Dirty Play:Sports Romance(23)

"Oh, Wes. Oh God." She writhed and cried as I sucked hard on her clit. I  lifted her ass higher in the air, twisting my tongue against her  entrance. She was vibrating and pulsing. I knew I had taken her to the  edge; just one nip at her clit and she would spill over the side. I  tugged against it with my teeth and her orgasm exploded through her  body.

"Wes, I-I-" She twisted and turned, grinding harder against my mouth. And then I heard the words. "Oh, God. I love you."





Twenty-Four





Lennon





My body was fluttering with an incredible orgasm, but I looked down,  horrified at what I had just said. I wasn't supposed to tell him I loved  him before he walked out the door for the Super Bowl. Shit. Double  double shit.

He kissed the inside of my thigh and sat up.

"I-I-" I scampered to a seated position, trying to think of how to take  it back. "It was a heat of the moment thing. God, it just came out."

"You love me?" His eyes hardened.

I nodded. "I do." I held up my palms. "But it doesn't change anything. You don't have to say it."

He reached behind me, drawing me into his lap, and kissed me. I could  taste myself on his lips, and it was more of a turn on knowing what he  had just done to my body.

"I love you, Doc."

I pushed off of him. "What?"

"I've never said it before. But hell. Yeah, I love you. Every part of you. I love this. What we have."

"Oh my God. I do too. All of it."

His phone started ringing. "Shit, that's the car for me."

"Now you have to leave? After that?" My body and my heart were singing  with heat and desire for him like I'd never felt. I wanted to wrap  myself up in his arms. I wanted him to fuck me until we couldn't  breathe. I wanted mind-blowing emotional sex that we'd never forget. Wes  Blakefield just said the L word.

"Yeah." He smiled devilishly. "Gotta go. But I'll see you Friday?"

"Completely unfair." I pouted. It was as if he had planned it all along.  Drop this huge emotional bomb on me and then walk out the door.

He leaned down to kiss me. "But think how awesome Friday will be." He waggled his eyebrows.

He left me naked on his bed as he headed off to become a Super Bowl champion.







All week I kept the TV on the sports channel. I couldn't get enough  coverage about Wes or the predictions for the Wranglers. He was  everywhere. In every commercial. On every talk show. He was the Super  Bowl's golden boy.         

     



 

We texted when we could. I sent messages in between surgeries, and he  sent me dirty promises of what to expect when I arrived Friday night.

I shoved my phone in my pocket when I saw Dr. Evans walk around the corner.

"Dr. Ashworth, ready for your trip?"

By now the entire hospital knew I was dating Wes. The press hounded us  every time we left the apartment. I still didn't know the names of the  people I worked with, but they all knew mine.

"Leaving tomorrow." I smiled. "My first Super Bowl."

"Tell Wes we're all pulling for him."

"Of course."

"Before you go, I wanted to ask you something." He spoke softly.

We were close to the doctors' lounge. "Let's go in here," I suggested.

Luckily, it was empty, and I walked to the coffee pot to refill my thermos. "Is it a patient consult?" I asked.

"No. No. Just curious if you've gotten a call from a reporter. I believe her name is Jenny Nichols."

"A reporter? Is it a piece on the new equipment we're using on ankle  reconstruction? Because I still have my doubts if we should continue the  funding."

He pulled his glasses down. "She's not from the Med Journal. She's a sports reporter."

"Huh."

"I guess you haven't heard from her?"

I shook my head. "No, what did she want to talk to you about?"

"I've avoided her calls. But I'm sure it has to do with Wes's hand."

I stopped stirring my coffee and looked at my older colleague. "What would she want to know about his hand?"

Dr. Evans eyed me. "I don't think we should discuss it. It's better for both of us if we don't."

"You brought it up, Dr. Evans. And really, I'm in the dark. What does Jenny Nichols want?"

"Let's just say that someone might have tipped off the press as to the  seriousness of Wes's injuries and that his recovery was lightning fast."  His bushy mustache twitched.

