Page 3 of Desperate Pucker
“I don’t need to be in perfect shape to handle skating with you a couple times a week,” I say.
She goes back to typing on her keyboard. “So you think figure skating is easy?”
“Are you always unnecessarily cautious when you train hockey players?” I ask, ignoring her question.
An embarrassed look flashes in her eyes. She blinks quickly and looks away. “I’ve never trained anyone before.”
I stare at her. Wait, is she serious?
Before I can say anything, there’s a knock at the glass panel next to the front door. We both look up and see Ingrid’s smiling face. She’s in charge of social media for the Bashers and is also engaged to Del Richards, who plays on the team with me. I’m still confused about how they got together. She’s a ball of sunshine, and he’s one of the grumpiest motherfuckers I’ve ever met.
“Hey, you two. Merry Christmas Eve,” Ingrid says when she opens the door.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” we both mutter in response to Ingrid’s cheery greeting.
“Sorry to interrupt, but Madeline, I just ran into your dad. He wanted me to remind you to look at those paint swatches he left in your office before you leave today.”
“Sure. No problem,” Maddy says.
Ingrid beams and swipes a lock of her long, wavy, sandy blonde hair out of her face.
“My parents had a great time at your dad’s holiday party in Aspen. They loved the ice sculpture garden,” Ingrid says to Maddy. “Oh, and they were so thankful to him for letting them borrow his private jet so they could make it to Switzerland for that charity ball.”
Maddy’s face flushes. “Oh, um, yeah. No problem.”
I frown at her, confused. Is her dad some rich dude? Ingrid comes from a super-wealthy family. They must run in the same social circle.
“Your dad said you’re jetting off to Aspen tonight with him. Fun!” Ingrid says to Maddy.
She purses her lips again, like she’s annoyed, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Hooray for no commercial flight on Christmas Eve.” Ingrid chuckles. “Perks of being the team owner’s kid, right?”
Maddy smiles, but I can tell it’s forced.
“Don’t stay too late, you two,” Ingrid says in a sing-song voice before walking off.
I look at Maddy as I put it all together in my head. Why she looks so familiar…and why she has this job.
She’s Madeline Macer, the daughter of the Bashers’ team owner, Greg Macer. She was a figure skater who made it to the Winter Olympics a couple of years ago and got bronze, then had a tear-filled temper tantrum on camera about not winning gold when her scores were announced.
And now her billionaire dad has given her a job on the team as a skating coach. He probably overlooked other more experienced coaches to give his spoiled daughter the job.
A job she clearly isn’t qualified for.
“So you’ve never worked as a skating coach before?” I ask her.
Her shoulders slump the slightest bit, and her cheeks are red, like she’s embarrassed.
“No,” she says firmly, despite her body language.
“I’m supposed to trust you to help improve my skating? You’re supposed to help me play at my best again, even though you’ve never done this before?”
She lifts her chin and holds eye contact with me. “Yes.”
“Just fucking great.”
This inexperienced rich girl is in charge of my injury recovery. Which means I’m totally screwed for the rest of this season.
