Page 9 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 3
Chelsea
Maggie’s big drunken mouth starts a maelstrom of fanfare, the kind where shrieking women flock and everyone in the place whips out their cell phones and aims them at us. I reach for Ryan reflexively to protect him from the onslaught of attention, keeping the women from literally throwing themselves at him, feeling a little guilty for dragging him in here to be mauled. And if I’m perfectly honest, I don’t like seeing other women touch him. Never have. Looking around for some help, I see the bouncer or whatever he is from the front door headed our way. Thank God. A drunken mob of horny women is more than I can handle. And more than I want to see Ryan handling in spite of everything I said to him.
“Oh my God it’s that hockey hunk Ryan O!”
“Ryan, can I have a picture with you?”
“Ryan O’Rourke! Sign my boob!”
The women move in and I look to our friends to help shield him as Ryan smiles into the flashing phones and takes a pen and a menu thrust at him by one of the women over my outstretched arms. I’m standing in front of him and pressed against him as the crowd of people closes in.
“Shit, Ryan,” I say.
“Hang in there. It’ll calm down after I sign a few . . . things.” His voice is tight and he puts one arm around me as if he’s protecting me. Damn the man. He’s being nice and I’m not strong enough to resist the nice Ryan, the Ryan of my girlhood crush.
One of the other bridesmaids, Allie Pinkerton, who hasn’t lost her shit, joins me at his other side, lacing through the crowd of ladies and some men.
The bouncer dude reaches us, clearing away some of the people, telling them to back off and return to their seats. He’s moderately successful, but a couple of determined ladies stick around.
“I apologize, sir,” the bouncer says. “Let me get you a chair.” He points at the table where our bachelorette party is in various states of drunkenness and urges Ryan to sit with them.
“You can have my seat,” I say, to get him off center stage, standing in the middle of the place for all to see.
“That’s okay.”
“No, I insist.” I stare him down, noticing the tic in his jaw.
He sits, shoves his bag under the table, and I take the chair the bouncer brings over a second later. The ladies in our party tease him about howhothe is and beg for his autograph, making him laugh.
“What a nice supprize, Ryan,” Maggie says, slurring like crazy, “but I uz expectin’ a guy who’s not my brotha to show—”
I pat Maggie’s arm. “He’s not that kind of surprise, Maggs. I hate to disappoint you, but we’re not having a male stripper show.”
“Aw,” one of the bridesmaids says, “thatisdisappointing. I was hoping Ryan was going to at least take off his shirt.”
The others laugh, but I cringe, thinking of all those photos I’ve seen, in particular the one where he’s shirtless. Guilt wells up until I can’t stand it.
I say in a shrieking voice, “No fucking way.” Clutching Ryan’s arm like I’m protecting him from a wild beast. He looks at me. Embarrassment floods me and I have no idea how to explain my outburst. What do I care? I shouldn’t care. I can’t afford to care about R.O.
“Relax, it’s okay. I can handle it.” He’s talking in a low voice for my ears only, leaning into me so his mouth is close to my ear. “Don’t worry. I’m not taking my shirt off. Especially not with all these cameras here.” He pauses a beat and I meet his eyes. “Not with you here to report it all.”
Bam. Shame hits me, sobering me, and I let go of his arm, put some space between us.
A woman saunters by our table and she reaches out and gives Ryan a slip of paper and a saucy smile. “Call me later, Ryan. Or anytime.” I stare daggers at her and make to get up from my chair. She flashes me a look and laughs as she walks away.
“Shit, Ryan. This is even more ridiculous than I imagined,” I say.
“It’s late. People are drunk or at least tipsy. Makes them bolder,” he says like he’s seen it all before a hundred times. And he probably has.
“Why do you even go out anymore?” I look at him. It’s a serious question. He meets my gaze, and I see a flicker of sadness before his smirk appears.
“I’m not a monk, Chelsea.”
“You can’t be attracted to this woman? You’re not going to call her.” I press him for some unknown reason, not wanting him to be as horrible as his reputation says he is. Meanwhile the bridesmaids are all toasting Maggie yet again.
“No,” he says. “I’m not going to call her.” He sighs. “I’m not attracted to her—or any of these women.” He tilts his head in the direction of the bar at large. “Haven’t been for a long time.” The sadness returns to his eyes for real now and lashes my soul. The last thing I need is for my chest to tighten on behalf of Ryan fucking O’Rourke, but it does. I feel things that I’d just as soon remain dormant, thought I’d killed that tenderness long ago. Thought the crush was dead and buried.
