Pattie grins. “If for no other reason than his being a jerk is the top of the list.”
“That makes no sense.” I pluck another grape from my container. “Besides, the team will already have a physiotherapist working with him.”
“Yes, but groin injuries are hell, and they take weeks to heal. It’s Seattle’s first season. Every single player on that team—apart from your brother, who waived his no-trade clause—has something huge to prove. They’re all seconds. They weren’t good enough to save, but they’re good enough to start a new team. That has to mess with a player’s head.”
“Especially when he gets injured in the first exhibition game of the season,” Jules adds.
“Exactly.” Pattie points her carrot stick at me. “He’s going to want to be on the ice sooner rather than later.”
“Okay, I can see what you’re saying.” I imagine if RJ were the one with the injury, he’d do everything he could to get back in the game.
“I bet all it would take is the suggestion that more PT is better than less to get him to agree. And if he does, you’ll have experience working with an NHL professional, which is more than anyone else on our staff can say. Also, you said he’s hot, and you’ll get to help him stretch out his groin, which will be hella uncomfortable for him and payback for you. It’s all win.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll agree to let me help him.”
Jules snorts. “Do you want to know why seventy-five percent of your current clients are either women over fifty or girls with injuries?”
“Because I’m new?”
“Because the managers don’t trust the jocks not to hit on you.” Pattie takes a long sip of her iced tea.
“Or fake groin injuries so you’ll rub down the inside of their thighs.” Jules waggles her brows.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on.”
“Seriously, we overheard two of the managers talking about it yesterday because you had like five thousand requests, and every single one is a dude.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
“You’re hot, Stevie. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
Jules clinks her iced tea against Pattie’s. “Might as well use it to your advantage.”
I don’t get home until after seven. Thankfully, I don’t run into Joey again, although he does text me, asking when we can get together to start planning for the gala. I ignore the message rather than respond with something along the lines of When the eleventh circle of hell opens and clowns are running the show.
I’m barely in my door when there’s a knock. I press my eye to the peephole and find my neighbor’s chiseled jaw taking up the window of space. I can’t imagine what he could possibly want, unless he’s left something in my apartment.
I unhook the chain latch, turn the lock, and school my expression into something that I hope looks unimpressed before I throw open the door. He’s wearing a worn gray T-shirt with some vaguely familiar logo on it and equally worn navy sweatpants. I’d like to say he looks a lot better in his underwear than he does clothed, but that might be a lie.
The T-shirt stretches across his broad chest, contouring to the muscles. His pants, which might be baggy on a different body type, hug his muscular thighs.
“Oh look, you do actually own clothes.” I’m going for bitchy-slash-sarcastic to offset the fact that I have openly ogled him.
“Uh, yeah. I just don’t like wearing them unless I have to leave my apartment.” He thumbs over his shoulder.
That’s an interesting thing to admit to someone he hardly knows. “So you’re what? A home nudist?”
The image of him this morning, holding his trouser snake—and subsequently peeing all over my toilet seat—pops into my head. I have enough of a visual, minus what his ass looks like not covered in fabric, to almost perfectly imagine him swinging free.
“If my brother didn’t live with me, I might be.” He slips his crutches out from under his arms and leans them against the wall. “Anyway, I wanted to bring you a peace offering.” He braces a hand on the doorframe and grimaces as he bends forward.
That’s when I notice the pizza box from Sammy’s Pizzeria and the potted plant on the floor by his feet. I’ve ordered from there a couple of times in the past week because there was a brochure stuck to the fridge with a magnet that boasted a free pizza. “Why don’t you let me get that?”
“I can do it,” he grunts. He’s folded over, trying to bend at the knees and lower himself enough to pick the stuff up.
“Even if you can, I’m going to go ahead and say you probably shouldn’t.”
He ignores me and manages to catch the edge of the potted plant. He rights himself and thrusts it at me with a groan. “This is for you.”
