“All kinds. I played hockey when I was a kid. In high school if there was a team, I was on it, and in college I played soccer. I was on scholarship, but I pulled my groin in third year. I ended up with a tear and a hernia and had to have surgery. I probably could’ve kept playing, but that was sort of the deciding factor for me. Rehab was hard, but I had a great physiotherapist, and it made me want to help athletes recover from injuries.”
“That’s what you do now, then? Rehab athletes?”
“Sort of. Yeah. I finished grad school in the spring. I’m working at a clinic affiliated with the university campus, so our client base is primarily the athletes on school teams and the professors and their families. Sometimes they come in for conditioning and strengthening, sometimes for rehab. Being new means I don’t get to work with the kind of cases I really want to, but hopefully with time that will change.”
“Cases like what?”
“Like yours.” We’re stopped at a red light. She squeezes the steering wheel and looks at me. Her tongue darts out, sweeping across her bottom lip. She’s not wearing any makeup. Her lips are full and pink, and they look soft. “I could help you,” she says.
I drag my eyes away from her mouth. “Help me?”
A horn blares behind us, and we both startle. The light has turned green, so Stevie focuses on the road again, but apparently she’s not moving fast enough because the car behind us honks a second time. I roll my window down and flip them the bird at the same time she does.
“With rehab for your injury. I know exactly what it’s like to recover from a bad groin injury and how much work it takes.” She signals right and pulls into the underground parking lot.
“Why would you want to help me?” I’ve been nothing but a dick to her, apart from my lame attempt at an apology tonight. And it’s not like it wasn’t steeped in ulterior motives, since it came with my asking a favor.
“Because it’s the only way I’ll get to work with an actual professional athlete. All I’m getting right now are freaking cheerleaders and older women with neck and shoulder strains from typing too much.”
“I’m sure your brother can pull some strings and get you into a clinic with professional athletes.”
“He’s already offered to do that, but I’d like to get the experience without using his fame—you know, doing it on my own merit, the way most people have to.” She backs my SUV into the designated spot, which is impressive, and shifts into park. “So, is it a deal? You let me help you with rehab, you get back on the ice sooner, and I get experience with a professional athlete without nepotism?”
Is it a good idea to have my team captain’s hot younger sister help me with rehab? The answer to that is probably no. But she makes a good point, for both of us. The sooner I’m back on the ice, the better it will be for me and the easier it’ll be to gel with my teammates. My social skills aren’t the best, so I have to rely on my ability to pull my weight on the ice to show my worth. “And we keep it between us?”
“Yup. But if I actually help your progress, I want a letter of reference. Do we have a deal?” This has the potential to backfire, but it also has the potential to get me back where I need to be. Will Coach like that I’m doubling up on rehab? Probably not. But what are my alternatives? Is it ideal that it’s Rook’s little sister doing the rehab? Not really, but she’s offering, and it’s convenient since she’s my neighbor. In the end, the longer I’m off the ice, the less opportunity I have to show the team my value as a player, which ultimately tips the balance in Stevie’s favor.
She holds out her hand, and I take it in mine, noting how soft and warm her skin is. “Yeah, we have a deal.”
CHAPTER 12
PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME
Bishop
Apparently Stevie is super serious about starting PT right away. As soon as we get in the elevator, she’s on me. “The first thing we’ll do when we get upstairs is go through some range-of-motion tests. Then you’ll soak in a hot bath, and depending on how you’re feeling after that, we’ll follow it up with a few more range-of-motion tests and a cold compress. Sound good?”
“Uh, sure?”
“Great.” She taps her bottom lip. “What did they give you to manage the pain and swelling?”
“An anti-inflammatory-based painkiller.”
“Okay, that’s what I figured. Obviously it’s nonsteroidal. When was the last time you took it?”
“Around lunch.”
She frowns. “That was seven hours ago. How’s your pain right now?”
“High.”
“On a scale of one to ten, what would you rate it?”
“Like, an eleven.”
She makes a disapproving face. “You have to take the medication.”
“I don’t know how bad the injury is if I can’t feel it.”
“You also can’t control the swelling, or heal or function, if you’re not taking the medication. New plan. Gentle heat therapy before anything else.” The elevator doors slide open, and she motions for me to go ahead of her. “Your place or mine?”
My doorknob isn’t decorated with a sock tonight. “Mine, I guess?”
“Lead the way.”
She’s oddly all business, like some professional switch has been flipped. She holds the door open, allowing me to go first. Design- and layout-wise, my place is the same as hers—the kitchen is modern, with dark wood cabinets and black granite countertops—but that’s where the similarities end. My place looks like two guys live in it. A black leather couch, dual leather recliners, and a seventy-inch flat-screen TV take up the majority of the living room. A large table that never actually gets used is set up close to the kitchen in what’s supposed to be the formal dining space.
I haven’t bothered with art yet, aware that I’ll only be here for a year, and then my brother and I will likely need to find a new place, unless we decide to take over the lease or buy the place outright, which is an option.
A low thud comes from the cat tree across the room, and Dicken waddles over to rub himself on my leg, meowing loudly.
