Page 36 of Any Second Now
I have a crush on this man.
If I’m totally honest, I’ve had one since he showed up for his freshman year of college.
And now I’m supposed to help Atticus date someone else?
But it’s not like he’d dateme.
Why would he possibly want me, a twice-divorced, thirty-four-year-old woman, when he can have someone younger and hotter and less awkward and weird?
He doesn’t. We’re just friends. Friends who made out that one time.
And as a friend, I’m going to help him learn how to date someone.
New cross-stitch idea:It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.With a flaming dumpster below it.
CHAPTER 8
Put Me In, Coach
ATTICUS
Wednesday, July 2
Today’s a skating day, and it’s a good distraction while I wait for my not-date tonight with Raleigh so we can start the dating lessons that I don’t need.
I go through extensive stretching before I even put my skates on. My groin pull was not due to me not stretching enough, but I know I need to be extra careful because repeat injuries are common. And I’m not about to let Barrett Steele take my spot on the first line.
Barrett fucking Steele.
During that last game, he checked me so hard against the boards that all the air was knocked out of my body. I fell to the ice, which I’ve done a thousand times, but this time the way I landed was too awkward and I could feel the muscle yank in a way that didn’t feel right.
That moment haunts me. I was terrified for a split second before I realized I could get up and limp-skate off the ice.
Was it his fault? I dunno, but I’m definitely gonna hold it againsthim.
I’m already sweating from the stretches, squats, high knees, lunges, and jumping jacks as I strap on my blades. No one besides me and the skating coach are in the arena. This is my last one-on-one practice with him before I start small group practices.
I meet up with the team’s long-term skating coach at the entrance to the rink.
“Hey, Gerald.”
“All warmed up?” He watches me intently.
I nod.
“How are you feeling today?” He looks pointedly at my groin, which would be weird in literally any other circumstance. Gerald can’t be more than five years older than I am, maybe mid-thirties. He’s an ex-professional figure skater and pushes all of us hard, making grown men cry even though we’ve all probably got fifty to one hundred pounds on him.
“I feel great. Don’t go easy on me.” I need the distraction. Gerald nods to the ice, and I do a half dozen warm up laps while he busies himself setting up a series of orange cones to practice quick and tight turns. He explains the drills and I get to work. I almost wipe out after a mild twinge in my groin startles me, causing me to hesitate around one of the cones.
“Knox!” Gerald shouts.
I spin to a stop and turn to him, waiting for the criticism I know is coming.
“You can’t be scared of your own body,” he yells across the ice. “If you get in your head, you’ll never fully recover. And you are, in fact, fully recovered. So act like it.” He claps three times.
I concentrate and get through all of the cone torture, and then he has me switch to practicing explosive starts and short bursts of speed. After twenty minutes of that, we move on to puck handling around cones—the fucking cones are back—and the nets, then end with shooting practice.
After an hour, I drag myself to the locker room to grab a hot shower. That felt good. I’m finally—finally—feelinglike I can get back to where I was. And Gerald’s right. I am too much in my head. In a normal summer, I’d be lazy right about now and would ramp up workouts in August as preseason got closer.
