Page 22

Chapter 22

Ryker

N avigating the crowded aisles of the department store with Dylan felt like a trial by fire. Every step brought a new question.

"Why do I need so many notebooks?" Dylan's voice pierced through my thoughts.

I sighed, grabbing a pack of pencils. "You'll use them. Trust me."

He frowned, eyes scanning the shelves like they held the secrets of the universe. "But what if I don't?"

"You will." My tone was final, leaving no room for debate. The kid's relentless curiosity tested my patience, yet there was something endearing about his inquisitiveness.

We moved to the next aisle. Binders in various colors lined the shelves. Dylan picked up a bright red one, turning it over in his hands.

"What's your favorite color?" he asked suddenly, looking up at me.

"Never thought about it," I lied, avoiding the vulnerability that came with such simple questions.

Dylan shrugged, placing the binder into our cart. "Mine's red."

I nodded, pushing the cart forward. "Good choice."

The back-to-school sale signs dangled overhead, a constant reminder of how far removed I felt from these mundane tasks. Yet, here I was, guiding this kid through it all.

"Do you remember your first day of school?" Dylan's voice cut through my thoughts again.

"Yeah," I muttered, not elaborating. Memories of my own school days were a mixed bag—filled with pressure and expectations I never quite met to my father’s standards.

He seemed to sense my reluctance but pressed on. "Were you nervous?"

"No," I replied quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Just focused."

Dylan looked at me skeptically but didn't push further. Instead, he grabbed a pack of markers and tossed them into the cart.

"Thanks for helping me," he said quietly as we reached the checkout line.

"Don't mention it," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant but feeling a strange warmth at his gratitude.

As we waited for our turn, Dylan continued to pepper me with questions about school subjects and teachers. His eagerness grated on my nerves but also reminded me of a time when I had that same spark before life’s disappointments dimmed it.

"Will you help me with my homework sometimes?"

I glanced at him, seeing the hope in his eyes. For a moment, I hesitated before nodding. "Yeah, kid. I'll help."

His face lit up with a smile that made the annoyance worth it.

I paid for the supplies and grabbed the bags, motioning for Dylan to follow me. "We should look at winter coats," I said, leading the way toward the outerwear section.

Dylan trailed behind, his curiosity bubbling over. "Why'd you get into a fight with that guy?"

I stopped and looked at him. He was a small kid for his age, with unruly hair and an earnest face that reminded me of simpler times. His wide eyes showed no judgment, just genuine curiosity.

I sighed, moving past him. "I shouldn't have?—"

"For real," he interrupted. "You don't have to lie. You're my favorite player, Ryker Kane. I've been watching you for as long as I can remember. You never fight. So, why did you?"

The kid’s unwavering honesty threw me off balance. I wasn’t sure what to say. Memories of the confrontation flooded back, tangled with anger and frustration.

Finally, I decided on the truth. "The guy was saying some pretty mean things about my friends."

"So, you stood up for them?" he asked.

"I'm not saying I handled it the right way," I said, glancing away from his earnest gaze, "but yeah. I told him to stop three times. I warned him. He decided to keep going."

"Why not just walk away?" His question hung in the air between us.

His innocence stung more than any criticism could.

I took a deep breath, the weight of the conversation settling in. "I... I don't know," I admitted, my voice softer than usual. "I was pretty upset about the season. I wasn't... in the best head space."

Dylan nodded as if he understood more than he should for his age. "I think I would have done the same thing," he said with a determined look. "You can't let bullies get away with things. That's what my tio says."

"Do you get bullied a lot?" I asked, unable to hide the edge in my voice.

We stopped in front of the racks of winter coats, the array of colors and styles almost overwhelming.

"Sometimes," Dhe replied, his eyes darting away. "My mom tells me to walk away, but sometimes, they don't let me."

A surge of anger flared up inside me. The thought of anyone picking on Dylan—or any kid—made my blood boil.

"My uncle says I just have to hit them one time," he continued, mimicking a punch with his small fist. "One time to show I'm not afraid, but then my mom starts yelling at him in Spanish and he changes the subject."

I couldn't help but smile at that image. The kid had spunk.

