Page 11 of Ryder: Shadows and Desires

Only minutes pass before Ryder appears in my doorway. My emotions clash heavily when I take him in. It’s his stupid face and the way those sweats hang off of him. He’s so brutal and handsome, with eyes warning anyone not to get too close. It’s catnip, and that annoys the crap out of me.

I sigh.He’s an asshole, remember?I need a boyfriend to fill in the empty space of my head or a new hobby, something other than the useless ramblings of my thoughts.

Rydercan’twin that part of me, especially since I know it’ll be unrequited.

I snicker to myself.Not unless I’m an old man in my fifties, apparently.

“Hey,” he says as he nears my room, no warmth to be found in his deep, raspy voice. He’s clearly here to go over the information I received from Andrew, and that’s it.

“You want any coffee or anything?” I ask, pouring myself a cup.

“Black,” he grunts, sitting down in my chair, groaning as he moves. Most of the guys are always sore, so I’m used to that.

Steam rolls off the top of the mug I hand him, and I sit down across from the fighter. His short, dark brown hair is freshly cut, the tips slightly gelled in his usual fashion.

He motions the mug in my direction. “So why does this gym have a whole sports therapist unit? That’s pretty rare, honestly.”

No emotion, Julie. “My brother really wanted to go professional as a coach in this field. I liked sports therapy, so we sort of just combined forces. It’s a unique combo, but it helped when he was building his brand.”

His brows raise. “I guess I got lucky, then.”

I pop the back of my pen, hovering it over a blank notepad. I need to move the conversation forward to preventanydisplay of weakness, and thinking of Jeremy will only make me crumble. “So, let’s start with all the major injuries you’ve ever had.”

“That’ll be quite a list.”

“Gotta know it.”

He nods, taking a sip, scrunching his brows as he looks at his coffee. “This is good coffee.”

“Yeah, whole beans, freshly ground. One day I’ll buy a latte maker, but for now, it’s just black.”

He sips some more before setting the mug down and re-positions himself. I swear the way that hoodie drapes over his shoulders is a cruel joke from whatever god is out there.

I have a thing for muscular shoulders.

“Let’s see. I’ve had a broken tibia, broken collarbone, rotator cuff tear at a severity of two, laceration in the back that tore some muscle, face and nose fractures, concussions, and broken ribs.”

“How was the healing process? Are there any lingering problem areas?” I ask, jotting that down.

“It went pretty well, honestly. The shoulder is the only thing that bothers me. But it’s more sore than injured,” he explains.

“And the back? How deep was that cut? What was it caused by?” Other than being curious about how on earth he sustained that, it’s also important to ask, as lacerations cut the muscles in different ways than natural tears.

“That’s the one I don’t want to talk about, and all you need to know is it was shallow enough to heal for a full recovery.”

Naturally, that only increases my curiosity. “Any joint pain?”

“Knees sometimes hurt, but that’s normal at thirty-two with the shit I’ve done.”

“Have you ever used any hard drugs?”

“Tried coke once. Don’t like how it makes my heart race. Weed is no stranger to me.”

“Do you drink?”

“Socially.”

“How’s your mind? Anything I need to watch out for?” I glance up at the mass of muscle before me, trying to imagine him as vulnerable.