AMY’S POV
The morning sun had barely cleared the glass dome of the arena when Ryder stepped onto the ice for his private evaluation.
I stood near the Zamboni entrance, leaning against the rubber matting with a clipboard in hand, watching him. High in the lower bowl, the regional director for the Chicago organisation sat alone in a tailored overcoat, taking notes on a tablet.
Without the team, without the noise of a crowd, and without Cole's suffocating shadow, Ryder moved like a force of nature.
He skated with fluid, explosive speed. He ran through high-speed puck handling drills, firing hard shots against the glass. Even with his injured shoulder, he showed no sign of weakness. He was determined to prove he could overcome the rumours and challenges.
When the forty-five-minute session