"Here," I said, grabbing a sturdy-looking jacket off the rack and tossing it to him. "Try this on."

He caught it mid-air and slipped his arms into the sleeves. The jacket was a little big, but he'd grow into it.

"Looks good," I said, giving him a thumbs up.

He grinned and zipped it up, striking a mock-heroic pose. "Think this'll keep me warm enough?"

"It better," I replied with a smirk. "It's top of the line."

Dylan's face lit up with pride as he looked at himself in one of the store's mirrors. Seeing him happy brought an unfamiliar warmth to my chest.

We moved through the rest of our shopping list quickly, the kid’s chatter filling any potential silence between us. By the time we reached the checkout line again, our cart was piled high with supplies and clothes.

"Thanks for helping me today."

"Don't mention it," I replied, trying to sound casual but feeling something shift inside me. "One more thing."

He trotted over, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. I led him away from the crowded aisles, finding a quieter spot near the back of the store, away from prying eyes and potential interruptions. The last thing I wanted was for Paige to stumble upon this.

He glanced around, confusion flickering across his face. "What are we doing here?"

I lowered my voice, checking to make sure no one was around. "Your uncle's not wrong about standing up for yourself," I said, locking eyes with him. "Sometimes, you gotta show them you won't back down."

His eyes widened. "Really?"

I nodded, leaning in closer. "I'm going to teach you how to throw a punch, but you have to promise me you'll only use it to defend yourself, never to attack."

Dylan's brows knitted together. "You mean like... now?"

"Yeah," I said, straightening up and giving him some space.

He nodded eagerly. "I promise."

I smirked. "Show me what you got."

He hesitated but then clenched his small fists and squared his shoulders. With a determined look, he threw a punch into the air, but it was more of a flail than a strike.

I shook my head slightly. "Not bad for a start," I said, stepping beside him. "But here, let me show you."

I demonstrated the proper stance, showing him how to balance his weight and keep his guard up. He mimicked my movements, his focus intense.

"Now," I continued, "when you throw the punch, twist your hips and shoulders into it. Like this." I showed him again, making sure he saw the motion.

He tried again, this time with more control but still missing the mark.

"Better," I encouraged. "But keep your fist tight and aim straight."

He nodded and took another swing. This time it was sharper, more precise.

"That's it," I said with a hint of pride in my voice. "Do it again."

He practiced a few more times, each punch getting better until he finally got the hang of it.

Breathing heavily but grinning ear to ear, he looked up at me. "Like that?"

"Exactly like that," I replied with a nod.

The satisfaction in his eyes made the whole day worth it.

I led Dylan back to his mother, who was waiting near the entrance. She looked relieved to see us, a grateful smile spreading across her face.

"Thank you so very much," she said, her voice warm with sincerity.

"No problem," I replied, picking up the bags and gesturing towards the parking lot. "Let me walk you to your car."

We walked in silence until we reached a small, beat-up Honda parked at the far end of the lot. I noticed the way she glanced at me nervously before speaking.

"It's not much, but it gets us where we need to go," she said quickly, almost defensively.

I shook my head, feeling a pang of discomfort. "I'm not judging. You're doing great."

She looked relieved, nodding slightly. "Thanks."

"May I get a picture with you and my son?" she asked, pulling out her phone.

I nodded. "Of course."

She handed the phone to an event volunteer, who seemed more than happy to help. Dylan and I stood side by side, and his mother joined us, wrapping an arm around her son's shoulder. The camera clicked, capturing the moment.

Dylan turned to me, his eyes wide with excitement. "Can I get your autograph? I brought my jersey but my mom says it's rude?—"

" Mijo !" his mother exclaimed, looking mortified.

I chuckled. "It's fine."

Dylan darted to the backseat of the car and grabbed his jersey. I reached into my pocket for the Sharpie Paige had handed me earlier before we started shopping. With a practiced hand, I signed the jersey with a flourish.

"Here you go," I said, handing it back to him.

Before I realized what was happening, Dylan wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug. I stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden affection. But then something in me softened, and I returned the hug.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Anytime," I replied quietly, patting his back before stepping away.

His mother gave me one last grateful smile as they got into their car. Watching them drive off, a strange warmth settled over me—a feeling I wasn't used to but found myself welcoming, nonetheless.

