Page 1 of Desperate Pucker
Chapter 1
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.”
