Page 12 of Any Second Now (Fort Collins Blizzard Hockey #2)

Put Me In, Coach

ATTICUS

T oday’s a skating day, and it’s a good distraction while I wait for my not-date tonight with Raleigh so we can start the dating lessons that I don’t need.

I go through extensive stretching before I even put my skates on. My groin pull was not due to me not stretching enough, but I know I need to be extra careful because repeat injuries are common. And I’m not about to let Barrett Steele take my spot on the first line.

Barrett fucking Steele.

During that last game, he checked me so hard against the boards that all the air was knocked out of my body. I fell to the ice, which I’ve done a thousand times, but this time the way I landed was too awkward and I could feel the muscle yank in a way that didn’t feel right.

That moment haunts me. I was terrified for a split second before I realized I could get up and limp-skate off the ice.

Was it his fault? I dunno, but I’m definitely gonna hold it against him.

I’m already sweating from the stretches, squats, high knees, lunges, and jumping jacks as I strap on my blades. No one besides me and the skating coach are in the arena. This is my last one-on-one practice with him before I start small group practices.

I meet up with the team’s long-term skating coach at the entrance to the rink.

“Hey, Gerald.”

“All warmed up?” He watches me intently.

I nod.

“How are you feeling today?” He looks pointedly at my groin, which would be weird in literally any other circumstance.

Gerald can’t be more than five years older than I am, maybe mid-thirties.

He’s an ex-professional figure skater and pushes all of us hard, making grown men cry even though we’ve all probably got fifty to one hundred pounds on him.

“I feel great. Don’t go easy on me.” I need the distraction.

Gerald nods to the ice, and I do a half dozen warm up laps while he busies himself setting up a series of orange cones to practice quick and tight turns.

He explains the drills and I get to work.

I almost wipe out after a mild twinge in my groin startles me, causing me to hesitate around one of the cones.

“Knox!” Gerald shouts.

I spin to a stop and turn to him, waiting for the criticism I know is coming.

“You can’t be scared of your own body,” he yells across the ice. “If you get in your head, you’ll never fully recover. And you are, in fact, fully recovered. So act like it.” He claps three times.

I concentrate and get through all of the cone torture, and then he has me switch to practicing explosive starts and short bursts of speed. After twenty minutes of that, we move on to puck handling around cones—the fucking cones are back—and the nets, then end with shooting practice.

After an hour, I drag myself to the locker room to grab a hot shower.

That felt good. I’m finally— finally —feeling like I can get back to where I was.

And Gerald’s right. I am too much in my head.

In a normal summer, I’d be lazy right about now and would ramp up workouts in August as preseason got closer.

This summer I’m decidedly more nervous.

Especially about that asshole Barrett Steele.

But tonight my reward is I get to hang out with Raleigh.

As my dating coach? What the fuck. But I like her. She’s funny. And pretty. And while I used to think of her as polished and put together, now she seems to have leaned in to another side of herself.

And I like that side.

I liked her before, but I might like the cross-stitching, RV-driving chicken lady even more.

After snort-laughing at the flimsy-ass chicken coup in front of the Pink Palace, I knock on the door to the RV, my knuckles making a tinny sound.

She’s living in an oversized tuna can. How is this even safe?

Raleigh opens the door and I can’t help the smile from widening on my face.

She’s wearing a sleeveless blue sundress with a low neckline that offers a hint of the swell of her breasts, and the hem stops halfway up her thighs.

I try really hard not to let my eyes linger on her legs or tempting cleavage.

“Hey, I just need a few more minutes.” Raleigh’s curled her short hair away from her face. She gestures to an eye, like I’m supposed to know what that means, and glances over her shoulder back into the trailer. “Come on in, I guess.”

“Have time for that tour?”

“Sure, and it’ll take about sixty seconds.” Raleigh sighs and steps back from the doorway.

I step into the RV and look around .

“Wow, it’s actually roomier on the inside than I thought it would be,” I lie. She lives here? This place is a closet.

“It is absolutely not.” Raleigh narrows her eyes at me.

“Um, yeah, you’re right.” I shake my head. “This whole place would fit into my bedroom.”

“Shut up.” Raleigh reaches over and gently pushes me in the biceps. “It’s home for now. This is the kitchen.” She doesn’t move but points to the sink, small refrigerator, and double cabinets. “This is the dining room.”

My eyes settle on the table, where there are piles of yarn and what I’m assuming are other cross-stitch materials.