“Look at you . . . what a sweet chonky kitty!” Stevie drops into a crouch. “Is he friendly?”
“Exceedingly.”
He abandons me and rubs himself across Stevie’s legs. He circles her and purrs when she scratches under his chin. “We used to have barn cats when I was growing up. What’s his name?”
“Dicken.”
“Like the author?”
“That’s one interpretation.” That’s not at all why we named him that. “But his middle name is Balls.”
Her nose scrunches up. “That’s not a very nice name for your cat.” She takes a closer look at him, and then her eyes go wide. She gestures to his face, which is decorated in a white pattern. “Oh my God. He has—”
“A dick and balls on his face. Hence the name Dicken Balls.”
She bites her lip as if she’s trying to decide whether she wants to laugh. She rubs between his eyes, where the figurative shaft is. “That’s a horribly awful and perfect name for you, little Dicken.” She gives him one more affectionate scratch under the chin and rises. “Let’s get some medication into you and get you in the tub.”
She follows me down the hall to my bedroom. So does Dicken, meowing loudly behind us. I didn’t bother making my bed, since I spent the majority of the day lying in it. Three ice packs are scattered over the comforter, and my clothes from yesterday are lying in a heap in the middle of the floor, but it’s not too much of a shit sty otherwise.
It’s odd to have a woman in my bedroom for nonrecreational purposes. And it’s been a damn long time since that’s happened. Based on the state of my groin, my unapproachableness, and my lack of finesse with women in general, it’s probably going to be a damn long time before it happens again. I’m lucky I’m decent looking or I’d be totally fucked. Or not fucked. Ever.
“The layout is exactly the same as my bedroom. Is the bathroom through there?” Stevie points to the mostly closed door.
> “Yeah. Just let me check and make sure it’s safe.” I hobble past her and stick my head in. The towels on the rack are askew, and a couple litter the floor, but like my bedroom, it’s not bad. “Okay, good to go.”
“Great.” She claps her hands and rubs them together. “Bath time! In you go!”
She prods me forward and slips around me. It’s a fairly spacious bathroom—a lot bigger than the one she found me in this morning. I flip the lid down on the toilet and take a seat. My prescription is sitting on the counter, so I fill the glass sitting on the vanity and pop the cap. I’m supposed to take two every four hours, so I shake out three pills and down them with some water to partially make up for the missed dose.
“Do you have epsom salts?” Stevie asks as she opens cupboards and peeks around.
I point to the linen closet. “Should be some in there.”
She runs the water and puts the stopper in the drain, then opens the linen closet. The epsom salts are on the top shelf. Stevie isn’t particularly tall, maybe five four at best, so she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach it.
She manages to get the epsom salts down and dumps a healthy amount into the water, swirling it around to help it dissolve.
“All right, time to strip down,” she says when the bath is half-full.
I wait for her to give me some privacy, but she just stands there, one eyebrow arched, hands on her hips.
“You want me to get naked in front of you?”
“You’ve been flashing me your panties for weeks.”
She has a point. I pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. I have to brace my weight on the counter so I can rise up enough to pull my sweats over my hips, which really hurts. I sit back down with a groan and slide them past my knees. Bending over causes more pain, so Stevie steps up and helps take them off the rest of the way.
I can’t even make it from the toilet to the tub without crutches. I sit on the edge and take a few deep breaths, waiting until the worst of the vicious stabbing pains ease.
Stevie settles her palms on my shoulders. “You okay?”
I lift my head, which isn’t the best idea, since her tits are right in my face. They’re covered by a T-shirt and a bra, but still. They look like they’d be a comfortable place to rest my head. I look down instead of doing that, except now I’m staring at her crotch. Again, covered in black yoga pants, but she’s female and gorgeous, and I’m full of testosterone. Pent-up testosterone, some latent rage, and a high level of frustration over being benched for six weeks. And for the first time in what feels like four million eons, I think I might actually like this woman beyond the surface. I wonder if she’s wearing a pair of those shorts she favors under the yoga pants. I wonder if she’ll wear them for our physio sessions.
“Bishop, you in there?” She snaps her fingers.
“Huh?” I look up, all the way to her face.
Her brow is arched. “You were off in la-la land.”
“Sorry.” The la-la land of her yoga-pants-covered pussy. “Are you gonna leave me alone to soak?”
“I’m going to help you into the tub first.”
“I can get in without help.”
She props a fist on her hip. “You couldn’t get your feet up on the couch last night without help.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Well, go ahead and get in, then.” She takes a step back and motions for me to have at it.
“With my boxers on?”
“Yes, Bishop. With your boxers on. You’re not going to burn candles and sip wine while reading your favorite trashy book. You’re going to sit in a warm bath for fifteen minutes, and then we’re going to assess the damage and see how stiff you are.”
“Fuck. Fine.” I brace my hands on the edge of the tub and turn my body, thinking it’ll be easier to get my good leg over first, and then I can lift the injured one in.
In theory it’s a fantastic idea. In practice it’s a terrible idea. I manage to get my good leg up and over, but the pain is excruciating. I scream and grab Stevie because she’s the closest, most stable thing I can hold on to. The water in the tub is warm, but it’s got nothing on the fire in my goddamn groin.