"I knew it," a voice said from behind me.

I turned to find Paige standing there, her arms crossed and a smirk playing on her lips.

"Ryker Kane has a heart," she said.

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Don't get used to it."

She fell in step beside me as we headed back into the department store. The bustling noise of families shopping and kids chattering filled the air, creating a strange sense of normalcy.

"You did good," she told me, her voice softer than usual.

I nodded, glancing sideways at her. "This was… fun."

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I'm sorry, did you just compliment me?"

My lips quirked up at the corners. "Maybe you're not so bad at your job, Adams."

"Thanks for the support," she replied with a grin that seemed to light up her entire face.

"So, now what?" I asked.

"Now, you go home," she said simply.

"And what about you?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"I'll wait here until everyone's wrapped up," she said. "Then, I'll help with the cleaning."

"Cleaning?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not going to be rude and leave a mess," she said matter-of-factly.

"By yourself?"

She arched an eyebrow at me. "Are you volunteering?"

I looked away, feeling a mix of reluctance and something else I couldn't quite place. The thought of spending more time around Paige was both irritating and strangely appealing.

The silence stretched between us for a moment before she chuckled softly. "I'll be fine, Ryker. You can go."

"Maybe I don't want to," I said, surprising myself as much as Paige.

Her eyes widened, the shock evident. I could see her mind racing, trying to process my sudden change in attitude. She cleared her throat, regaining her composure. "Well then," she said, her voice steady but with a slight edge of uncertainty. "Why don't you talk to Margaret about taking some of the trash out? I'm going to fix the dressing rooms..."

She swallowed hard, the sound almost audible in the quiet space between us. She was nervous. Good. I wanted her to be.

I nodded, pretending to consider her suggestion seriously. "Sure," I replied, turning toward where Margaret was bustling around with a clipboard in hand. But my mind was already spinning, wondering why the hell I didn’t just leave like she suggested.

Paige's presence tugged at something deep within me, something I wasn’t ready to confront or even acknowledge. But there it was, staring me in the face every time she looked at me with those damn expressive eyes.

Margaret gave me a once-over as I approached her. "You offering to help?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Yeah," I grunted, trying to sound nonchalant. "Where's the trash?"

She pointed toward a stack of black garbage bags near the back exit. "Those need to go out to the dumpster."

I nodded and grabbed two of the bags, slinging them over my shoulder. The weight was nothing compared to what I was used to lifting on the field. But as I carried them out, my thoughts kept drifting back to Paige.

Why had I offered to stay? What was it about her that made me want to stick around?

Dumping the bags into the dumpster outside, I took a moment to clear my head before heading back in for more.

As I worked through the remaining bags, my mind remained tangled in confusion and frustration.

When I finished with the trash and walked back inside, I washed my hands before heading back over to the main floor. Margaret gave me an approving nod. "Thanks for that."

I just shrugged and headed towards where Paige had disappeared into the dressing rooms. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear her moving around inside.

I pushed it open and leaned against the frame, watching as she meticulously organized clothes on hangers and picked up stray tags from the floor.

"Need any help in here?" My voice sounded casual but carried an underlying challenge.

She looked up, startled for a moment before narrowing her eyes at me. "I thought you were taking out the trash."

"I did," I replied simply.

She bit her lip, clearly torn between telling me off and accepting my offer.

"Fine," she said finally, tossing a pile of clothes into a bin. "Help me fold these."

But I didn't. I shut the door behind me, pulled the clothes out of her hands, and pulled her in for a searing kiss. Her lips were soft and warm against mine, and for a moment, all the tension between us melted away. She stiffened in my arms at first, clearly shocked by the suddenness of it all, but then she responded, her hands clutching at my shirt as if grounding herself.

I felt a fire ignite inside me, one that had been smoldering ever since I first laid eyes on her. Her breath mingled with mine, and the sensation was intoxicating. I broke the kiss only when we were both breathless, my forehead resting against hers as we caught our breath. Her eyes were wide, filled with something deeper that mirrored my own turmoil.

"What—?"

But I wasn't in the mood to talk.

So, I kissed her again, if only to shut her up.