I peered at him, trying to piece it all together. "We didn't release any information on his medical status."

"No, but you and I are not the only ones who knew he had surgery. The team said it was a severe sprain."

"Oh, God." I covered my mouth. Was there someone in our hospital who had leaked Wes's medical information?

Dr. Evans tapped my wrist for comfort. "I don't think there's anything  to worry about. It's only my curiosity. The team doesn't distribute  illegal substances. Neither do you or I. So, his recovery is truly a  testament to what an amazing surgeon you are and his capacity to heal.  Nothing more. We followed and upheld our medical ethics."

But I knew there was more. I had known for weeks. Wes didn't heal on his own.

"Thanks for letting me know." I smiled weakly, feeling the nausea hit me in a gigantic wave.

"I shouldn't have even mentioned it."

I looked down at my coffee as he walked out of the room. The nausea  rolled again in my stomach and I ran for the trashcan. This couldn't be  happening. There was a reporter digging into Wes's recovery. I didn't  know whether to tell him or keep it to myself.

Would it keep him out of the Super Bowl? Would he be so distracted he'd  screw up? Would she actually uncover something I didn't want to know?

I sat on the bench, clutching my thermos. I had almost forgotten this  part of Wes existed. These past few weeks, I had seen the sweet and sexy  side. The side that had turned into a one-woman man. The side that told  me he loved me.

I had forgotten that before me, he drank and gambled and slept with a  different woman every night. Winning was his everything. He told me. He  told me he crossed a line to repair his hand. God, why didn't I find out  more? Why didn't I try to stop him?

The pit in my stomach grew. What if he still was that man?





Twenty-Five





Wes





I smiled in front of the cameras. My cheeks hurt from smiling so damn  much. I was tired and cranky. This was supposed to be the best week of  my life, but all I could do was countdown to Friday.

Coach Howell sat next to me while the press fired questions, and Sam  Hickson was on my right. I'd give Stubbs a hard time when I saw him for  bowing out of this one.

A reporter in the front row raised his hand. "How are you feeling about going up against the best scoring team in the league?"

Howell fielded the question. It wasn't like it hadn't been asked fifty  times this week. "Our defense has studied. They're trained. We're ready  for what they have. We don't plan on letting them be the highest-scoring  team on Sunday."         

     



 

Everyone in the room chuckled. It was easy to get a laugh out of the press.

A nerdy type next to him asked the next question. "Wes, what has been your training regimen this week?"

I pulled the mic closer to my chin. "I work with the trainers on my diet  and I try to get a workout in in between press events. Standard stuff  we do on the road. Nothing special this week."

"Wes, Wes!" I pointed to the man in the back row. "Do you think Jenny Nichols is going to get any traction on her story?"

"Jenny Nichols? Is she here?" I'd never heard of her.

"The reporter who posted that your injury a few weeks ago may have been more than a severe sprain."

I chuckled. "You boys know people are always trying to dig up exposés  before the big game. This is the Super Bowl. It should be about the  players. The teams. The men who worked their butts off to get here. Next  question." I passed over him and moved to another reporter, hoping he  had something for Hickson or Coach, but I could feel it. The fear that  Jenny fucking Nichols might know something.

It wasn't a good feeling.







We left the press conference and rode back to the hotel. Sam was on his  phone the entire time, texting who the hell knows, and Coach was  answering calls from ownership. That one damn question at the press  conference had made the headline. Nothing else mattered right now. There  was a firestorm of emails and texts blowing up my phone.

I looked down when I saw Lennon's number pop up.

"Hey, Doc. Can't talk right now."

"Wes, what's happening? There are reporters downstairs in the lobby."

"What?" I sat forward in the backseat.

"I got home from work and they were there like they were waiting for me.  The only way I got up to the penthouse was because the concierge  blocked them while I ran into the elevator."

"Shit," I whispered. "What did they ask? Did you answer anything?"

"They wanted to know if I had any comments on your injury. They wanted to know what medications I gave you."