“I know, it’s a mess.” Raleigh tries to step between me and the table. “I basically move the pile from my bed to the table and back to my bed. There’s really nowhere to store it.”

It’s really not a mess. Organized clutter, more like it.

The table is next to the entrance, and on the other side is a snug two-seater sofa with a pair of comfy-looking pillows and a pink fleece blanket hung across the back.

In front of the sofa is a tiny tent with mesh sides.

And a white, fluffy chicken inside.

“And this is Megghen.”

“Wow.” I squat down and peer at the bird.

Megghen stares at me with beady little chicken eyes.

“Wow, she’s so pretty?” Raleigh suggests.

“Sure. And wow, a chicken in a tent in a pink RV is not something you see every day.”

“Ah. Yes. That.”

“To be sure I understand, she’s inside because any creature on this big beautiful green earth could break into her flimsy chicken coup?”

“Yes, correct. She’s not pleased that I shoved her inside that tent. But—oh, crap.” Raleigh takes a step toward the door to the RV, where there’s a pair of sneakers neatly lined up next to flip flops. “I knew it.” She bends down and pulls something out of her shoe.

It’s a brown egg.

I stifle a laugh.

Raleigh stands, puts a hand on her hip, and shakes a finger at the chicken. “No laying eggs in my shoes! This is the second time!”

“That is really gross.” I press my lips together, but the chuckle escapes this time.

“Yeah? Well it’s also really delicious.” Raleigh opens her small fridge and places the egg gingerly into the built-in egg container. “Just hang out with Megghen for a minute while I finish my makeup.”

Raleigh takes about three steps to her open bedroom door. I follow to peek inside and observe mostly bed, a small vanity table, and a closet with an open folded door. Her makeup is scattered over the vanity.

“Not only is my bedroom the same size as your entire RV, but my bed on its own is bigger than this room.”

“Seriously, shut up,” Raleigh huffs. “I’d slam the door in your face, but it sounds like a piece of cardboard.”

I hold up my hands and take the few steps back to the couch to give her some privacy. Raleigh thinks I’ve bought her gifts so far? She hasn’t seen anything. What I really want to do is buy her a bigger, better RV.

I won’t, of course, because I’m pretty sure she’ll think that’s going a step too far.

“What are you going to do with the chick—Megghen?” I wave down at the chicken, who is watching me through the mesh with those creepy chicken eyeballs.

“I’m going to post on a few neighborhood apps,” Raleigh says from inside the bedroom. “Her owner is probably looking for her.”

I lean over and look at the biggest pile of finished cross-stitch.

The one on top says Abso-fucking-lutey not in looping script and has delicate roses stitched all around it.

I huff a quiet laugh. Then my eye catches on the circle above her kitchen that says The Pink Palace with pink swirls along the border.

I reach up to touch it and the hoop falls off the nail.

“Shit!” I fumble but catch it and re-hook it on.

“What’d you say?” Raleigh peeks her head out the door to her bedroom and my eyes flit to her red painted lips.

“Oh, nothing. Just talking to Megghen.”

The chicken boc boc bocs accusingly when Raleigh disappears back into her room.

“What?” I whisper. “Mind your business.”

Raleigh walks out of her bedroom and settles at the table to put on strappy sandals, lifting one smooth leg at a time. The whole thing feels so natural, which is the weirdest part of it all.

“You’re not judging me, are you?” She looks up when she’s done. “With your fancy apartment and your hotshot pro hockey player life?”

“Never.” And I mean it. “You look beautiful.”

She glances down at her dress and a pretty blush creeps up her neck onto her cheeks.

“Whatever. Let’s go.”

Fifteen minutes later, Raleigh walks through the door I’m holding open to La Dolce Vita Bistro.

“So the whole point of tonight is to teach you, a thirty-year-old man, how to act on a date.” Raleigh crosses her arms and assesses me like she’s searching for a lie.

“That is correct.” I give my name to the woman at the hostess stand.

“Because you don’t know how to do that.”

“Also correct.” The hostess gathers menus and waves us to follow her.

“Fine,” Raleigh says. “But in exchange, I really do need some good cross-stitch inspiration.”

“I can’t imagine you won’t get that.” I don’t finish the sentence like I want to, with something like with this ridiculous dating coach situation .

We settle in our chairs, and I order a bottle of red from the waitress.

“So, where should we start, coach?” I ask, earning a withering look from my not-date.

“Alright. That couple over there.” Raleigh nods her head to a man and woman a few tables over from us. “What do you think?”

The couple, probably in their mid-twenties, are having a conversation over drinks. Looks… fine.