“Not really.”
He gently draws my foot out from under me, and everything goes red, then black again. Goddamn, that hurts. Actually, “hurts” doesn’t come close to describing it. It’s like my knee is full of glass, and it’s all tearing out pieces as the doctor moves it to a normal angle. Suddenly I start to wonder where Chloe is. Surely she’s on hand somewhere. Surely if she were here she wouldn’t be twisting me around into some kind of human pretzel. Or twisting me out of a pretzel. That’s probably more accurate. But it all just hurts like hell.
“Holy fuck fuck fucking pissass shitballs.” I think that’s what I’m saying. It’s hard to tell. I keep kind of passing out about every other word. “Shit…balls. Balls of shit.”
“Easy,” says the doctor. “Almost there.”
I feel the joint sort of pop into place, and the pain eases back a little, although it can still be described as motherfucking balls of shit on a piece of baked shit from the worst shit-store in shitland. A few seconds later, the stretcher is there, and they’re putting me onto it, strapping me down.
“Where’s my PT?” I demand. I want Chloe. I want her hands on me. They’ll make me feel better. Just looking at her would make me feel better. “Where’s my doc?”
“I’m your doctor,” he says.
“No, you’re not. My doc is a chick.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’m the team doctor. There are no other physicians—”
“Get me Chloe, dammit.”
His eyes bulge. “Chloe hasn’t been to four years of medical school.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass. I want my PT.”
We’re heading off the field now, into the tunnel. I hear cheers behind me as the crowd rejoices that I’m not dead and they can get back to the rest of the game without feeling guilty about celebrating over my mangled body.
He leans over and peers into my face through the helmet, which he didn’t bother to take off me. “You’re going to be just fine, Sherwood. Just relax.”
“I want Chloe.”
“Fine,” he says in a snippy voice. “We’ll get her.”
“I’m right here.”
I almost lurch off the stretcher trying to twist around so I can see her. Her voice is a little breathless, like she’s been running. Sure enough, she half-jogs into my line of sight and lays a hand on my shoulder as they roll my stretcher down the hallway.
“Doc,” I say, relieved.
“I think I asked you to stop calling me that.”
“What took you so long?”
She leans over the gurney so I can see her, and one hand gently brushes over my forehead. There’s a crease between her eyebrows as she studies my face. I’m not sure what she’s looking for.
I do know I’m relieved beyond any kind of logic to see her there. I know the team doctor would take perfectly good care of me—he’s fixed me up before—but I need Chloe. Need her. Like somehow I’m convinced nothing will be fixed properly in my body if anybody else does the fixing.
“Of course I’m here.” Her tone is cool, but there’s a look of strain on her face. “Where else would I be?”
She pushes a strand of unruly hair back behind her ear. Has she always been this pretty, or did something happen after the last time I saw her? Did she wrap up in some kind of cocoon that made her even more drop-dead gorgeous? I start to feel dizzy. The pain is making me loony.
The sound of the gurney wheels changes, and I can tell we’re finally in the locker room. They wheel me into the training area and leave me on the stretcher.
“I’ll get some ice,” Chloe volunteers, and the doctor nods.
“No…don’t go.” I reach out toward her, and the small jostle makes pain stab up my leg again. What the fuck did I do to myself? I’m beginning to wonder if there are bones sticking out of my leg or something.
Chloe pats my arm. “I’ll be right back.”
The doctor leans over me, looking into my face, then carefully takes my helmet off. “You didn’t hit your head, did you?”
“No. Where’s Chloe?”
“She’ll be right back with ice. In the meantime, we need to get this leg straightened out.” His hands move down my leg, brushing over my knee.
“It’s not straight?” Visions of compound fractures dance through my head again.
“It’s not too bad. I just want to be sure.”
Chloe reappears in my line of vision and I reach for her. She takes my hand and squeezes. “You’re going to be fine, Austin. Just relax.”
Right. Relax.
The doctor moves my knee, laying my leg straight on the gurney. The pain blinds me. Everything goes black.
