Holy s**t.
Holy s**t!!!!
What sort of cliché moment is this?
"Ryder..." I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.
He was standing there, casually leaning against the wall with that damn smirk plastered on his face.
Ryder Caldwell, in all his glory. Dark hair that looked like he'd just run his fingers through it, sharp jawline, and those impossibly deep eyes that seemed to see right through me. He was wearing a fitted black T-shirt that clung to his toned chest and arms, paired with athletic shorts that showed off his ridiculously strong legs.
And those hands. God, those hands. They were shoved into his pockets, but I knew firsthand what they could do.
He wasn't alone, either. A group of guys stood behind him, all dressed similarly, probably his teammates. They were laughing and
