Page 6 of Tough Guy (Game Changers #3)

Ryan wrapped his hand around the other man’s arm, pulling him close in a firm grip. He dipped his head, and brought his lips close to the man’s ear.

“You sure you wanna do this, kid?”

When Ryan pulled back, he could see the fear in the young man’s eyes. Hell, he could smell it coming off him in waves.

“F-fuck you,” the man spat out.

So Ryan punched him across the jaw. And the crowd went wild.

Ryan had hoped the one punch would do the trick, and the younger player would fall to the ice. Then the refs could step in and break it up, the kid would get to say he fought Ryan Price, and Ryan wouldn’t have to hurt this rookie too badly.

But the kid didn’t go down. Instead, he pulled back his right fist and hit Ryan in the shoulder, which probably hadn’t been where he’d been aiming, because Ryan could hear his knuckles cracking against the hard plastic of his shoulder pad.

The kid—a twenty-two-year-old rookie for Minnesota named Corkum—stared in horror at his own fist for a second, and then turned his wide eyes to Ryan’s face. Ryan sort of shrugged and gave him an apologetic look before landing a second punch to the right side of his face.

This time, Corkum hit the ice. Ryan made a show of covering him with his much larger body and pulling his arm back as if he might hit him again. He wouldn’t—the kid was turtling now, and Ryan would never hit a guy in that position—but he wanted to get the ref’s attention.

It worked. In a moment, one of the linesmen was roughly hauling Ryan off of Corkum. The crowd was chanting now as Ryan was ushered to the penalty box.

“Pay. The. Price.”

Ryan hated that chant. Truly, and deeply despised it. It had followed him from his junior hockey days to the eight different NHL teams he had played for, and now to his ninth team.

“Pay. The. Price.”

He settled into the box, took his helmet off, and shook out his long, sweaty hair.

“I was starting to miss you,” the penalty box attendant joked. Gerald was in his sixties, and chattier than most of the attendants around the league. Ryan would know; he was very familiar with them.

“You’re going to be expecting a proposal soon, I’ll bet,” Ryan said. “All this time alone together.”

Gerald laughed, but Ryan found himself wondering how many hours of his own life had been spent in penalty boxes. How many days, if he added up all the two-minute and five-minute intervals.

Well, less than Gerald. Maybe.

When the crowd had settled down, and the play was underway, Ryan heard Corkum yelling at him from his own penalty box. “Hey, Price!”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks!” Corkum was beaming, and flushed like he’d just had the best sex of his life. Ryan snorted and shook his head.

“You made his night!” Gerald said cheerfully.

“He’s an idiot,” Ryan grumbled. He grabbed a water bottle and squirted it over his head, then finger-combed his damp hair, pulling it away from his face before putting his helmet back on.

It wasn’t unusual for young players to challenge him to fights; Ryan was known to be one of the toughest fighters in the league.

A youngster could quickly earn a little respect by challenging him.

It was probably Ryan’s least favorite kind of fight, though.

The last thing he wanted to do was truly hurt someone, so he had to concentrate on pulling his punches, and making sure they didn’t land on the guy’s temple or his nose or eyes.

At six-foot-seven and almost two hundred and sixty pounds, Ryan was usually the biggest guy on the ice, so evenly matched fights were rare.

Ryan inspected his left hand before putting his gloves back on. He’d probably have a bit of bruising on his knuckles, but nothing serious. He was more concerned about the fact that his back had been bothering him again.

He glanced up at the clock. He doubted he’d see more ice time tonight; his team was up by two goals with a little over eight minutes left to play, and he had done his job for the night.

When the five minutes were up and play had stopped, Gerald opened the door to let Ryan out of the penalty box. He quickly made his way to the Toronto bench, where he wedged himself between his defensive line mate Marcel Houde and Wyatt.

“Good fight, Pricey,” Marcel said halfheartedly when Ryan sat next to him.

“Thanks.” Ryan didn’t mind the lack of enthusiasm; it hadn’t, truthfully, been a good fight. But fighting was all his teammates expected of him, and if he didn’t get perfunctory acknowledgments for punching people, Ryan would never hear praise at all.

“Who do you think the stars will be?” Wyatt asked with a grin.

“I don’t know. Maybe—”

“I mean,” Wyatt continued, “obviously the first star of the game will be me, but who will the second star be?”

