Hot Damn(75)

I have a feeling I know who it was. That smarmy face keeps floating across my inner vision—the asshole that accosted Chloe in the locker room and accused her of sucking my dick.

I hoped I could talk to Chloe when she came by for my physical therapy session, so we could figure things out and decide what to do next, but instead some dumbass kid showed up at my door. He assured me he was thoroughly qualified to pick up where Chloe left off on my therapy. I gave him about five minutes, then I threw him out of my goddamn house. Then I called Coach, because I deserve a fucking explanation.

“Austin.”

This is Coach, trying to placate me. I’m not being placated. I want to climb through the phone and rip somebody’s head off.

“Austin, you have to understand. Chloe’s not with the practice anymore.”

“Why the fuck is she not with the practice? Did she quit?”

If she was upset enough about the picture to quit her job, I’m sure I can talk her off the ledge, get her back on the right track. I’ve got Chloe’s boss on the call, too. I figured it would be more efficient to rip him and Coach both a new one at the same time.

Her boss clears his throat, then he says, “No. We’ve officially let her go.”

There goes the rage again. If I were a cartoon character, there’d be smoke coming out of my ears, and the top of my head would fly off for more smoke to come out. Hell, that might be happening anyway. It sure feels like it.

“You fired her?” My voice is loud enough I’m sure Dr. Richards is wincing on the other end of the line, and probably Coach is, as well. “She had nothing to do with what happened at the game. Why the fuck would you fire her over that?”

“We have a certain reputation to maintain.” Dr. Richards sounds like he’s explaining a complicated math concept to an obtuse student. “Our therapists do not get involved with our clients, and they certainly don’t splash nude selfies all over the big screen at our clients’ football games.”

“You think she did that?” I can barely see through the rage. “That was a personal photo. Why in the world would she put it up on the screen at the football game?”

“We don’t know exactly what happened,” Dr. Richards says gently. He’s trying to placate me, too.

Good fucking luck. I’m angrier at him than I am at Coach. Coach was just the bearer of the bad news; Richards is the one who lowered the axe.

“But in the long run,” Richards continues, “it doesn’t really matter how the photo got onto the big screen. What matters is that it was taken at all. This is not the way our staff is meant to behave.”

“What she does in her own time is none of your goddamn business. Somebody stole that picture. He’s the one who should be getting fired.”

Dr. Richards’ voice goes a little tight. I’m sure he didn’t miss the implication that the person I’m talking about works for him.

I get the feeling he’s starting to not like me.

“We have very clear guidelines regarding interaction between staff and clients. Whether that picture was taken on personal time or not, she has violated those guidelines. Surely you understand this? Your league undoubtedly holds you to certain behavioral standards.” There’s a pause, then he adds, “You knew this before you got involved with her.”

The fuck? “You did not just go there.” This is bullshit.

“It’s a fair point,” Richards says.

I can almost hear Coach holding his breath, waiting for what I’m going to say next.

For once, I pull my temper back under a tight rein. I could talk this asshole Richards around in circles all day, but I don’t have the time.

“You can shove your behavioral standards up your ass. Regardless of whatever relationship we may or may not have, Chloe has been getting me ready for the championship game, and I’d better fucking have her back working with me by the end of the day, or I’m going to sue you for breach of contract.”

“I don’t believe this constitutes a breach of contract.”

God, Richards is so fucking calm. He’s probably right, too, but I’m not going to let him get away with a throwaway dismissal. Not after what he’s said to me.

“I’m working with you because you provided the best physical therapist available. Now you’re taking that therapist away. That’s fucking breach of contract, so fuck you.”

“Sherwood, calm down. There’s nothing we can do about this.”

“The fuck there isn’t.” I’m surprised at this point that I can still form words, much less mostly coherent sentences. I don’t think I’ve ever been so furious in my life. They’re fucking with Chloe. My Chloe. And goddammit, you don’t fuck with what’s mine. “You want me back on the field? You get her back on my case.”

