Lady and the Champ(10)

Then I hear, “Coming! Coming!” from the other side of the door. The door opens, and there he is.

I stare at him, dumbfounded. None of the blood in my body knows quite where to go, but a fair amount of it rushes straight to my pussy and my nipples. I’m glad I’m wearing a jacket.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

His knee is wrapped up, and he’s using crutches to keep his weight off the sprained knee. That’s all well and good, but the rest of his wardrobe…

Basically, he’s naked. Except for boxer shorts, which are liberally decorated with bright red hearts, some solid, some just outlines, all scattered haphazardly over the dubious landscape of his crotch.

I want to be mad. I want to be furious. But all I can hear is my blood pounding in my head as my eyes scrape from his bellybutton to his collarbone, covering all points in between.

He is slabs and slabs of muscle. I can almost count an eight-pack on his abdomen, and his pecs are wide enough you could serve breakfast on them. There’s very little hair—just a slight ring around each nipple and that happy trail winding down his stomach.

You’ve seen this before, I remind myself, but I still can’t take my eyes off him. I clench the shoulder strap of my duffel bag, reminding myself of the weight of it, all the equipment inside it. Professional physical therapy things. Because I am a professional physical therapist, not a professional drooler-at-football-players.

“What?” he asks, all innocence.

My gaze jerks to his face, and at the sight of his smirk, I finally manage to get hold of the anger I’ve been looking for.

“What did I say about appropriate attire?”

“You said no tight briefs. Didn’t say a damn word about boxers. Or boxer-briefs, for that matter. So…I have to assume these are appropriate?”

“You’re wearing boxers with hearts all over your dick—what do you think?”

“I think you’re being a little judgmental.”

I choke out a laugh. “Oh God.”

“You’re basically telling me that I can’t express myself. What if I just like the pattern?”

As if Austin Sherwood, football god, could secretly admire heart-patterned clothing. If anything, his bed is probably in the shape of a giant football.

I guess it fits. Shows exactly where his heart is.

“I think I probably like the pattern more than you do.”

He smirks. “You can keep them as a souvenir, if you like.”

“No. Move aside.”

I have to admit the boxers are better than the damn tighty whities. I move past him into the house, barely managing to get by him without brushing my arm across that miles-wide chest.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

“No. This is a professional appointment. There will be no drinking unless it’s water, and you’re more likely to need that than I am.” I spin, giving him my hardest look. “You will behave in a professional manner, you understand?”

“Sure. We went over that yesterday.”

It doesn’t look like it’s sinking in.

“Fine. Where are we doing this?”

I immediately regret the way I worded that; it leaves Austin far too many ways to respond. Many of which would motivate me to whack him over the head with something heavy. I can see him weighing all the possibilities as a vague smirk curls one corner of his mouth. I tense, waiting for him to come out with yet another sexual innuendo.

What he says, though, is, “What exactly are we doing?”

I’m almost disappointed. “Let’s roll your legs out. Then maybe a massage if you need one.”

He gives a sober nod. “We can go through the exercises in my living room and go from there.”

Holy shit, is Austin capable of acting like an adult?

It’s good that he’s behaving himself. It makes it easier for me to ignore the sparks in my chest and belly. All that bare skin in front of me is making it hard for me to focus.

He turns to lead the way into the house, and my attention catches on the movements of his wide shoulders as he maneuvers his crutches. Not to mention the way his ass clenches under the red-heart-decorated cotton boxers as he swings his weight, carefully resting it on the non-injured leg.

Goddamn it. Stop ogling him.

He’s just… I follow him and suddenly I can smell him—spicy soap of some kind, maybe old-fashioned Old Spice before they came up with all the new versions. And that musky whiff of man. I’m suddenly swollen between my legs and I clench my thighs, trying to get things under control as we head down the hallway to his living room.

