hit our group, stopping and smiling at the Not-Russian chick, holding his drink and taking a sip. “Well, hello there.”

  Franklin. He was first line with me, and his eyes shifted to mine, knowing I wasn’t going to be tapping this ass. My tastes ran more toward girls who wouldn’t be likely to try to knife me after the condom was pulled off. I avoided the crazy at all costs.

  I grinned back and nodded just the slightest, giving him my go-ahead.

  His grin turned into a smile and he shifted, putting his drink on the bar between us, insinuating himself more between her and me.

  I moved back, just fine with this turn of events.

  Cut: Your Russian ass from Silvard is here.

  Chad: Where?

  I sent him the address and put my phone away. If he didn’t believe me, he’d still come. Chad didn’t turn down any event. It was perfect networking for him, especially at these events. A lot of high-rollers were here who enjoyed being photographed with the players. This one was more off-the-books, so the liquor had loosened most everyone up, including myself. I had a two-drink rule, but we kicked ass at our pre-season games, so I was feeling the celebrations tonight.

  “What’s your name?” That was Franklin, doing his thing.

  “I’m Sasha.”

  I could hear that she was pissed. She knew she got handed off.

  I moved farther back, taking my drink with me.

  “What’s going on over there?”

  Hendrix moved to the bar beside me, nodding to Franklin.

  I turned, my back going to the room. “Frank’s doing his thing.”

  “Thought you were taking her number.”

  “Nah. I know her from college.”

  “What?”

  I grinned at him, signaling the bartender for another fill. “She hooked up with my boy.”

  “Is he coming?”

  Hendrix and Franklin both started the team with me, so they knew Chad well. Unless you were brand new to the team, which was only two guys this year, they all knew my best friend. I was usually more disciplined with partying, meaning that I might attend parties, but I didn’t partake in the activities that much. Chad was the opposite. He partook—and partook a lot. He made up for me missing three more years of college frat parties, and that was fine with me. I’d cut loose at the house if I was feeling it, but generally during the season (which was long and brutal) I stuck close to my workout and eating regimen.

  “She came in with two other chicks.”

  “What?”

  “She came in with others.” He moved to sca
n the room.

  I took note of the interest in his tone. “They’re hot?”

  He didn’t answer. He was still scanning.

  Yeah. They were definitely hot.

  Then, he said, “Everyone noticed, dude. You would’ve, too, if you hadn’t been bagging off those two society girls before that one saw you.”

  I grinned. He wasn’t wrong.

  It came with the job. Sometimes I enjoyed it. Other times I didn’t. Most times I tried to avoid it, but since Hendrix was making a point of mentioning them, I turned, too.

  “There’s one.” He pointed with his drink. “Black hair.”

  I saw her, and I watched as she was moving in on Cassie, one of our physical therapy staff.

  Hendrix realized it the same time I did. He straightened. “Damn.”

  I started laughing. “You’d have more luck moving on Cassie, I think.”

  Cassie was bisexual, so I wasn’t wrong in my statement, but Cassie had made it known she wasn’t interested in anyone on the team, or anyone in the whole organization. She lived by the mantra, ‘don’t shit where you work.’

  Hendrix groaned. “Where’s the other one? She was hot, too.” A second later, another groan. “Damn. She’s worked all up in that guy. Who is he?”

  I was looking. I wasn’t seeing anyone. “You need to be more specific. Who am I looking—” I was looking, scanning, and bam. I saw her.

  Hol—holy fuck.

  Like, seriously holy fuck.

  It was like I was being slammed into the glass by five guys all at once, and they were giving me enough space as they were moving off of me. When suddenly, the rest of their team, one by one, all started checking me. Bam. Bam. Bam!

  That’s how it felt, because ho-lee fuuuuck.

  This girl was seriously hot. Not like hot hot. She was hawt hot.

  Long legs that you could tell were toned and shaped under whatever the fuck kind of skirt that was, and her top—I had to take a second to compose myself. I stopped breathing for a minute. I had no clue what kind of twisted top she was wearing, but all I knew was that it was black leather and it wrapped around her torso in a way that caused my dick to weep. I wanted to be that fucking leather. I wanted to peel it off her, and watch her spin around as I uncovered each layer, and discover whatever secret shit she was wearing underneath. A bodysuit? A thong? Nothing? I wanted to see her nipples. I wanted to sink three fingers inside of her as my hello, then push her back against the wall and drop my mouth over hers. That’s exactly how I wanted to introduce myself to her. Then maybe I’d tell her my name before asking hers.

  Guy.

  Hendrix said she was talking to a guy.

  What fucking guy?

  I was already growling, wanting to tear his head off, whoever it was.

  “Dude.”

  That was Hendrix again, and his voice sounded like it was coming from a distance.

  A part of my brain finally clicked in. I knew he was still beside me, but I was in the middle of having a reaction like one I’d never had before in my entire life. This was me and I wasn’t giving a damn.

  That girl was mine. Everyone else just needed to learn it. And fast.

  I was normally a very chill guy.

  I came from good parents. My dad was a rare breed—smart with money, but also not an asshole at home. Good father. Good husband. My mom was and still is a stay-at-home parent and crazy supportive. She ran an Etsy shop—one that she didn’t like to let anyone know about, and she was super low-maintenance. Liked to joke with us, share a beer and watch a football game. My two little brothers were the same. I mean, they had attitudes. What teenager didn’t? They were both good athletes, good-looking, and they got their fair share of party invites and DMs from girls their age, sometimes older.

