Page 17 of Desperate Pucker (Denver Bashers #6)

Ryker

Coach Porter blows the whistle, signaling the start of the passing and shooting drill we’re running through during practice.

This is my first practice since I’ve been injured, and I’m buzzing with energy to be back.

I’m practicing with Del and Theo while our assistant coach, Jason, observes.

We take off across the ice. Theo passes to Del, who passes to me. I speed ahead, zeroing in on Blomdahl.

“Let’s see you shoot, St. George,” Jason hollers.

I close in on the net, wind up, and smack the puck. Blomdahl moves to block it, but it sails past his shoulder.

“Nice work,” Jason says.

We play two more times, trying out different passes and with Theo and Del taking shots. Sam and Camden join to run a three-on-two drill with us.

Del heads down the ice with the puck. I follow behind, watching Sam cover him. He passes to Theo, who takes off, but Camden is on his ass.

Theo passes it back to me. I weave around Camden and head for the net.

Blomdahl’s helmet weaves back and forth as he tracks the puck. Sam is headed for me, so I take a shot. The puck hits the crossbar and sinks into the back of the net.

Blomdahl lets out a low whistle and pushes up his helmet. “You’re really kicking my ass today, dude.”

“Mine too.” Sam huffs out a breath. “You got fast since you’ve been gone.”

Camden skates by and taps my arm. “Yeah, man. I’ve been running my ass off the whole practice trying to keep up with you.”

“Must be all that training with Madeline,” Del says.

I clear my throat. “Yeah.”

A heavy feeling lands in my gut. I can’t think about Madeline without remembering that uncomfortable-as-fuck conversation we had after hooking up in the elevator.

How nervous I was to talk to her about it. How I was going to apologize to her if I made her uncomfortable. How I wanted to make sure that she was okay, but then she got defensive and asked if I was planning to use her panic attack against her.

I was sick to my stomach when she asked me that. I would never do that.

I was so thrown off by how defensive she was that I didn’t know what to say at first. But when I tried to talk more about it, she shut me down. She didn’t want either of us to say another word—she just wanted to forget about it.

My stomach twists into a knot when I think about the broken look in her eyes after that conversation fell apart. And how she blinked it away and put up a tough, no-nonsense attitude for our lesson.

I hated watching her do that. And I hate that the one time she let me see her soft and vulnerable, when we were in the elevator together, she acted like it was a weak moment and refused to show herself like that again.

Because the truth is that I want to see that side of her again. Vulnerable, raw, open. I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to be tough with me. I want to tell her that she can be herself. I want to tell her that she’s enough.

I quiet the thoughts shuffling around in my brain, and refocus on my performance during practice. I need to show my teammates and my coaches just how far I’ve come and that I’m ready to hit the ice for our next game.

Practice wraps up, and Coach Porter gives us a pep talk for our next game this weekend. He dismisses us, and we all head to the locker room.

“St. George, hang back a sec.”

I turn to him.

“That was a stellar showing you had today. How are you feeling?” He glances down at my knee and ankle.

“Really good.”

“You had the youngest guys on the team struggling to keep up with you.” He crosses his arms over his chest, a focused look in his eyes. “How would you feel about playing Friday? You think you’re ready?”

“Without a doubt.”

I hold my breath as he glances down at my knee and ankle again.

“Okay. You’re in.”

I try to keep my expression neutral despite the thrill I feel.

“You won’t be playing full shifts like normal,” he says. “We’re going to ease you back into this so that you don’t get injured again.”

I nod, a little disappointed, but I see where he’s coming from. I need to do whatever it takes to stay off the injury list. Plus, he’s the head coach. What he says goes, so if he only wants me to play a few minutes at our next game, then I need to be okay with that.

“Thanks for giving me a chance, Coach. And for sticking with me while I got back on track.”

His frown eases as he nods. “I’m part of the reason you got injured. The least I could do is have your back while you recover.”

I think back to December when I got into that massive brawl that caused my knee injury.

