Page 44 of Desperate Pucker
For him, it was rooted in pity. He wasn’t into it the way I was.
It feels like I’ve been suckerpunched in the gut. Well, now I have the answer to my question.
Of course he hasn’t been fantasizing about our hookup—or me. Everything he did, everything he said, wasn’t because he was into me. It was because he pitied me.
A sinking feeling washes over me. That’s all I am to him. The spoiled princess figure skater, daughter of a billionaire, who’s also a claustrophobic weirdo.
I finally register the look on his face: he feels sorry for me. Nothing else.
I start to hunch over out of shame, but I force myself to stand up straight. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling all my defenses fall back into place.
“Are you going to use this against me?” I ask, my tone sharp.
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Are you going to use the way I acted in the elevator as another reason why you don’t want to work with me?” I swallowhard, through the ache in my throat at how humiliated I feel right now.
His frown deepens as he shakes his head. “Maddy, do you really think I’d do that? Do you really think I’d go to Coach Porter and tell him I don’t want to work with you because you’re claustrophobic?”
I shrug. He lets out a bitter laugh and tugs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated with me.
He turns to me, pinning me with a hard gaze. “No. I’m not gonna do that. Why do you think I showed up to our lesson in the first place? I’m here to work with you.”
“Fine. Then let’s get to work.”
I skate off.
“Hang on, we need to talk about this.”
I spin around and glare at him. “No, we don’t. Let’s just forget it ever happened, okay?”
He stares at me for a long second. “That’s what you want?”
I almost laugh at how surprised he sounds. This is clearly what he wants, especially after he made that comment about me going to HR.
“It’s what I want,” I say.
He looks even more worked up now.
I exhale quietly, even more confused. Whatever. I’m done thinking about this.
“Let’s get started,” I say.
He follows me to the center of the ice.
“We’re doing figure eight drills,” I say. “I want you to alternate using the inside edge of your blade, then the outside edge.”
He nods, then takes off down the ice. I study his form, observing how he maintains good knee bend, even with his injured knee.
When he reaches the end of the ice, I tell him to do the drill again, only backwards this time.
“Again,” I say when he reaches me.
He catches his breath, aiming a pointed look at me. The memory of him saying that word to me in the elevator as I pleaded for more floats between us.
My skin tingles and I’m suddenly hot all over.
I swallow hard and look at him, ignoring the tension in the air.
