“You sure about that, Doc?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” My voice almost grates, but not quite. “Get your pants back on, and we’ll take a look at that shoulder.”
He shrugs. “Have it your way. Kinda thought you were enjoying the view.”
Of course part of me was totally enjoying the view. The stupid part. The part that lives in my lizard brain and my stupid ovaries. Another very primal part just wants to throw a weight at his head. Why the hell is he giving me such a hard time?
I stand very still and wait, teeth grinding, while he puts his pants back on.
It’s going to be a long couple of hours.
“Trust me, baby. I’ll be fine.”
The ghost of my ex’s voice drifts into my thoughts and bitterness curls my tongue. He was just like Austin, really. It’s as though Austin was planted in my life as an exaggerated version of my ex to test me. He’s a bit taller than Mason.
My ex.
I used to feel so lucky. He was this unbelievable athlete, worshipped by men everywhere we went. It was intimidating just to be around him. I met him at one of his team’s afterparties. I was the blushing girl who could barely string a sentence around him. There were gorgeous women shamelessly hitting on him, but he saw me through the crowd of exotic brunettes and made a beeline for me. I’m not a supermodel, but he made me feel beautiful.
It’s easy to compare Austin’s crooked smile with Mason’s. Damn that piece of shit. If only he had just cheated on me.
A drawling voice interrupts my thoughts. “Well. If it isn’t Ms. Hotshot Star of the Office.”
I look up into a man’s scowling, round face as he leans over my cubicle with a coffee cup in his hand. My mood darkens as I recognize Roger. He’s the type of guy who wears a fedora when he goes out. Roger is a red-pill swallowing, sexist, man-child. Ever since I turned him down, he’s been acting like an ass. Openly hostile doesn’t exactly describe our relationship, but it’s pretty damn close.
Butthurt asshole.
I knew this shit would happen. I play dumb, knowing it’ll annoy him. “I’m sorry?”
His beady, mean eyes bulge at me. “You know what I mean. Working with the Champ.”
One of the other guys emerges as well, carrying paperwork to hand over to the receptionist. “Yeah,” he says. “Congrats on that, by the way.”
“Thanks, Brendan.”
Roger doesn’t appear to be in any kind of congratulatory mood. His eyes narrow slightly. “Like we all don’t know exactly why he asked for you.”
Don’t fucking go there.
He can’t call me out without looking like a complete prick. “And why would that be?”
He shakes his head, like I’m too stupid to figure out that the only possible reason a man might request me to be his physical therapist is because he wants to sleep with me. I’m not going to rise to his bait, though, even though I know what he’s thinking. I’ve let one man get way too far under my skin already today—I’m not going to let another one do it, too.
“Never mind,” he says with an exasperated sigh.
“No, please. I’d love to hear what you have to say.”
“Forget it,” he glowers.
“Because if you were implying that I’m only getting a client based on my gender and not because I am just as capable as any man in this office, that could be grounds for creating a hostile workplace.”
His cheeks slowly burn bright red. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” he says, emphasizing every syllable.
“It’s funny how accidental rudeness seems to happen so often with you.”
Captain Butthurt glowers at me, his sullen mouth closed as he tries to think of a comeback in his pea-sized brain.
“How did the therapy session go?”
Brendan gives him a serious side-eye, but he doesn’t say anything. Fair enough—Roger didn’t say anything explicitly offensive. He’s just walking hard on that line.
“It went fine.” He’s about as annoying as you.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What is there to say? He’s a dumb jock just like all the rest of them, except with a slightly bigger mouth.” Bigger other things, too. Nobody needs to know Sherwood has almost shown me his dick twice now.
Roger appears pleased by my assessment. “Maybe you should spend time with more intelligent men.”
So less time with you? Got it.
It’s not the first time he’s not so subtly tried to ask me out. I barely restrain an eye roll. It’ll be a very, very cold day in hell before I go out with Roger.
Like, degrees-Kelvin cold. Like, absolute zero cold.
I stand up, choosing to ignore that comment completely as Brendan gives me a sympathetic look. I brush past Roger into the hallway toward Dr. Richards’ office. I have far more important things to manage than Roger’s bullshit.
