Page 1 of Desperate Pucker (Denver Bashers #6)

Ryker

Iwalk toward the conference room at the Denver Bashers arena, ignoring the ache in my left ankle and knee.

I’m used to ignoring pain. I’ve done it for most of my career.

That’s what happens when you make it this far in the NHL at my age. You become a walking sack of aches and pains.

It’s part of the deal—part of the privilege of getting to play this sport professionally for so long. And as much as I hate the pain, as much as I hate getting older, this sport is my life. I love it more than anything, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to play as long as I can.

Which is why I’m at the arena the morning of Christmas Eve on my way to a meeting with my new skating coach.

This is the last place I want to be during a holiday, but I injured my ankle and knee during a brawl a few weeks ago, and I need to get on top of my training plan.

I shouldn’t be so irritated. Hockey is a physical sport, and getting hurt is expected. But at my age, I need to be careful.

I wince as the pain in my knee kicks up. A spark of worry flares up inside of me.

I’m already older than all of my teammates on the Bashers. At thirty-five, I’m closer in age to our head coach than I am to the youngest players on the team. I need to do whatever it takes to stay competitive.

I don’t know how many seasons I have left in me…and there’s one thing I want to accomplish before I’m done playing.

Win the Stanley Cup.

It’s not a unique goal. Every single player in this league wants to win it.

But most guys don’t. It’s the hardest championship in professional sports to win. And that makes me want it even more.

I’ve always been the underdog. Too poor. Too old. No one thought I would make it this far. People still don’t think I’ll last. I’m the washed-up old guy who gets smart-ass questions about my age from reporters during post-game press, while my younger teammates get praised for their performance.

And that’s exactly why I’m here, working on a holiday.

That’s why I bust my ass on the ice season after season.

It’s why I hardly drink alcohol, watch what I eat, and make myself go to bed early every night.

It’s why I’ve sacrificed so much—friendships, relationships, a social life, time with my family. I want to prove everyone wrong.

I round the corner of the hallway toward the conference room. I walk through the open door and see a young woman with long, fiery red hair sitting at the end of the table, frowning at her laptop screen.

She looks familiar. I’ve worked with a handful of figure skating coaches in the past, but I’m sure I’ve never worked with her.

When she looks up at me, my breath gets stuck in my throat. Holy shit. She’s gorgeous.

I take in her delicate features. Full lips, ski slope nose, porcelain skin, and big, light blue eyes.

Actually, light blue isn’t the right word. More like gray-blue. They’re the color of the sky right before a storm hits. Or right after.

I swallow hard and silently scold myself.

Are you seriously checking out your new skating coach, you creep?

“Ryker?” Her tone is sharp and firm.

I nod. I walk over to her and go to stick my hand out for her to shake, but she looks away. “Have a seat.”

I sit down in the chair across from her, feeling slightly awkward. It’s not like she snubbed me on purpose. She clearly didn’t see me try to shake her hand. But still. It’s pretty normal to shake someone’s hand when you first meet them. Weird that she doesn’t seem interested in pleasantries.

“You’re Madeline then,” I say, thinking back to the email I got from Coach Porter about my new skating coach. I didn’t get a lot of info. Just that her name is Madeline and that she used to be a figure skater.

She looks up from her laptop at me, an unreadable expression on her face. A light tinge of pink paints her cheeks before her gaze drops back to her laptop.

“Yes.”

“You ever go by Maddy?” It’s my attempt to lighten the mood while she pounds that laptop keyboard like it owes her money. She seems kind of intense.

Her eyes cut to me. Her gaze is hard, on the verge of annoyed. “When I was a kid,” she says curtly.

“Oh.” I clear my throat. Well, that fell flat.

“You can call me Maddy, that’s fine,” she says without looking at me. She still sounds kind of irritated.

I’m quiet for a second, unsure of what the hell I should call her now.

I take in the serious look on her face as she studies something on her laptop screen. She’s quiet for a long second, which makes this even more awkward.

“I wanted to meet today to set up a training schedule for you.”

I nod once. “Yeah, sure.”

“How are your knee and ankle feeling?”

“Sore, but good.” Good is a very, very generous way to describe how they feel.

She quirks an eyebrow. “You were injured just a few weeks ago.” There’s a questioning lilt to her tone, like she doesn’t believe me when I say I feel good. Which she shouldn’t because I’m lying, but still. I’m kind of annoyed she was able to pick up on it.

I huff out a breath. “I feel better than I did.”

She doesn’t say anything as she types on her laptop for the next minute.

I shift in my seat. This is so fucking weird.

None of the other skating coaches I’ve worked with took this many notes.

Yeah, we talked a lot about training plans and how I was feeling, but she seems way too focused on her computer.

“I was thinking end of January would be a good time for our first lesson,” she finally says.