“You’re giving me an aloe plant?”
“I noticed you didn’t have any plants in your apartment. My brother has a green thumb, and we have like fifteen aloe plants. They’re hardy and useful.” His eyes dart around, and the tips of his ears go red.
“Okay. Well, thanks?” I can’t decide whether it’s a thoughtful gift or just convenient. Either way, it’s unconventional. And possibly a little odd that he noticed my lack of plants.
“You’re welcome.” He starts to bend again.
I crouch and pick up the pizza box before he gets too far and ends up face planting into my feet. “Do you need help getting into your apartment with this?”
“It’s for you.” His cheeks have turned the same color as his ears.
“You brought me an aloe plant and a pizza?” I set the plant on the side table by the door so I can take a peek inside the box. It’s the exact same kind I’ve ordered both times since I moved in: pepperoni, bacon, ham, pineapple, green olives, and hot peppers. It’s an odd combination, but the sweet of the pineapple with the salty of the olives and the heat of the peppers is delicious. At least I think so. The question is, How the hell does my neighbor know exactly what I like on my pizza?
He must read the question on my face, because his goes even redder, if that’s even possible. “I saw a couple of boxes from Sammy’s in your recycling, so I called and ordered whatever had been delivered last.”
That’s a lot less creepy and a lot more resourceful than any of the other scenarios I entertained, like him going through my garbage and performing a sniff test. “Thanks for bringing me dinner and a plant?” I don’t know what else to say to him. It’s a nice gesture, even if it’s a strange one.
“I ordered the pizza like an hour ago, thinking you’d be home earlier, so you might need to reheat it.”
“Okay.” I don’t make a move to close the door, and he doesn’t make a move to leave.
He chews on the inside of his lip like he’s waiting for something. Maybe he expects me to invite him to share the pizza with me. Or this is supposed to be his way of wiping the slate clean.
“Is there something else?”
He blows out a breath. “I, uh . . . I could kind of use a favor.”
Well, that explains the plant and the pizza. “A favor?”
“Yeah. Uh, my car is still at the arena, and I left a bunch of stuff in it that I need, but I can’t drive.” He rubs the back of his neck. “If you’re not busy, maybe I can ask you to come with me to drive it home?”
I stare at him for a few seconds, trying to figure out if he’s serious. This actually works perfectly with the whole idea Pattie proposed, but I’m still reasonably wary. “Why wouldn’t you ask your brother? Unless he doesn’t actually exist.”
“He exists; he can’t drive me, though.” He fidgets, adjusting his stance again. Perspiration breaks across his forehead. I wonder if it’s pain induced or caused by embarrassment, or something else.
“Can’t you wait until he gets home?” It would be far less awkward than being stuck in a car with me.
“He’s home. He doesn’t have a license.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t offer more information, and I don’t press for it. “Yeah, I guess I can help you pick up your car. Y
ou wanna go now?”
“You can eat your pizza first.” He motions to the box, which I’m still holding.
“That’s okay. I went out with friends after work and we ordered appetizers, so I’m not super hungry right now. Let me put this in the fridge and grab my purse. Unless you want a slice or something?”
“Uh, no, thanks. That combination of toppings is pretty gag worthy.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it.” I leave him standing in the hall, put the pizza in the fridge, and consider stopping in the bathroom to make sure I look okay but decide against putting in the effort, since he’s not asking for help for any reason other than I’m convenient.
He’s leaning against the wall, head bowed with his phone in his hand, when I come back out. “The Uber will be here in a couple of minutes.”
“Great.”
The ride down to the lobby is awkward. He leans against the mirrored glass with his eyes closed and breathes heavily through his nose.
“Are you okay?”
He cracks one lid. “Yeah. I’ll be better when I’m sitting down again.”
I don’t bother with more chitchat on the short trip to the lobby. The Uber is already waiting. Bishop opens the door and motions for me to get in. I guess he does have some manners.