Dr. Richards says “Come in” almost before I finish knocking. He smiles up at me from behind the desk, and I stalk the couple of steps across the office to the chair and take a seat.
“How was the session?” he asks.
I steel myself to say exactly what I need to say without backing down. “That man is obnoxious, rude, immature, and damn near every time he opens his mouth he commits an act of sexual harassment. I can’t work with him. I’d prefer that you find someone else on the staff who can.”
His smile has fallen so abruptly I’m surprised I can’t see it sliding off his chin onto the desk. He looks more disappointed than angry, though, so maybe I’ve dodged that bullet.
“He called right after your session,” he says.
My heart sinks. I don’t know if I want to find out whether Austin gave me good feedback or said he doesn’t ever want to work with me again, either. Neither choice is going to make Dr. Richards happy, especially after what I just said. “He’s very happy with your work.”
I clench my hands together in my lap. “I see. Well…I suppose that’s good to hear.”
“Yes.” He shuffles a few memo slips in front of his phone. “I also heard from his coach.”
Oh, dear God. What now? The back of my throat fills with the flavor of impending doom. Dr. Richards adjusts his glasses and peers at the note.
“The coach says he was counting on us to find somebody who could keep Sherwood under control. I think you’re that person.”
My teeth clench. I’m a physical therapist, not a damn babysitter. “Why do you think that?” My first thought, of course, is that it’s because I’m a woman.
“He likes you,” Dr. Richards says simply. “According to the coach, he hasn’t really clicked with any of the other PTs. They need to be sure he’s ready to go for the playoffs and, hopefully, the championship game.” He pauses. “This is a big deal for our practice, Chloe. I hope you’ll stick with it. Help us out.” His tone makes it clear he’s not just hoping and asking. This is basically an order.
I give a curt nod. “Fine.” There’s a knot of anger forming under my ribcage. If I say no to him, my job is sunk. All of this feels far too familiar, and I’m once again reminded of exactly why I swore, once upon a time, never to work with a football player again.
So much for resolutions.
4
Austin
I’ve played football damn near as long as I can remember. It’s been my life. From Pop Warner to high school to youth football with the local pro team to college and then to the pros. I never dreamed I’d get this far, except that I did. Dreamed it constantly until I got here.
Can’t say it’s a bad gig. I get a shit ton of money and tail. But just those few words from Chloe were like a kick in the gut.
Stupid football players.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, of course. It’s not even the first time I’ve heard it from a drop-dead gorgeous woman. But something about this particular girl has got me seriously fucked up.
I don’t want her to think I’m stupid. Granted, pulling shit on her like I have, fucking with her head, might not be the best way to achieve that, but it doesn’t change the truth. Something about her has got my head spinning, and I can’t figure out what the fuck that’s about. It scares me that I want to tell her everything there is to know about me. I want her to know I’m not just a dumb jock.
I finish my round of sprints and stop to catch my breath, walking to keep my muscles warm before I start the next sequence. Glancing toward the sidelines, I’m surprised to see Chloe among the PTs watching the practice. She’s talking to the team doctor, nodding thoughtfully while he goes over something on his ever-present iPad.
I look straight at her. If I focus hard enough, she’ll look up. No scientific basis to that, but it tends to work. I’m sure it’s some sort of ESP that makes women sense when you’re looking at them.
Sure enough, she glances up, and her mouth presses into a thin line when she sees me. I blow her a kiss, grinning, and she takes a step back then turns pointedly toward the doctor, who says something to her and walks away.
Now’s my chance.
I jog across the field toward her, watching her scowl become more pronounced as I approach. Chloe is dressed in a fitted, bright-blue workout shirt and a pair of black cotton pants that cling to her shapely legs and ass, where I can see the faint outline of her panties. She wears her dark hair in a ponytail, her pale cheeks stung pink with cold. Damn, what I wouldn’t give to see her naked. She’s obviously got a fit body and a nice pair of tits—I held them in my hands—but it’s nothing compared to a naked girl sitting in your lap.