I stare at her. “Seriously?”

She frowns. “Yes, seriously.”

“Why do you want to wait so long?” I ask.

She rests her hands on the tabletop. “Because you’re injured. At your age, it’s vital not to rush the recovery process.”

I clench my teeth at the pointed way she says your age. She’s younger than me, probably in her early-twenties. There’s something about being lectured about age by someone as young as her that pisses me off.

“I haven’t been rushing my recovery.” There’s an edge to my voice that I should probably dial back. I should probably rein in the frown on my face too. My teammates give me shit about how my natural expression makes me look like a grumpy psycho.

But right now, I’m too frustrated to care how I look or sound. I don’t want to waste time. I need to get back out on the ice.

“I’ve been following my recovery plan to a T,” I say. “I’ve been attending physical therapy every day. I get at least nine hours of sleep a night. I’m on a high-collagen diet that’s supposed to improve joint and bone health. I cut it all sugar and alcohol too. I’m in good shape.”

She just stares at me without saying a word, like she’s never been less impressed.

“I’ll be ready to start skating lessons with you at the beginning of the new year,” I say.

“That’s too soon,” she says dismissively.

“So you’re a doctor and a skating coach?”

She glares at my sarcastic tone. “I’m not a doctor. I just know how important it is to wait until your body is recovered before you start pushing it to its limits.”

I let a chuckle slip. Her glare sharpens. “Something funny?”

I shrug. “We’re talking about skating lessons here, not anything hardcore.”

She purses her lips like she’s pissed.

“I don’t need to be in perfect shape to handle skating with you a couple times a week,” I say.

She goes back to typing on her keyboard. “So you think figure skating is easy?”

“Are you always unnecessarily cautious when you train hockey players?” I ask, ignoring her question.

An embarrassed look flashes in her eyes. She blinks quickly and looks away. “I’ve never trained anyone before.”

I stare at her. Wait, is she serious?

Before I can say anything, there’s a knock at the glass panel next to the front door.

We both look up and see Ingrid’s smiling face.

She’s in charge of social media for the Bashers and is also engaged to Del Richards, who plays on the team with me.

I’m still confused about how they got together.

She’s a ball of sunshine, and he’s one of the grumpiest motherfuckers I’ve ever met.

“Hey, you two. Merry Christmas Eve,” Ingrid says when she opens the door.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” we both mutter in response to Ingrid’s cheery greeting.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Madeline, I just ran into your dad. He wanted me to remind you to look at those paint swatches he left in your office before you leave today.”

“Sure. No problem,” Maddy says.

Ingrid beams and swipes a lock of her long, wavy, sandy blonde hair out of her face.

“My parents had a great time at your dad’s holiday party in Aspen. They loved the ice sculpture garden,” Ingrid says to Maddy. “Oh, and they were so thankful to him for letting them borrow his private jet so they could make it to Switzerland for that charity ball.”

Maddy’s face flushes. “Oh, um, yeah. No problem.”

I frown at her, confused. Is her dad some rich dude? Ingrid comes from a super-wealthy family. They must run in the same social circle.

“Your dad said you’re jetting off to Aspen tonight with him. Fun!” Ingrid says to Maddy.

She purses her lips again, like she’s annoyed, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Hooray for no commercial flight on Christmas Eve.” Ingrid chuckles. “Perks of being the team owner’s kid, right?”

Maddy smiles, but I can tell it’s forced.

“Don’t stay too late, you two,” Ingrid says in a sing-song voice before walking off.

I look at Maddy as I put it all together in my head. Why she looks so familiar…and why she has this job.

She’s Madeline Macer, the daughter of the Bashers’ team owner, Greg Macer. She was a figure skater who made it to the Winter Olympics a couple of years ago and got bronze, then had a tear-filled temper tantrum on camera about not winning gold when her scores were announced.

And now her billionaire dad has given her a job on the team as a skating coach. He probably overlooked other more experienced coaches to give his spoiled daughter the job.

A job she clearly isn’t qualified for.

“So you’ve never worked as a skating coach before?” I ask her.

Her shoulders slump the slightest bit, and her cheeks are red, like she’s embarrassed.

“No,” she says firmly, despite her body language.

“I’m supposed to trust you to help improve my skating? You’re supposed to help me play at my best again, even though you’ve never done this before?”

She lifts her chin and holds eye contact with me. “Yes.”

“Just fucking great.”

This inexperienced rich girl is in charge of my injury recovery. Which means I’m totally screwed for the rest of this season.

An ugly memory slingshots to the front of my brain. I think of my ex, how she was rich and spoiled too…and how she shattered my heart into a million pieces without giving a shit.

I shove aside the memory. That has nothing to do with this.

I stand up from the table, irritation and frustration simmering inside of me as I look at her. “I’m not working with you.”