“Why don’t you go first?” I suggest.
He looks like he wants to argue but decides against it. He lowers himself slowly into the back seat and grunts as he lifts each leg in, folding himself into the sedan. He’s huge and it’s a Civic, so there isn’t a ton of room for his long legs or the rest of his body.
I lay the crutches over his lap and get in on the other side, putting me behind the driver. The arena isn’t terribly far from the apartment, and rush-hour traffic is long over. During the short trip our Uber driver tells us all about his plan to become a famous musician. He even hands me a postcard when we’re stopped at a light and proceeds to tell us he’s the lead singer of his band, and he plays the guitar. “You should totally come see the band this weekend.” His gaze shifts to Bishop in the rearview mirror, but Bishop’s eyes are closed. “You can bring your boyfriend too.”
I snort. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Bishop cracks a lid and eyes me from the side but doesn’t comment.
“Oh?” Uber Driver, whose name is Jett, according to the tag hanging from the rearview mirror, perks up. “Well, in that case maybe you wanna come see me play, and we can get a drink afterward?”
Bishop scoffs. “Are you seriously trying to pick her up?”
“Are you guys, like, a thing?” Uber Jett’s eyes dart from me to Bishop.
“No, but it’s pretty tacky, don’t you think? First of all, you have no idea what’s going on between us. Just because she told you I’m not her boyfriend doesn’t mean I’m not something. I’m not, but that’s beside the point.” Bishop’s annoyed gaze locks on the side of my face. “Also, what’s she gonna say when she’s trapped in this car with you until we get where we’re going? You’re almost forcing her to say yes, even if she doesn’t want to.”
“It’s really okay.” I pin Bishop with a “What the fuck?” look and slip the postcard in my purse.
“It’s really not,” Bishop says.
Thankfully, we pull into the arena parking lot, and Bishop gives him clipped, irritated directions to his car, ending whatever that was.
CHAPTER 11
SMALL SPACES
Bishop
I don’t know why I’m being such an asshole to the Uber kid, other than he’s being ballsy with the way he asked out Rook’s baby sister. I’m tempted to one star him, but then he might one star me back.
He might one star me anyway. Not that I honestly give a shit.
Stevie doesn’t offer to help me get out of the car, which is a lot harder than getting in. Uber Kid takes off as soon as I close the door.
“Well, that was fun.” Stevie’s arms are crossed, and it draws attention to her perky tits, the nipples of which are burned into my memory for all eternity.
“You’re out of his league, and he’s not even remotely your type.”
“You have no idea what my type is,” she snaps.
“I know it’s not a chain-smoking Uber driver who probably snorts blow.” I dig around in my sweats pocket until I find the keys to my SUV. The lights flash as I unlock the doors and hand the keys to her.
She looks my car over. It’s not flashy or overly expensive. It’s practical, decent on gas, and fits all my hockey gear. I like my money in my bank account more than I like fast cars. Would I enjoy driving around in a sweet sports car? Maybe, but dropping a quarter of a million dollars on a vehicle is a stupid way to burn through money when I have no idea how long my career is going to last. I’m pragmatic and I don’t have a five-year contract with an $11-million-a-year salary like her brother does. All I have is two seasons at five mil a year, and I’d like that to last the rest of my life and Nolan’s if it needs to.
I toss my crutches in the back while she adjusts the driver’s seat so she can reach the gas and brake.
I’m about to get in when Kingston comes jogging across the lot. His hair is wet and parted on the side. He looks a lot like Captain America and dresses like a golf pro. It fits his personality. “Hey! I’m surprised to see you. I figured you wouldn’t be moving around for at least a couple more days.”
I lean against the side of my SUV. “Just coming to pick up my car.”
“I would’ve brought it back for you.” His Volvo SUV beeps from the next spot over, and he tosses his hockey bag in the back seat. He peeks over my shoulder and tips his chin up. “Who’s driving?”