The inside of the house is as intimidating and sprawling as the outside, although it has little spots of hominess. Pictures on the walls that look like portraits of his family. A stack of Sports Illustrated magazines on the coffee table next to a coffee cup and a few overlapping rings on the wood where he obviously put said coffee cup down without a coaster. There’s a wide, sweeping staircase to the left, and I wonder how he’s managing to navigate them, since I assume his bedroom’s upstairs.

His bedroom.

Stop thinking about his bedroom.

But it’s too late. My wayward mind has already drifted up those stairs and is wondering where he sleeps, what he wears when he sleeps, if anything, and how often he invites women upstairs with him. Probably often. Once or twice a day, in fact.

He opens a door, breaking into my thoughts, and gestures for me to precede him inside.

“Lie down,” I tell him.

He sets the crutches aside and begins the laborious process of stretching out on his stomach on the floor. “I like it when you order me around.”

“Then you should love this whole recovery process.” My bag has a foam roller in it, too, and I get that out. My bag is magical, I’ve been told. A soccer player patient of mine once said she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if I pulled out a whirlpool tub and a running track.

“How badly does it hurt?” I ask Austin, kneeling next to him.

“It’s not that bad.”

He’s lying. Well, maybe not lying, but I’m certain he’s hurting more than he wants to admit. Sure, he can power his way through it, but I don’t necessarily want him to. He still hasn’t taken his meds; I’ll be sure he gets them down before I leave.

In the meantime, I’ll get his legs rolled out, and then I’ll have to address the tension I’m seeing building up in his shoulders and upper back. I don’t want him accidentally injuring something else because he’s getting tensed up trying to protect his strained leg.

Even though I told him not to, he starts to move the coffee table. I’m distracted enough by the way his ass looks when he bends over that I forget for a second he’s not supposed to be doing that. Then I rush over and smack him on the arm. Whoa. It’s a big arm. His biceps are like concrete.

Get it together, Chloe.

“I told you not to do that.”

To his credit and my surprise, he backs off. “Sorry.” Taking another step back, he lifts both hands in surrender. “Following your instructions. All of them. To the letter.”

“Good.” I move the table. It’s not that heavy, and there’s plenty of space in the ginormous living room to give it a temporary home while we work. Once it’s out of the way, I roll out the mat from my bag. “I’m going to get you some water for your meds.”

Once he’s got his meds into him, I make him lie on his stomach while I grab the foam roller.

I can’t push him too hard yet, physical therapy-wise, so my focus right now is on keeping things loose so the rest of him doesn’t clench up. If he gets asymmetrical while he’s recovering, his performance on the field will suffer. And compensation injuries aren’t exactly fun, either.

So I start rolling him out like he’s a man-sized lump of cookie dough. It was an appropriate comparison since I would, indeed, love to eat him with a spoon. Raw. Right out of the cookie dough tub. I press my lips tight together while I work, afraid if I don’t something will come out that I’ll regret. Like, “Oh, hey, your ass is magnificent. Mind if I bite it?”

Just say no, Chloe.

“Mmmm,” he says, and for a second I wonder if he’s been reading my mind. “You’re way better at this than the guy I had last year.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Much better. How long have you been at this?”

“A while.” I don’t want him to get to know me better, nor do I want to get to know him better. I just want to get this over with to the best of my ability, without getting fired.

“I mean how many years?”

“Four.”

“Have you always worked with athletes?”

Stop talking to me.

“No.”

I ease up on the pressure as I work on the back of the injured leg. His thighs are solid, rock-hard muscle. I think about what they look like inside his skin-tight football pants. As the roller goes up over the perfect mound of his ass, I fight an obscene urge to cup it. Squeeze.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

I jolt back to what I’m doing, my face going flaming hot. Shit. Did I say any of that out loud?

“No. I was just…thinking.”

“I see.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. My rolling tempo speeds up as I wait for him to lower the boom and call me on my no-longer-secret thoughts about him. “So you just worked on normal people, then?”