Page 5 of Desperate Pucker (Denver Bashers #6)

Maddy

Iskate around the empty Bashers arena, breathing in the cool air.

The muscles in my legs loosen as my body warms up. My right ankle feels stiff, but that’s no surprise, given I broke it a few years ago and rushed my recovery.

An ugly, regretful feeling swoops through me. Every time I think about my ankle, I think about the Winter Olympics. It was one of the reasons I lost my shot at a gold medal.

Everyone thought I had it in the bag. I was favored to win. I really thought I was going to pull it off.

The muscles in my neck and shoulders tense when I think back to that day. How I was so nervous that I threw up. How all the breathing and visualization exercises that usually calmed me down before a competition didn’t work.

How I was on edge, my entire body rigid, my heart crashing through my chest like I had taken speed. How my ankle was throbbing despite the painkillers I had downed.

How I was crying on and off the whole week prior because I had found out that my boyfriend was cheating on me.

How my dad called to tell me that he was going to show up to watch me skate.

Just thinking about it now sends a wave of nausea and anxiety through me.

If I had taken more time off, if I had rested more, if I had done physical therapy for longer, if I had slept longer the night before the competition…

A million other what-if’s swirl through my brain like a tornado. But I push them all to the back of my mind. That sick-scared feeling dulls. But the ugly feeling dragging through my gut remains.

Even at my best, I wasn’t good enough.

“Hey.”

The sound of Ryker’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I look over and see him standing at the edge of the ice. He’s wearing his trademark grumpy expression that gives me a funny feeling in my tummy.

He’s decked out in his hockey pads and a practice jersey. The only things he’s missing are his helmet, gloves, and stick.

As I skate up to him, I try not to gawk. He is massive in his gear.

I’m used to being the tallest girl on the ice. Most of the other figure skaters I used to compete against were tiny—right around five feet tall and maybe one hundred pounds. I was a full head taller than most of them and weighed a lot more too. So many times I felt like a giant around them.

But next to Ryker, I feel so dainty and small. I hate that I like it.

When I make it to him, my gaze catches on his hands. They’re as big as baseball gloves. I study his long, thick fingers and the tattoo of a skull within the silhouette of a falcon on the back of his left hand.

I’ve never been into tattoos before…but that’s kind of cool.

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling hot, despite the chill in the rink.

I shouldn’t be so thrown off. He’s almost six-foot-four and probably close to two hundred and twenty pounds. Of course he’d have huge hands.

But I’m not used to being around men as big as him. My whole life, I’ve been surrounded by figure skaters, and male figure skaters aren’t as tall or as big as hockey players. As a tall female figure skater, I was used to being the same height as them or just a couple inches shorter.

But I’m nowhere near Ryker’s size. He looks like he weighs close to a hundred pounds more than me.

I bet he could pick me up and toss me over his shoulder without breaking a sweat.

I swallow hard again, surprised at how much I like the thought of that.

Why are you imagining this guy picking you up? You don’t even like him.

My cheeks heat. My brain is being really weird for some reason.

I refocus and look at him. “You’re late.”

His grumpy glower etches deeper into his expression. “No, I’m not.”

I hold up my phone screen. “It’s 8:02.”

“I’m late by a couple of minutes.”

“When you train with me, I expect you to be on time or early. Never late.”

He narrows his gaze. “This is the only time we’re training together, so we won’t need to worry about that.”

Determination and irritation swoop through me.

“Let’s get started,” I say. “I wanna see your two-foot stop and then a one-foot stop.”

I catch the beginnings of an eyeroll just as he looks off to the side. He thinks this is going to be easy. Good. I’m so fucking eager to prove him wrong.

I watch as he takes off across the ice, speeds up, then does a two-foot stop, using both the inside and outside edges of his skates.

“Okay. Now do a one-foot stop.”

He takes off again, speeds up, then stops with the outside edge of his right skate blade. It’s pretty quick and clean.

“That’s your strong side, isn’t it?”

He nods.

“I want you to do a one-foot stop on your weak side.”

He frowns. That’s his injured ankle.

He takes off across the ice and speeds up. I notice he’s not going as fast this time, and when he uses his left skate to stop, he’s shaky.

His jaw is tight as he glances down at his left foot.

“Are you in pain?” I ask.

“It’s a little sore.”

“You’re the one who wanted to train sooner.”

He glares at me.

“You wobble a lot when you do a one-foot stop using your left skate,” I say.

“That’s because it’s my injured ankle,” he says, annoyed.

“You do that even when you’re not injured. I’ve watched tapes of how you play.”

He huffs out a breath. “I favor my right foot for one-foot stops. It’s normal. Everyone favors one side of their body.”

“You still need to work on it. A glaring weakness like that will cost you on the ice. You need to be able to move quickly when you’re playing, no matter what position your body is in. Do it again.”

I study the way his legs and feet move as he speeds up and stops.

“You’re not rotating your lead foot enough when you stop with your left foot,” I say. “Do it again.”

Ryker softly grumbles as he takes off, then stops.

“You’re still not rotating enough,” I say. “Your left foot is about as useful as a wobbly shopping cart wheel.”

He glowers at me.

I glower back. “Again.”

I watch. He rotates his lead foot a little more.

“That’s a little better. You need to lean back into the stop more, though.”

He exhales sharply and does it again, barely leaning.

I look at him. “More. Do it again.”

I hear him curse under his breath. He’s pissed off and tired. Good. That means this training session is actually working. He’s moving his body in an unfamiliar way, but he needs to in order to improve his skating, which will help him play better.

This time when he stops, it’s decent. Not as good as on his strong side, but way better than the way he was doing it before.

“Do it again, but this time, right after you stop, change direction and speed off.”

Ryker does what I tell him to do.

“See how much quicker you move that way?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

I take in the sweat bead dripping down his brow. His dark hair is wet against his forehead, and his breathing has picked up.

“Need a break?” I ask, fighting the satisfied smile aching to spread across my face.

He narrows his gaze at me, annoyed. “No.”

“You can take off your hockey pads if you want. It’ll probably be a lot easier for you to move around without them weighing you down.”

He shakes his head. “I’m keeping them on.”

I tilt my head at him. “You sure?” There’s a teasing lilt to my voice that earns me another glare.

“I play with these pads on. I need to train with them on.”

“I just hope you’re not too tired because we’re just getting started.”