“Fucking Christ, it feels like my balls are trying to detach from my body,” I groan.
“Would you like some help getting into the tub now?” The “I told you so” is clear in her tone.
“I need a minute.” I take several semishallow breaths, waiting for the sick feeling and ball burning to cease.
It isn’t until I’m no longer blinded by pain that I realize I’m full-on hugging Stevie and that her arms are trapped at her sides. My cheek is also pressed against her boob. I was right about it being a soft place to rest my head.
“Sorry.” I release her.
“Maybe next time you’ll stow the alpha ‘I can do it on my own’ bullshit and save yourself some unnecessary pain.”
She makes me lift my arm and drapes it over her shoulder. She’s incredibly small compared to me. She tucks one arm under my knee and gently grips the back of my calf with the other. “On the count of three,” she orders. I tense up when she hits three. She gets my leg about six inches off the floor, which is when I scream bloody murder again and grab on to her with both hands.
“Okay. That’s not going to work. The angle is too awkward.” She taps her lip and holds her finger up. “I have an idea.”
She ducks out from under my arm and hooks her fingers in the waistband of her yoga pants.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Calm down. Some bathing suits have less coverage than my underwear. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
She kicks off her yoga pants, leaving her in a T-shirt and panties. They’re plain cotton boy shorts, which should be a good thing, but apparently my body doesn’t care that it’s not a satin or lace thong. All it cares about is the proximity of almost-naked pussy.
Rook’s sister is standing in my bathroom in her underwear. If I had a sister who looked like Stevie and I knew that she was standing in one of my teammate’s bathrooms half-naked, I would probably kick the shit out of the guy. Thankfully, I have a brother.
I try to keep my eyes averted, sort of, but I catch her reflection in the vanity mirror.
She has fantastic legs. Athletic. Strong. And her ass. Goddamn. She definitely does a lot of squats, based on how round and firm it looks. The ache in my groin turns into that stabbing pain again because I’m getting hard. I think about my grandmother in a bathing suit to counteract the effect of Stevie being partly undressed.
She steps into the tub, and I force myself to keep my eyes down, bringing up the image of that hot chick in the tub who turns into a rotting old lady in The Shining. That helps a bit. At least until Stevie moves into my personal space and starts touching me again. I mutter a string of profanity, especially when I feel her boob pressed against my arm for a few seconds. I have no choice but to latch on to her shoulder as we lift my leg over the edge of the tub. I’m sweating, I’m angry, and I hate my dick.
“I need you to stop touching me!” It’s stupid because I’m still holding on to her, not the other way around.
“Why are you yelling at me?” she shouts back.
“Because you’re half-undressed in my tub, and I’m a guy, and apparently my dick is a fucking sadist. It honestly feels like my balls are on fire right now. A semi has never been this painful.”
“Well, close your damn eyes and think about dead things.”
“It doesn’t matter if I close them. The image of you in panties is burned into the back of my lids, probably for the rest of my fucking life. It’s all I can see.”
“You’d think you’d never seen a set of bare legs before.” She helps me lower myself into the tub and steps out.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a pair up close,” I grumble.
“Such a surprise, with your warm, fuzzy personality.”
I try not to look as she aggressively yanks a t
owel free from the bar and swipes it down her toned, wet legs. They look smooth and soft. Also, I used that towel yesterday. So she’s sort of wiping my junk on her legs. It quite literally feels like my balls are filled with acid instead of semen, which I’d like to now unload all over her bare thighs.
She nabs her yoga pants from the floor and heads for the door.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
“To get a cold compress ready and give you some time to calm the hell down.”
She’s gone for a while. Long enough that I start to wonder if she’s left me here for the night. I can probably get out of the tub on my own, but it won’t be easy, and it’ll hurt like a bitch.
I must doze off, because when she comes back, Nolan is with her, and I’m too out of it to string a sentence together that makes sense. It’s another reason I don’t like the meds. Together the two of them manage to get my groggy ass out of the tub. I shuck off my wet boxers and leave them on the bathroom floor, not caring what Stevie sees anymore.
“Christ, you’re heavy, Shippy,” Nolan gripes.
“Shippy?”
“It’s his favorite nickname,” Nolan snickers.
“I hate that nickname.” I sound drunk.
“How much medication did you take, Bishop?” Stevie asks as they turn me around and tell me to sit.
“Three pills. I half made up for the missed dose.” All the s’s blend into the other words.
“Well, that explains a lot. Let’s get him on his back.” I think Stevie is talking to my brother. My eyelids are hella heavy, too heavy to open more than a slit.
“My balls don’t feel like they’re on fire anymore,” I tell her.
“That’s great, Bishop.”
A shock of cold against the inside of my thigh makes me temporarily alert, and I ask about the exercises I’m supposed to do.
“What the hell is remotion sex?” Nolan asks.
Stevie laughs. “I think he’s trying to say ‘range-of-motion exercises.’ We’ll get to those tomorrow.”
A Favor for a Favor Page 9
