Page 2 of Desperate Pucker (Denver Bashers #6)

Maddy

Iwatch as Ryker turns to walk out of the conference room.

A strange cocktail of emotions surges through me. Frustration, embarrassment, and a surprising dose of determination.

I know exactly what he’s thinking about me in this moment. It’s what everyone thinks about me when they first meet me.

Spoiled rotten rich girl. Billionaire’s daughter who had everything I could ever want handed to me on a silver platter.

They couldn’t be more wrong.

A familiar, shameful feeling courses through me, roasting me from the inside out.

I don’t owe anyone an explanation or my life’s story, least of all this guy. I’m here to do my job.

Yeah, he’s right. The only reason I have this job is because my dad owns this team. There are a dozen other more qualified people who deserve this position, but I’m the one who got it.

Because life’s not fair, and sometimes, people get things they don’t deserve, both good and bad.

A sad, sinking feeling gnaws at my gut. I know exactly what that’s like.

I take a slow, silent breath. I was so nervous for this meeting. I was afraid that this veteran hockey player would see past my hard exterior to the insecure, anxious, unqualified mess I actually am.

And that’s exactly what’s happening. And it feels just as terrible as I thought it would.

I force myself to push past the anxiety kicking through me with another quiet breath. I did this whenever I was nervous for a figure skating competition, and my nerves would go haywire. Slow, quiet breaths.

“You have to work with me,” I say. “You don’t have a choice.”

Ryker stops walking. After a second, he turns around and glares at me.

My skin pricks as I absorb the angry expression on his face. I stare back and try not to think about just how good-looking he is.

I don’t normally find guys like him attractive—guys who walk around with a perma-scowl on their face, who look perpetually pissed off.

And I don’t normally like hockey guys either. I’ve been a figure skater my whole life, so the guys I’ve been around and dated were more stylish, clean-cut, prettier.

Pretty is not how I would describe Ryker St. George. He’s rugged and rough. I can tell he doesn’t give a shit about how he looks and probably puts zero effort into his appearance. Which is even more irritating given how handsome he is.

I take in his shaggy, dark brown hair, how it’s messy and on the curly side of wavy. A thick sheet of dark stubble covers his impossibly square jaw. There’s a slight slant on the bridge of his nose, like he broke it at some point.

And his eyes.

I blink at the sharpness in his stare. It’s like he’s staring right through me, peering into my soul.

They’re the color of bourbon. Warm, dark, and golden all at once.

I blink and refocus. I can’t let him walk out of this room refusing to work with me. I need to convince him that he needs to let me train him—that he needs me to help him in his recovery.

“This is Denver. There are dozens of figure skating coaches who are probably a million times better than you that I’d rather work with.”

The sting of Ryker’s words hits me square in the chest. I keep my expression neutral despite the urge to shrink into myself.

I stand up so I can have that extra bit of physical edge, even though I’m nowhere near as big as he is.

I’m tall for a figure skater—five-foot-seven. But he’s just past six-foot-three. And he’s huge.

I take in his massive frame. Even through the jacket he’s wearing, I can tell how ripped and muscular he his. His thigh muscles are bulging through the fabric of his jeans. His shoulders are so broad, they almost hit both sides of the doorway when he first walked in.

“None of them have been to the Olympics as many times as I have,” I say. “None of them have ever made it to the podium.”

He exhales sharply and purses his lips. He can’t argue with how good I am, and that feels really damn good.

“I’ve watched footage of the way you skate,” I say.

“You’re slow on your transitions. Really slow.

You’re going to be even slower with your ankle and knee injury.

You have poor edge control. You trip a lot when you’re turning at a high speed.

You’re too slow on your crossovers. And don’t get me started on your posture. ”

His gaze on me sharpens, like he’s pissed off but also mulling over everything I’ve said.

“You say I’m making you wait too long to start training you, but I know better than anyone the risks of training too soon,” I say.

It’s why I no longer compete as a figure skater. It’s part of why I barely made it on the podium in the last Winter Olympics.

I hold back from saying more. I don’t want it to come off like I’m roasting him, even though I could. I’ve watched enough footage of this guy to write a novel about his skating weaknesses.

But I want him to understand that I know what I’m talking about so he’ll agree to work with me.

If he walks out of here still refusing to train with me, it’ll get back to my dad.

I’ll lose this job and probably get pushed into some meaningless position on the team while someone takes over as the skating coach.

And once again, I’ll be a failure. Just like at the Olympics. Just like in my life.

Not good enough. Not wanted.

That sinking feeling from earlier claws deeper in my gut. I wonder if it will ever go away.

You know it won’t.

I push all those feelings aside and focus on Ryker, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“So you know my skating weaknesses. Congrats. So does everyone else,” he mutters, unimpressed.

“That’s not—”

“And your plan is to keep me off the ice longer than I need to be. So when I finally do hit the ice to work on my skating, I’ll be stiff and out of practice and injure myself again. Did I hear that correctly?”

His “are you fucking kidding me” tone feels like a slap to the face. He doesn’t think I can do it. He doesn’t think I’m worth his time.

Before I can say anything, he rolls his eyes at me. “I don’t want you as my skating coach.”

He walks out of the room and disappears down the hall. And I’m left standing there, alone, feeling like an utter failure on the first day of this job.