Ryan laughed. “You and me, buddy. One and two.”

Wyatt shook his head. “I’m one, the Zamboni is two. You’re three.”

“I’ll take it,” Ryan said. The game was now into its final minute, and Ryan realized he was in a good mood. His team was going to win at home, and it would be days before he inevitably started worrying about the next flight he needed to board.

The game ended and Ryan joined his teammates on the ice in celebration. Wyatt, in his ball cap and clean, dry uniform, had launched into his usual routine. “Whoosh, that was a tough one, boys. Couldn’t have done it without me! Where are we drinking?”

The celebration continued into the locker room. Ryan sat in his stall in one corner and quietly removed his gear as his teammates whooped and hollered and made plans for later that night.

It was Wyatt who thought to ask him. Of course.

“You comin’ out with us?” Wyatt, who hadn’t played and thus hadn’t needed a shower, was already dressed in a dark gray suit, ready to leave the arena.

“Oh, uh, I think I’m gonna head home, actually.

I...” Ryan didn’t finish his sentence because he didn’t want to tell Wyatt about his plans.

He had decided to go to see Fabian’s show that night.

He had been wrestling with the idea all week, and he’d finally decided that his desire to see Fabian perform outweighed his anxiety about going out.

Thankfully, Wyatt didn’t require an explanation. He wouldn’t have been expecting Ryan to accept his invitation anyway. Ryan was sure of that. “See you Monday, then,” Wyatt said. “Have a good day off.”

“Right. Okay. You too.”

Ryan needed to hurry. It was already after ten o’clock.

He took the fastest shower ever, and cursed the rule about wearing suits out of the arena after games.

He wouldn’t have time to stop at home to change; as it was he needed to haul ass to the club and hope he hadn’t missed Fabian’s set entirely.

When Ryan arrived at the Lighthouse, Fabian was already onstage, but it looked like he was just setting up.

The room was quite full, which was good for both the charity the concert was raising money for, and for Ryan, because he would rather Fabian didn’t see him.

He didn’t want anyone to see him, really.

Especially since he was wearing a full suit, which made him stick out even more than he would have anyway.

Everyone in the room was dressed casually, but in a way that suggested their outfits had been carefully put together.

He saw everything from button-up shirts with loud prints on them, to overalls, to plain white T-shirts and skinny jeans. Definitely no other suits, though.

He stood at the back of the dark room, mindful of his size and not wanting to block anyone’s view, and watched Fabian fiddle with a complicated-looking setup that included several floor pedals, a laptop, and a keyboard.

He could also see Fabian’s violin case on the floor behind him.

Fabian moved quickly and efficiently between each of the components, occasionally chatting with people in the audience near the stage.

Ryan saw him smile and laugh, and he was struck by how surreal it was to see him again as a beautiful and confident adult.

And that was before Fabian was even performing.

The first song started with a simple drum track that Fabian played from his laptop.

To that he added layers of music from the keyboard, which he seemed to record and loop using the floor pedals.

When he was satisfied with how that sounded, he would add another layer, building a wall of sound all by himself.

He moved away from the laptop and keyboard, and picked up his violin, and when he stepped in front of the microphone, Ryan felt like the wind had been knocked right out of him.

Fabian stood, alone, under the stage lights in a black, transparent shirt, sleek black pants, and several sparkling necklaces.

He was also wearing dramatic makeup—Ryan could tell, even from the back of the room—and it all made him look like a mythical creature or an angel.

Ryan may have gasped a little when Fabian brought the bow to the violin and played the first notes.

Ryan had loved listening to him devotedly practice his instrument as a teenager, and hearing it again now was bewildering.

The slow, dreamy melody was recorded and looped with the pedals, and then Fabian rested the violin and its bow at his sides, one item in each hand.

He turned to the mic, closed his eyes, and sang.

It was the most beautiful thing Ryan had ever heard; haunting in a way that sent sparks dancing down Ryan’s spine and into his abdomen.

Fabian’s voice was kind of soft and high, but also clear and confident.

The music could probably be called pop, but it was so complex that Ryan wasn’t sure it fit any category.

Fabian’s lyrics were cryptic, but they were also unmistakably sexy.

Ryan couldn’t quite follow the story of the song, but he definitely felt every word.