  But their successes never went to their head.

  That was a testament to our parents.

  Our mom and dad kept all of us grounded, so because of that, I was grounded. Humble. The most baggage I ever had to deal with came from my best friend, because while my family wasn’t messed up, his was. His family was seriously fucked up, though his little brother was super fucking rad.

  But all that said, general life stuff, I was a laid-back, easygoing guy.

  Except with hockey.

  Everything went out the window when it came to hockey.

  On the ice, I killed. I was a fucking animal once my skates hit the ice, and the same competitive nature was in my family, too. At a soccer game, my mom was quiet and cheering just like everyone else. At my rink, my mom led the cheers in, “YOU FUCKING KILLLLLL HIM, CUT! WE DIDN’T NAME YOU CUT FOR SHITS AND GIGGLES! YOU FUCKING MAKE YOUR NAMESAKE PROUD, CUTLER RYDER!”

  The whole team loved her, but there was always, literally always, a stunned response from the fans when Hockey Mama Alice Ryder came out. That part of my mom was what I inherited and what was coming to the surface now and as my girl shifted…that’s when I saw the guy.

  I wanted to take his head off, now. Right fucking now.

  “Hey. Oh. Wow. Whoa. Okay.”

  I started forward, but Hendrix hopped in front of me. He was blinking, a bewildered look on his face. His drink was gone. Where’d that go? So was mine. I didn’t care, but his hands were up and he kept shaking his head.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this, never seen you act like this, but get yourself under control. You get the same look when you’re trying to piss off an enforcer. Now. Calm down before you head over there—”

  I didn’t let him finish whatever the fuck he was about to say. I was gone.

  Loved Hendrix, but I was outta there.

  The guy was standing by my girl. She’d learn. So would he. Everyone in the room would learn. I was about to claim her in a big fucking way.

  I was almost there.

  The guy—what the fuck was he wearing?

  He was drunk. Could see that right off the bat. His face was flushed, sweaty. His eyes were dilated. He was waving his hand around, an emptied glass in his grasp, and he was moving in on her with each step he was taking. His eyes were shifting all over the place.

  I eased back, just a bit.

  Her head was down, locked in place. I could see her side profile, and she was biting her lip.

  Not the lip. That was mine to bite, not hers.

  Those were thoughts I’d have to express later because now was not a socially acceptable time to broadcast my intentions, and I had plenty. A shit-ton of intentions when it came to her, her body, her pussy, her mouth, her breasts, her legs. Her. Just her.

  I wasn’t dumb. I was reacting from some inner emotions that I’d never tapped into before. I’d never had a reaction like this, and I’d seen—and been with—some seriously hot women. Came with the job when we partied with supermodels at times or were asked to pose for photo shoots to raise awareness for a cause.

  But this woman, this reaction wasn’t just physical, though I didn’t need to pour more gasoline on that flame. It was blazing and about to take down the entire building, so I needed a fucking second.

  I took it.

  I stopped, reaching for water from Alex, another teammate who had also noticed me. His eyebrows were sky high, and his eyes shot past me. I knew Hendrix was there, and when I kept moving, I knew Alex had fallen in line behind me. They were there to keep me from getting handcuffs slapped on my wrists because they both knew I had a temper inside of me, and when it was switched, I never cared about the devastation I was about to lay out.

  Then I was at their little gathering…and she wasn’t looking at me.

  I was here. Right beside her. No way in hell she didn’t know I was here. I saw her face get tighter, her body more rigid, as I came over. She kept biting her lip and I kept aching to touch my hand there, wipe my finger over her bottom lip and dislodge its hold.

  She suppressed a shiver.

  I saw that and good. She wasn’t as unaffected by me as she tried to appear.

  I saw the shiver travel down her spine, and she gulped,
still studiously avoiding my gaze.

  “Hey!”

  The guy, on the other hand, was having the opposite reaction.

  Mouth open. Eyes bugging out. He almost dropped his empty glass that he’d been waving around moments before.

  Alex moved around the group, chuckling, as he reached out and took it from the guy’s slack fingers. The guy didn’t notice. He was riveted by me.

  “You—you’re—whooooooaaa. It’s Cut Ryder, Shy. Cut The Reaper Ryder.”

  I stifled an inward groan. There was a reason I’d been given the team’s mascot name as my nickname…all because of a certain game where I’d let this same anger out on a few opposing players. Like, five of them. The only one who hadn’t gotten it from me had been the goalie, and that was because I’d been hauled off to the box by then.

  He thrust a hand out. “I’m a big, big, big fan of yours. Well, the whole team, actually.” He was still holding his hand out. I had no intention of shaking it, not because I was being rude or because he was in my girl’s space, but because it was sweaty and I could tell just from eyeing it. He gestured to her with his other hand. “I was just telling Cheyenne that I can’t wait for your guys’ game on Sunday. Your whole team is coming to where I work for a couple days soon. Cheyenne works with me.” He noticed Alex and jolted. “Whoa!” Then Hendrix. “Double whoa. Cheyenne, are you seeing these guys?” He whispered the last question, and by this time, I was locked in.

  Fully.

  Cheyenne. Her name was Cheyenne.

  The guy ceased to exist for me, but she didn’t. She was fighting the pull between us.

  I could see the fight on her face. A bunch of emotions were shifting there.

  Fear—like a gut punch to my chest.

  Amazement right after. Pride on my end at seeing that.