“We’ve officially terminated her employment.”

“She did nothing wrong. Whoever decided it was okay to put that picture up on a screen in front of sixty thousand people and then spread it all over the goddamn Internet is the one who needs to be punished.”

“We can’t—” Richards starts.

“Bullshit! You can and you will! You hear me?”

I have no idea if he hears me, because I throw the phone across the room. It bounces off the wall, and the voices coming out of it fall silent. I wonder if I’ve broken it. Honestly, I don’t give a flying fuck. All I care about is Chloe.

I wheel away from the wall where the phone landed. Behind me, the TV’s on. I’d almost forgotten about it—I turned the volume down so it wouldn’t interfere with the phone call—but the pictures moving across the screen are enough to start me off again. They’ve been showing Chloe’s naked torso on ESPN every fifteen minutes since I turned the damn channel on. It’s blurred, of course—small mercies that every man in America can’t see her unpixelated nipples—but it’s Chloe.

The asshole who did this to her should be shot.

No, he should be subjected to a much more complex, imaginative, and painful punishment. Preferably one that could go on for days, keeping him in horrible agony, on the verge of death, for weeks…months.

I grind my teeth together so hard I get a stabbing pain behind my eyeball. Picturing forms of torture being inflicted on someone—and I pretty much know who that someone is, having met his charming self however briefly—is probably not good for my blood pressure.

I flip the channel. But there she is again, on ESPN2, and on NBC Sports Network. Even the news channels are carrying the story.

“Fuck you!” I scream at them, stab the OFF button on the remote, and fling it across the room. It barely misses the TV. It’d be just my luck to destroy two important electronic devices in the space of five minutes. Mom always said my temper would be the end of me.

But this isn't just about my and my temper running amok. It’s about Chloe. God, what is she going through right now? Unless she went home and locked herself away in her bedroom, she has to know all this is going on. I have to talk to her. I have to figure out how to fix this for her.

The phone is lying on the floor at the base of the wall. I retrieve it. It appears not to have been damaged; it landed on the carpet. When I press the button to take it out of sleep mode, everything seems to be working.

I hem and haw, guess and second-guess, trying to decide on the right course of action, and finally call Chloe.

It rings several times, and I’m about to give up when she finally answers.

“Chloe. Are you all right?”

It’s a stupid question. Of course she’s not all right. She wasn’t all right yesterday, and chances are excellent she’s not any more all right today. But I have to ask.

“I’m fine.” She doesn’t sound a bit fine. Her voice is thick and muddy, like her sinuses are full from too much crying.

All my protective instincts kick back in. “I can fix this. I swear I can.”

“Austin…” She stops. “Just stay out of it. Please.”

Her voice is so raw. I blink rapidly, feeling her pain in the middle of my own chest. “I didn’t do this, Chloe. I swear to God I didn’t.”

The thought that she might still believe I set her up is more than I can stand. She knows I care about her more than that.

Does she? Did you ever tell her?

I hear her take a slow breath, then she says, “I know you didn’t, Austin.”

The relief at hearing her say it is so intense my chest goes tight. I swallow hard. “Do you know who did?”

My voice sounds thin and choked even to me. If she confirms my suspicions, I’m ready to fly out the door and mete out some serious justice on the guy’s fucking head.

“Yes. I’m pretty sure,” is all she says.

“Tell me.” I say it a little too harshly. “Tell me and I’ll beat the living shit out of him. There’s no way I’m letting him get away with this.”

“No, Austin. Just let it go.” This time she just sounds tired. “There’s no point. It’s all over.”

“What’s over? Nothing’s over. I’ll talk to Dr. Richards again and get you reinstated. You did nothing wrong. They can’t fire you over what you do in your personal life.”

“Yes, they can. Please, Austin. Just drop it. We knew it was a risk. We knew it wouldn’t work. And now…”