Page 10 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Maybe it’s the margaritas softening me up. Heaven help me if I let myself feel anything for Ryan except distaste for an errant brotherlike guy. So what if he’s as hot as ever? It’s not fair that his sad smile melts me so I can’t even think straight.
Of course I can’t think of him as a brother. What red-blooded woman would see anything but a hunk worth having in her bed—except his real sister? Clearing my throat, I need to clear the air too, douse my own stupid flame that I can feel warming up in that sweet spot between my thighs while I sit rubbing shoulders with this magnificent specimen.
“Then I’ll bet you can’t wait until your wedding date arrives to relieve you of all these undesirable women,” I say, reminding us both.
He scoffs. “You know I’m not bringing a date.”
“How would I know that?”
“Because Maggie’s been hounding me for weeks about it and told me not to bring anyone if—”
I have to cut him off because I don’t want to hear it, don’t want to feel sorry for the last man in the world who needs my pity, RO.He has it all. Doesn’t he?
“I’m not here with a date either.” Of all the things I could have said to stop him, that had to be the absolute stupidest. He pauses and there’s an awkward beat of silence between us. Damn it. My mind goes blank, which I blame more on the margaritas than my sudden awareness of him, awareness of a spark of something in that silence between us. But he jumps in.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe with me. I’m not looking—”
“Shut up. I’m not looking either,” I say because I’m not, am I?
“Of course not. I’m like poison to a woman like you.”
I’m impressed that he calls me a woman, but when the rest of his sentence registers, I frown.
“What do you mean bya woman like me? I’m a different woman than I was four years ago.” Cringing, I want to disappear under the table for bringing upfour years ago, the specter of shame between us, after we already talked about it, agreed to drop it.
“I have no doubt. You were a girl then and I was an idiot. And now we’re both smarter.”
I want to argue with him, demand to be treated like any other woman he might meet, but I can’t argue with his logic, not really. I can’t argue that he’d be like poison—because he would be. The last thing I’m interested in is being a proverbial notch in his bedpost.
Besides, I’ve already drawn the line between us, haven’t I? And there’s no way in hell I’m crossing it. Before I have a chance to say anything, the band starts up and Maggie jumps from her chair insisting that Ryan dance with her. Of course, he obliges because he’s a good big brother even if he is a douchey player of max proportions.
We all end up on the dance floor for Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars’ “Uptown Funk,” singing our lungs out, even Ryan. Maggie hangs onto Ryan’s arm to keep herself upright as she stumbles through the song. Moving near her, I see her smile faltering and her face whitening and I know the signs of the impending tossing of drunk cookies.
“Ryan,” I shoulder him and catch his attention. “We need to get her to the ladies’ room pronto.”
After only a quick glance at her, he hauls her after me as I lead the way. Eyes follow us and I see cameras flashing, but that’s a worry for another time. It will be much worse if they catch Maggie tossing it in the middle of the dining room with Ryan at her side. Chances are they don’t know she’s his sister and they don’t care.
Pretend everything is fine. Fake it til you make it.. That’s a lesson I learned very deeply and at great personal cost during my less than sterling Olympic experience.
“I don’t feel—” Maggs says as we reach the ladies’ room. Ryan shoves her inside while I hold the door open. But she’s clutching his arm and so he ends up inside with us. We both drag her to the thankfully empty handicap stall and he slams the door shut with his foot while two astonished middle-aged women stare.
The moaning starts as Ryan drags his sister to the toilet and aims her while I try to hold her hair back. He keeps her in place while she retches her guts out and I turn away, a wad of her unruly hair caught in my shaking hands. I’ve luckily only had to do the honors a handful of times for Maggie—no one else ever because there is no one else on the planet I would subject myself to this disgusting task for but her. She’s my sister for all intents and purposes except for the DNA.
But Ryan is another matter and I don’t want to hear him talk to her, soothing his sister as if she were a little girl sick through no fault of her own. That stupid tenderness bubbles up again and I squash it down, remembering that he’d almost signed the girl’s boobs, probably would have if the doorman hadn’t shooed her away. Knowing that he’s probably signed a gazillion boobs before tonight makes me feel better, like I’m not responsible for that girl’s humiliation. He rubs his sister’s back and helps her sit when she’s finished.
“Let me get a towel,” I say, as much to escape his presence as to help Maggie. Because I suddenly can’t stand the welling of emotions, no longer dormant, can’t stand that I’m so easy, so naive. Still. Even after hard lessons learned.
Because I know that if Ryan is interested in me, it’s all about my looks because he’s that kind of superficial guy when it comes to women. Because the only thing he seems to be interested in is fucking women and that’s not the kind of guyI’minterested in. Not at all. But tell that to my tingling lady parts as he smiles at me gratefully.
I slam the stall door open to find a crowd of women waiting and ogling past me to see Ryan. In a rush I pull the door closed behind me and gather my wits, or what’s left of them.
“Ladies, some privacy please. This is the bathroom.”
“That’s Ryan O’Rourke in there, isn’t it? I saw him—”
“Never mind,” I say, seeing that this situation could go south very fast, also knowing my boss would kill for a video clip and the juicy story about Ryan in the ladies’ room at Cru. “Take care of your personal business—if you have a legitimate reason to be in here.” Staring pointedly at the empty stalls and the no less than five women who face me. One of them is Miss Please Sign My Boob. Thank God I don’t see Miss Here’s My Number Call Me in the small crowd.
The door opens and I’m relieved to see that it’s Allie Pink—that’s what we call her, Pink being short for Pinkerton and distinguishing her from the seeming billions of other Allie s out there in the young single women universe.