My eyes peer open to blinding whiteness and a black, orb-like object. The orb is connected to a pair of legs, and that’s when I realize I’m staring at a woman’s ass. Chloe’s ass. How do I know? I remember the shape of her ass like I remember the warmth of her tits.
She’s bending over to rummage for something in her purse. My arousal rises sharply, numbing the dull pain in my leg. The world spins when I move my head slightly, and it’s all I can do to keep my gaze focused on her incredible body.
Waking up to your ass in my face is the highlight of my week.
Chloe whirls around, outrage shooting from her electric blue eyes.
Oh shit. Did I say that out loud?
“Yes, you did.”
“I’m sorry. My inhibitions are low as fuck right now.”
Her eyes narrow. “That would be the Vicodin. Sherwood.”
Just looking at her makes my mouth dry. She is fucking gorgeous.
My voice drops down to a whisper. “It would be super unethical if you took advantage of me right now, but nobody has to know.”
“Austin,” her voice snaps like a whip. “There are four other people in the room.”
I barely understand the words coming from her mouth. “What?”
A man clears his throat loudly, and I turn my head, the world spinning. Are there eight people? No, there are four other people standing there. A distinctly uncomfortable-looking man in a white coat, my coach, and a woman wearing scrubs. I decide that this is hilarious and burst out laughing.
Coach looks like he’d like to slap the smile off my face. So does Chloe.
“You guys look so hostile.”
The doctor takes a step forward, interrupting me. “I don’t think anything’s actually torn, but I can’t be sure.”
Something ice-cold touches my lower quadriceps, just above my knee. I jump a little.
“Sorry,” Chloe’s voice says gently. “Just trying to keep it from swelling. I think waiting for the MRI results would be best.”
“Me, too,” says the doctor.
“No hospitals,” I interject. Surely this is just a little sprain or something. “I can walk it off.”
Chloe smirks at me. “You’re already at the hospital, Sherwood.”
Oh.
Now that I’m a bit more coherent, I can feel the hardness of the hospital bed and my growing sense of humiliation that I might’ve said too much in front of, well, everyone.
The doctor snorts. “You are not walking it off. ”
“Did we win?” I ask Coach.
“We did.”
“Hot damn.”
Chloe crosses her arms firmly over her chest—well, under her breasts, which makes them plump up nicely. I stare by accident, and she glares at me. “You have more important things to worry about, Mr. Sherwood.”
I glance at the doctor. He’s stone-faced. “What’s the verdict?” I ask him. I’m thinking shredded ACL, torn MCL. Maybe both, for a beautiful shredded CL salad.
“Don’t know yet,” he answers in a clipped tone. “Waiting for the MRI.”
Everybody seems really cranky. This can’t be a good sign. On the other hand, I’m not hurting too badly at this point, which is probably not a bad sign. Mixed messages galore. I start to ask if there are any prevailing theories, but before I can get any words out, another doctor comes in. I don’t recognize this one, so she must be affiliated with the hospital.
“Good news,” she says. “Nothing’s torn. It’s just a very bad sprain.”
“Is there bad news?” I ask.
“You’ll be out for a few weeks. Four to six, minimum.”
“Shit,” Coach says, and I echo him.
“I can’t be out that long,” I add. “We’re heading for the playoffs—”
Coach breaks into my developing tirade. “You do what the doctor tells you to do, Sherwood. We’d rather have you out now than lose you for the championship. Or for all of next season.”
It’s a sobering thought. I glance at Chloe, who’s still watching me with a deep frown, her arms folded over her chest.
“This is what we’re going to do,” Coach informs me. “You’re going to do exactly what you’re told. You’ll work with the docs and with Chloe, and if I hear one word about you stepping out of line, not doing your PT, or trying to push before you’re ready, you’re going to hear from me. And it won’t be pretty. You got that?”
“I got it, Coach.”
“Good.” He glances at his watch then storms out of the room, undoubtedly to go back to tell the rest of the team they’re down one wide receiver.