Page 2 of Desperate Pucker
“You ever go by Maddy?” It’s my attempt to lighten the mood while she pounds that laptop keyboard like it owes her money. She seems kind of intense.
Her eyes cut to me. Her gaze is hard, on the verge of annoyed. “When I was a kid,” she says curtly.
“Oh.” I clear my throat. Well, that fell flat.
“You can call me Maddy, that’s fine,” she says without looking at me. She still sounds kind of irritated.
I’m quiet for a second, unsure of what the hell I should call her now.
I take in the serious look on her face as she studies something on her laptop screen. She’s quiet for a long second, which makes this even more awkward.
“I wanted to meet today to set up a training schedule for you.”
I nod once. “Yeah, sure.”
“How are your knee and ankle feeling?”
“Sore, but good.” Good is a very, very generous way to describe how they feel.
She quirks an eyebrow. “You were injured just a few weeks ago.” There’s a questioning lilt to her tone, like she doesn’t believe me when I say I feel good. Which she shouldn’t because I’m lying, but still. I’m kind of annoyed she was able to pick up on it.
I huff out a breath. “I feel better than I did.”
She doesn’t say anything as she types on her laptop for the next minute. I shift in my seat. This is so fucking weird. None of the other skating coaches I’ve worked with took this many notes. Yeah, we talked a lot about training plans and how I was feeling, but she seems way too focused on her computer.
“I was thinking end of January would be a good time for our first lesson,” she finally says.
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
She frowns. “Yes, seriously.”
“Why do you want to wait so long?” I ask.
She rests her hands on the tabletop. “Because you’re injured. At your age, it’s vital not to rush the recovery process.”
I clench my teeth at the pointed way she saysyour age. She’s younger than me, probably in her early-twenties. There’s something about being lectured about age by someone as young as her that pisses me off.
“I haven’t been rushing my recovery.” There’s an edge to my voice that I should probably dial back. I should probably rein in the frown on my face too. My teammates give me shit about how my natural expression makes me look like a grumpy psycho.
But right now, I’m too frustrated to care how I look or sound. I don’t want to waste time. I need to get back out on the ice.
“I’ve been following my recovery plan to a T,” I say. “I’ve been attending physical therapy every day. I get at least nine hours of sleep a night. I’m on a high-collagen diet that’s supposed to improve joint and bone health. I cut it all sugar and alcohol too. I’m in good shape.”
She just stares at me without saying a word, like she’s never been less impressed.
“I’ll be ready to start skating lessons with you at the beginning of the new year,” I say.
“That’s too soon,” she says dismissively.
“So you’re a doctoranda skating coach?”
She glares at my sarcastic tone. “I’m not a doctor. I just know how important it is to wait until your body is recovered before you start pushing it to its limits.”
I let a chuckle slip. Her glare sharpens. “Something funny?”
I shrug. “We’re talking about skating lessons here, not anything hardcore.”
She purses her lips like she’s pissed.