We were playing Calgary, and as we were walking to the locker room, one of their players, Zach McCoy, said something disrespectful about Coach Porter’s girlfriend, Abby. Coach Porter decked him, which caused a huge fight in the hallway between both teams.

McCoy was a trash player who had targeted me for a cheap shot earlier in the game, and I ended up with a hurt ankle because of it. I didn’t hesitate to jump in. I wanted to make that fucker pay for insulting Coach’s girlfriend and for screwing up my ankle.

“You don’t owe me. I chose to fight,” I say to him.

“You’re a great player, St. George. I think you’ve got a lot of playing time left in you. You’re worth keeping around.”

He walks off, and I head to the locker room, feeling heartened by his words and pumped as hell for our next game.

“St. George. You’re up,” Coach Porter calls out.

I hop off the bench, hit the ice, and get set up for face-off.

This is my first game back since I hurt my ankle and knee, and I’m buzzing with adrenaline, aching to play.

When the puck lands on the ice, Del hits it back to Theo, who takes off with it. We’re playing the Nashville Wolves, it’s near the end of the first period, and the game is scoreless.

Theo gets checked by a Nashville defenseman and loses the puck. Del makes a grab for it, but the winger covering him gets to it before he does. The guy takes off, and I go after him.

My legs burn as I close the space between us.

A second later, I check him and take the puck.

As I head for the Wolves net, I see a Nashville player coming for me.

I speed up. Thanks to all the lessons I’ve taken with Maddy, I’m able to outrun him.

When I look up, I notice that their goalie is out of position.

My muscles twitch with the urge to do something I haven’t done in a while—something I was known for when I was younger. A slap shot.

I’m far enough ahead of the Nashville player closest to me, and there’s no one in front of the net.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I wind up and slap the puck. It sinks into the back of the net.

I pump my fist as the home crowd cheers. My teammates crowd around me, hollering and cheering.

“Holy fuck, man!”

“Hell of a goal!”

I fight a smile, but it breaks free anyway. I can’t help it. It feels really damn good to score a goal during my first game back from injury.

The first period ends with us finally on the board. As I head from the bench to the locker room with my team for intermission, fans cheer at me.

“We love you, St. George!”

“The patron saint of slap shots is back!”

“You look great out there, man!”

As I nod my thanks to the fans, I can’t help but think about Maddy and how I wouldn’t be experiencing any of this if it weren’t for her

“Ryker, how does it feel to be back on the ice?” a reporter asks during post-game press.

“Really good. I couldn’t wait to get back out there.”

I wipe the sweat off my face with the towel draped over my shoulder.

“Did you miss us while you were away?” another reporter asks. Everyone in the room chuckles.

I crack a smile. “Believe it or not, I did.”

“You moved pretty well out there for a guy your age. You juicin’?” a reporter named Bobby Baker asks. Tense silence follows as I glare at him.

This fucking guy is so annoying. He’s not part of the core press group since he doesn’t work for a news organization, but sometimes he shows up.

He runs some online site and podcast, and is known for asking gotcha questions so he’ll get a viral clip for his show.

Anytime he asks me a question, it always has to do with how much older I am than my teammates.

I pin him with my glare. “I use the same stuff you use. It’s obviously not working all that well.”

Quiet laughs echo in the room. He frowns like he’s disappointed that I didn’t go off on him.

“That was a heck of a slapshot you managed in the first period. Will we be seeing more of those from you?” a different reporter asks.

“I hope so.”

“You moved a lot faster on the ice than you did even before your injury. How did you manage that?”

“All credit goes to my skating coach, Madeline Macer. She’s incredible.”

I wonder if she’s watching this. Probably not. I bet she didn’t even watch the game.

But that’s not going to change how I speak about her. Yeah, we’re in a weird place right now after what happened in the elevator, but she deserves all the credit in the world for how good she is at her job.

“She’s a former figure skater, right?” that same reporter asks.

“And an Olympic medalist,” I say. “I wouldn’t have been able to play the way I did tonight if I hadn’t been training with her.”

“Sounds like she’s your secret weapon.”

“She definitely is.”