Page 12 of Desperate Pucker (Denver Bashers #6)

Maddy

“I’ve seen quite an improvement in Camden’s skating ever since he started working with you,” Coach Porter says.

I smile as I sit in his office. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“He’s way faster on the ice. The players on the opposing team can barely keep up with him,” Coach Porter says. “I’m eager to see what you can do for Ryker once you start working with him too.”

Just hearing Ryker’s name makes my tummy dip. I think back to the other night at Spanky’s, at how…nice he was to me when he found out that my fiancé had cheated on me.

How he trashed him for being critical of my weight. How he made me try Coca-Cola for the first time. How good it tasted.

How, for the briefest moment, we didn’t feel like enemies. We felt like friends. And it felt really, really good.

My skin tingles when I think back to how he ran his gaze over my body after I told him the things my ex said…and how much I liked it.

I was curious if that moment of friendliness was a one-off or maybe the start of something different between us. But when I walked back to our table, he was gone. I was surprised at how disappointed I felt that he’d left.

I focus back on my meeting with Coach Porter.

“I think after one more week of rest, Ryker will be ready for me to train him,” I say.

Coach Porter nods once. “Good. I know he probably gave you a hard time about making him rest for so long, but I think you made the right call. At his age, he can’t be rushing his recovery.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

“You’re the skating expert. You clearly know what you’re doing. I’ll always look to you for guidance on this.”

There’s a tiny burst of pride inside of me at what Coach Porter has said.

No one’s ever taken my advice seriously—or even asked for it.

As a figure skater, I’ve always been the one to receive advice and criticism from coaches, judges, commentators, and fans.

It feels good to be the one that people come to for a change.

“A bunch of the guys on the team want to train with you,” Coach Porter says. “I know your main focus is designing a plan for Ryker’s recovery, but I’d like to you to make time to work with them as well.”

That burst of pride grows. “I would love that.”

“I’ll send you their contact info so you can start setting up sessions.”

The meeting ends, and I head out of his office down the hall to where my office is.

I sit at my desk and get to work reaching out to the guys on the team. For the rest of the day, I compile info on their past injuries and watch footage of how they play, so I can come up with the best training plans for each of them.

Before I know it, it’s almost six in the evening. I was so engrossed in my work that I lost track of time. I smile, loving the feeling of being so focused on my work. It reminds me of when I first started figure skating. I’d spend hours at the rink, practicing my spins and jumps.

Just then, there’s a soft knock at my office door.

“Come in.”

When my dad appears in the doorway, I tense up. We haven’t spoken since Christmas Eve when I refused to go to Aspen with him because I didn’t want to be around my older half-siblings.

He frowns and clears his throat. “Sorry to interrupt your workday.”

“It’s fine. What’s up?”

He walks over to my desk and sits in the white upholstered club chair in front of it. “Just wanted to see how things were going.”

“So far, so good.”

I take in the way he fiddles with the cufflink on the sleeve of his dress shirt. That absent look on his face as he nods. He always does that when he’s nervous to ask me something.

“Glad to hear it.” He clears his throat. “I’ve mentioned before that I’m on the board of trustees at Hollis University, right?”

“Maybe. I can’t remember.”

“Well, I was talking to a friend of mine who’s also on the board.

He and I both made donations to the athletic department years ago.

They’re having an event in May and inviting a bunch of athletes to the university to make an appearance, take photos with fans, sign autographs, that sort of thing.

I mentioned to him that you might like to be part of that. ”

My shoulders tense. “Why would you do that without asking me first?”

His brow furrows like he’s confused. “I thought it would be fun for you to do a public-facing event. You used to do them quite often.”

Panic shoots down my spine when I think about all the public events I was obligated to show up for after the Winter Olympics, even though I didn’t want to. But I was the bronze medalist and had to be there.g

Countless morning news show segments where I had to hold a smile while interviewers made quips about my meltdown.

Parades where I was standing on a float while people in the crowd held up their phones with screenshots of my face mid-sob during my breakdown to get a reaction out of me.

All those signing events when people brought photos of my sobbing face for me to sign and laughed at me when I refused to.

They all thought I was a spoiled brat and wanted to make fun of me.

No way am I setting myself up to be humiliated like that again.

“I’m not interested,” I say, turning back to my computer and shutting it off.

My dad lets out a heavy sigh, laced with disappointment. “Madeline, won’t you at least think about it?”

“No.” I stuff my phone and laptop in my bag.

Another heavy, disappointed sigh. “I think you’re being very short-sighted here.”

“I don’t care. I’ve done my fair share of public events. I’m not in the mood to be made fun of to my face.”

“Madeline, I know you needed time away after your…incident…at the Winter Olympics. But it’s been two years. People are over it. They’re not going to bother you with that nonsense.”

I look at him. “How would you know that?”

“Madeline, you can’t let those people get the best of you like that.”

I’m quiet as I grab my coat from the back of my chair.

He stands up when I do. “So is this your solution? Hide out forever?” He sounds annoyed with me, and it pisses me off.

“I’m not hiding out. I just refuse to do public events.”

He shakes his head. “I’m really disappointed in you.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Join the club.”

“Madeline, this is the least you could do for your fans. You were beloved by them for years. You still are. Don’t let a few bad apples spoil what could be a rewarding experience.”

Anger and frustration collide inside of me. He just doesn’t get it. But how could he? He wasn’t there for the worst of it. He watched me skate at the Olympics. That night, he stopped by my hotel room for a couple of minutes, said I did a good job overall, then jetted off.

He didn’t ask how I felt. He didn’t ask what I was going through.

He wasn’t by my side at those events, hearing the awful things people said to my face. And when I told him about it, he just brushed it off. He said, “Don’t let a bunch of strangers get you down,” then changed the subject. Like he was uninterested in my pain. Like he didn’t even care.

He has no idea how broken I was—I still am.

I look at him, swallowing back the urge to cry. “You don’t understand what I went through, Dad. You didn’t even bother to ask how I was doing after my breakdown.”

His eyes widen, like it’s just now occurring to him to ask me that.

“I just wasn’t sure how to handle it, Madeline. You were really upset.” His brow wrinkles like he’s thinking hard about what he’s trying to say. “If you want to talk about it now…”

“Forget it.”

I walk out of my office and down the hall toward the stairwell. I run down the stairs to the parking lot, tears burning in my eyes the whole time.