Page 171 of Desperate Pucker
“And Coach Porter said that next week I could start practicing with the team again.”
She squeals and turns around, hugging me tight. “Really?” She’s so excited for me, it makes my heart bounce around my chest.
“Really.”
She makes me sit down at the kitchen island and sets a bowl of soup in front of me.
“Eat up,” she says.
Bruce comes scampering into the kitchen, sniffing the air.
Maddy chuckles and drops him a few treats, then he walks over and rubs his face on my feet while I eat.
“Aww, look at you two besties.”
I chuckle while I glance down at him. Maddy sits next to me with her own bowl of soup. Bruce plops down between our stools, gazing up at both of us.
A warm feeling burrows deep inside my chest. Despite all the stress from my injury, this moment with Maddy is perfect. And I want it forever.
The words “I love you” dance on the tip of my tongue. I stare at her, aching to say it.
When she notices me looking at her, she smiles. “What?”
I almost say it. I want to more than anything, but my nerves get the better of me. It’s too soon. I’ll scare her off.
I tuck her hair behind her ear, tracing the hinge of her jaw with my fingertips. “Nothing. I’m just happy you’re here with me.”
“I told you. I’m with you always, no matter what.”
Emotion surges through my entire body. I press a soft kiss to her lips.
“How the hell did I get so lucky?” I murmur against her mouth.
The smile she gives me lights up my entire being.
Coach blows the whistle, ending practice. He gives us his final remarks and observations before dismissing us.
It’s my first practice back since my injury. I haven’t been on the ice in almost three weeks. My knee’s a little stiff, but I felt well enough to go through all of the practice drills and exercises.
I’m drenched in sweat, but I’ve never felt this good, this enlivened. It feels incredible to be on the ice again. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
And even though I’m not playing at peak performance, I’m playing well for a guy who’s coming off a knee injury. I just hope Coach Porter sees that.
We head for the locker room, but he stops me.
“St. George. A word.”
My muscles tense as I brace myself for what he’s about to say to me.
It doesn’t really matter how good I feel. If Coach Porter doesn’t think I’m ready, then I’m not playing.
I take a slow, silent breath and try to tamp down my nerves.
He waits until everyone’s off the ice before he speaks.
“Honest answer: how are you feeling after that practice?” he says.
I take in his hard stare and no-nonsense tone. Coach Porter is a straight shooter. He doesn’t fuck around. If I try to feed him a line of shit, he’ll see right through it.
