The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(12)
Eloise trembled with anger but would never let it show. Not to Kristoff. Not to anybody. “I earned my job through hard work, intelligence, and perseverance, and I do it well,” she said coldly. “I suggest you do yours to the best of your ability. If you have any. I’ll email my ideas to your creative team.”
***
Ryder stepped into the Riot’s training room and inhaled a big breath, taking in the smells of vinyl gym mats and sweat that pervaded the space. The whir of spanking-new high-tech workout machines sounded like music to his ears – the tune familiar yet distant. As part of the operations staff, he was allowed to use the equipment, but it wasn’t the same as being one of the players. He shook off the gnawing feelings of jealousy and grabbed a towel from the stack near the door.
He headed to the spin station for his warm up and spotted a friend there. “Hey, man, how’ve you been? Welcome to Rochester.”
Cole looked over as Ryder spoke, his forehead already dripping in sweat. He smiled and slowed his pedaling. “Hey, Ryder. I heard you were out here in Minnesota. Been great, how about you? Haven’t seen you since Junior All-Stars.”
“I know,” Ryder said, flipping his towel around his neck and mounting the spin cycle next to him. “Those days are long gone, my friend. And it sucks.”
“Not necessarily. You traded in the pads and blades for a suit, huh? Good call – much safer and a lot more job security. Look at what just happened to me. Uprooted again.”
Ryder detected a hint of patronism in Cole’s comments but shrugged it off. Things were as they were and time didn’t run backwards. He laughed appropriately as he set the tension and began to pedal. “Yeah, I’ve been with the Riot for a couple years now.”
Cole resumed his pace. “Nice. You married or what?”
“Shit, no. Who needs that hassle? More * around here than at an ASPCA, all looking to come in from the cold and get warm,” Ryder snickered.
Cole mopped his forehead with the edge of his towel and pedaled faster. “Well, it does get cold around here,” he agreed. “Nothing like a little fur to keep you warm.”
“Even fur doesn’t melt ice,” Ryder said, a frown creasing his brow.
Cole gave him a sidelong glance and slowed down from his sprint. “Sounds like you’ve got someone on your mind,” he said between heavy breaths. “Say, do you know that Eloise chick? Works in corporate? Poised and charming, curvy in all the right places.”
Ryder flinched inwardly but kept pedaling. Christ, what f*cking timing. “El Robertson?” he asked nonchalantly. “Yeah. See her every day. What about her?”
“She seems nice,” Cole said.
Ryder scoffed, not really wanting to discuss Eloise now that Cole had expressed interest. Ryder could see right through the seemingly innocent question. In a few words, the centerman had already painted Eloise with a giant bullseye that said next to f*ck.
“Appearances can be deceiving. Haven’t they sent you the catalog yet?” he asked, changing the subject. Ryder had an axe to grind with Eloise, and he wanted Cole to move on to someone else before he f*cked up Ryder’s plan.
“What?” Cole’s head snapped toward Ryder, droplets of perspiration flicking off the end of his nose. He looked confused.
“You know… the line-up,” Ryder said, amping up the tension on his cycle. “The list of trophy-wife contestants. Kinda like a pageant. Take your pick any time during the swimsuit competition.”
Cole laughed aloud. “Ryder, you’re so fulla shit it’s no wonder your eyes are brown. I get it, I’ve seen the show; the stereotypical hockey wife. Big hair and an even bigger spending habit. Not interested.”
“You? Not interested in hot *? Since when?”
“Didn’t say I wasn’t interested,” Cole said, going into hill-mode on his cycle, his powerful thighs pumping into standing position. “But none of those bimbo-brains appeal to me. I’m not saying I’m the marrying type, but I’d want a woman with a head on her shoulders, not just a football field between the legs, thanks. And some career interests.”
“Reality check, dude. Career women aren’t going to follow you around the continent with your game schedule tattooed to their ass.”
Cole pedaled hard, inhaling and exhaling with a fervor that bordered on hostility. “All I’m saying is that there’s more than one kind of woman. And you of all people should know it since you turned corporate.”
“Sure there are,” Ryder conceded, pushing hard on his pedals, feeling the sweat begin to trickle down his neck and between his shoulder blades. Not all of it from exercise. “That’s why they send you the catalog – blondes, brunettes, redheads. All of them pre-tested, pre-approved and pre-screened for fitness, fertility, flexibility, and f*ckworthiness. The four Fs.”
Cole exhaled and settled back onto the saddle, dialing down to rest phase. “I don’t need a f*cking catalog,” he said, annoyance in his voice. “I’d like to get to know Eloise a little better. She’s a career woman, and hot as hell. We had an interlude outside the other day. She yanked my chain. Some ladies can be both, you know.”
“Forget it, man. El’s an ice arena chiller unit on black platform stilettos. Stay away from her unless you want frostbite on your dick.” Cole threw him a look as cold as the statement he’d just made. Ryder smiled to himself. Not too keen on sloppy seconds are you, Fiorino. Even though he hadn’t actually made it with Tastee-Freez Eloise, he didn’t mind his friend and former rival thinking he’d already licked that Popsicle.