“Just a friend.” I shift so I’m blocking the passenger-side window. “What’re you doing here so late?”
“Running ice drills with a few of the guys—you know, keeping sharp for tomorrow night’s game.” He’s still trying to see around me. “Is that a girl?”
“Uh, yeah.” King and I might be friends, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him it’s the team captain’s little sister driving my car.
“Since when do you have a girlfriend?”
“I don’t. She’s a friend who also happens to be a girl.” She’s not even really that.
“You’re being awfully cagey about her if she’s just a friend. Don’t think I can’t tell you’re trying to hide her.” He opens his driver’s-side door and climbs in. “Miss you on the ice, buddy. Give me a call if you need anything; otherwise I’ll stop by later in the week, ’kay?”
“I’ll make sure I’m stocked up on two percent milk.”
“Does a body good.” He actually means it like the commercial, not like he’s full of himself. I wait until he closes his door before I turn back to my SUV. I have to open mine all the way so I can get in, but my body blocks most of King’s view.
“Does that guy play for Seattle too?” Stevie leans forward, like she’s trying to see around me.
“Yeah. That’s Ryan Kingston; he’s a goalie. Why?”
Stevie shrugs. “No reason.” She watches him pull out of the spot. He waves as he passes us, so she waves in return.
“He’s a super-straight arrow, and there’s no way in hell he’d be interested in you.”
She glares at me, full top lip pulled up in disgusted sneer. “Could you be any more offensive?”
I hold up a hand. “That came out wrong. You’re the team captain’s little sister. He’s a rule follower, so even if he was interested, he would never make a move, because it would go against his moral code. Also, he has a girlfriend, and they’ve been together for years.”
“Right. Okay. Let’s also not forget that I’m a boner-killer.”
I sigh. I should probably learn how and when not to be an asshole. “I only said that because I thought you were screwing your brother.” I cringe. “I mean I thought you were his other woman, not his sister.”
“Uh-huh.”
She has to know she’s hot. I don’t see how she couldn’t. She sees her ow
n face in the mirror every day. It’s not hard to look at, and neither is the rest of her. “You’re not a boner-killer. You got hit on by the damn Uber driver with me sitting right next to you. That has to tell you something about your appeal to the opposite sex.”
“That guy looked like Justin Bieber’s emo brother.” She types the address to our building into the GPS while I shift around, trying to get comfortable—which isn’t easy, considering my pain level.
It’s been six hours since I took anything for the discomfort and swelling, partly because I want to see how bad the pain gets. The medication the doctor prescribed is good for taking the edge off, but it also keeps me from knowing exactly how severe the injury is. Based on the black spots in my vision every time I make a sudden move, I’m thinking it’s pretty damn bad. I groan as I stretch my leg out.
“Did you ice your injury today?” Stevie flips through my music presets until she finds something she presumably likes.
“Yeah.”
“What about heat and stretching?” She shifts the SUV into gear.
“Nope.”
“When do you start rehab?”
“Probably in a couple of days.”
“You should stretch and massage the areas around the injury site that aren’t too tender to keep the muscles from seizing.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” I don’t get why she’s suddenly on a worried-mom-style inquisition. It’s frustrating that I can’t escape the questions, because I’m trapped in this vehicle with her.
“You’ll be back on the ice sooner if you start taking care of it right away.”
She said she was a professional, but I never asked what kind. “What is it you do?”
“I’m a physiotherapist. I work in sports rehab.”
“Guess that makes sense, with Bowman being your brother and all.”
“My brother has nothing to do with the reason I’m a physiotherapist. I like sports, both playing and watching, and I like the challenge of helping athletes who need rehabilitation.”
I should not find that trait appealing at all. Nor should I be scanning her body or noting how toned and defined her shoulders and arms are. She also smells good. Like cake and berries or something. I crack a window so I don’t start huffing her. “What kind of sports do you play?”
A Favor for a Favor Page 8
