I want to ask her more questions, like what kind of complications and what happened for him to lose his license, but she bounces up off the couch like she has springs in her ass and plasters on a huge, very fake smile. “Enough about that. Let’s get this party started.” She gives me her back as she rolls out the yoga mat.
I stare at her ass and ponder the layers of her personality. She’s sarcastic and bitchy, she’s sweet and helpful, but I think she’s also got some broken pieces she tries to hide behind all the other parts. She’s the younger sister of an NHL player, her dad passed away, and she’s living in her brother’s unused penthouse for reasons I’m unsure of, other than it’s rent-free.
“All right, grumpy pants, let’s see how stiff you are today.”
Lying down on the floor isn’t easy, and Stevie promises to bring her portable massage table tomorrow. She starts off the same way the team physiotherapist did this morning, checking to see how far I can raise and bend my legs and at what point the pain goes from a dull ache to a vicious throb.
It’s pretty miserable, but even though she’s causing me pain, I don’t absolutely hate having her hands on me.
The range-of-motion shit feels horrible, as do the stretches, but it’s nothing compared to when she starts palpating the muscles around the injury site, checking for tightness. She’s good at finding the worst spots and working on them until they loosen up, but I’m tense, and every touch sends violent pain shooting through my groin.
Stevie sits on the floor beside me and shifts, positioning one of her legs under my injured one. It’s meant to take the pressure off so none of my muscles will be doing the work. She presses her fingertips gently along the edges of the bruising, starting at the inside of my knee.
It doesn’t feel good, but my body seems to be reacting to the physical contact in a way that’s going to become a different kind of painful if I can’t get a handle on it. I pull up the same images from The Shining again and then Charlize Theron when she was a murderer in Monster, because rotting corpses and female serial killers should help prevent my dick from reacting in ways I would prefer it wouldn’t.
But Stevie’s boob is pressed against the outside of my thigh, and her long, pale-blue ponytail tickles my skin, and her fingers keep moving higher, so my control starts to slip.
“You need to stop.”
“Am I causing you a lot of pain?” Stevie flattens her palm against my inner thigh, which doesn’t help at all.
“There’s too much contact. Too much of your skin on my skin. It’s distracting. Can’t you cover up?” And I’m back to being the asshole again. Not that I ever really stopped.
“What?”
I motion to her outfit. “Are you trying to taunt me? Is that what this is about?”
She frowns, and her nose wrinkles. It’s almost cute, which is not good. I can’t be thinking about her in terms like cute.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I flail a hand toward her. “You. This. The half nakedness.”
“You’re in a pair of underwear.”
Okay, she has a valid point. “You showed up unannounced.”
“Well, I don’t have your phone number, so how else would you propose I contact you? And it wasn’t like you didn’t have plenty of opportunity to cover yourself up. And why is this even an issue? What does it have to do with your level of pain?”
“You’re making me hard!” I snap.
She blinks a few times, and her eyes dart down to my crotch. It’s pretty damn obvious I’m sporting a semi. “How is that my fault?”
“I can feel your boobs on my legs, and your hands are near my dick. It’s not like I have control over it.”
“Well, maybe next time you should rub one out before we do this so you don’t embarrass yourself.”
“You think I haven’t tried? It feels like someone is stabbing me in the balls with a rusty steak knife.”
Stevie huffs and throws her hands in the air. “What do you want me to do? Stop? It’s not like it’s any skin off my back if I don’t help you.”
She starts to move away, but I grab her wrist. “Wait. Just . . . maybe you could put on a sweatshirt or something? There are bound to be a couple clean ones in the laundry room. Please?”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. But don’t get pissy with me because you can’t control your body parts.”
She comes back a minute later wearing one of my hoodies from college. It really doesn’t help. It’s still a lot of physical contact, and now the sweet smell of her lotion mixes with my laundry, so it’s like she’s wrapped in me. “Can you talk, please?”
“About what?”
“Anything. Why’d you move to Seattle?”
“My ex-boyfriend got a job here, and so did I.”
That doesn’t make a lot of sense. “Why would you want to move where your ex lives?”
“Because he wasn’t my ex until I moved here.” Her voice is somehow softer and harder at the same time.
I’m trying to piece this all together with half my brain functioning thanks to the pain in my groin and my inability to stop focusing on how nice it is to have an attractive woman touching me, even if it’s supposed to be in a professional capacity. “But you’ve only been here for what, a handful of weeks?”
“Yup.” Her expression remains purposefully neutral.
“I don’t get it.”
“We were supposed to move in together. He came out a couple of months early to get settled into the apartment and start his job. I flew in a couple of days earlier than I planned to so we could be together for my birthday, and he was already celebrating.”
I feel like I’m missing some important detail here. “What does that mean, that he was ‘already celebrating’?”
“It means I walked in on him screwing someone who wasn’t me, on my birthday.”
This guy is clearly a brain-dead idiot. “What a dickhead. This guy must be a special kind of stupid to pull something like that.”
“And now I have the pleasure of working with him every day.”
A heavy feeling settles in my gut as I watch her face. Her lips are pressed in a thin line, her jaw tense, but her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a slight tremble in her chin. “Why don’t you quit? Get a job somewhere else?”
“Because then he wins, and there’s no way I’m going to let that happen. Besides, I was the one they hired first. I got him the stupid interview, so if anyone should find another job, it’s him. I have friends there now, and it’s a great clinic, apart from him.” She slides her thumb along my IT band, which hurts like hell. “Anyway, I called my brother, and he said I could stay here, so here I am.”
“Hold on. All of that happened the night you first showed up here?” She was riding the Hot Mess Express: blotchy face, red eyes, uncoordinated, loud.
“Yup.”
“On your birthday?”
“Correct.”
I push up on my elbows. It’s not easy, and it makes a lot of body parts ache. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole to you.”
“I was making a lot of noise; you thought I was my brother’s mistress. You had no idea.”
“But if I had—” If I hadn’t already strongly disliked Rook, I might not have jumped to conclusions about her. She still woke me up in the middle of the night, but I might have been less of a jerk.
She pushes to a stand. “I think we’re done for tonight. You should ice it again so it doesn’t get too aggravated from all my prodding.”
I grab her wrist. “Hey.” I try to get my ass off the floor, but I don’t have my crutches and it’s awkward as hell.
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Hold on a sec.” Stevie gets them for me and helps me up. She quickly rolls up her yoga mat and heads for the door like her ass is on fire.
“Stevie.” I feel like I should say something helpful. Like her ex is an idiot, because clearly he is. Stevie is gorgeous and feisty and probably way too nice for his cheating ass. She’s way too nice to be
helping me.
She spins around, flustered and looking a lot like she’s hovering on the edge of tears. Shit. I better not make her cry. I don’t know how to handle tears.
“Don’t be nice to me right now, Bishop.”
Obviously she’s psychic, or I’m wearing my panic on my face. “But—” I try to think of something to say that isn’t nice but isn’t dickish, either, as she puts her hand on the doorknob. “I still don’t have your number.”
Her head falls forward, and she glances over her shoulder, a rueful grin making a brief appearance. “Same time tomorrow night. I’ll wear a muumuu, and you wear some actual clothes so you can keep yourself in check.”
I stand in the middle of the living room for a long time after she’s gone, trying to figure out what I could’ve said to keep her from leaving upset.
Half an hour later I slip a piece of paper under her door with my number on it. It sounds like it’s not a big deal, but it hurt like a bitch to bend over, even if it was only for a few seconds.
An hour later I get a message from an unfamiliar number.
Did you ice your leg?
I fire one back:
Stevie?
It doesn’t take long for a response to appear:
No. It’s a random person asking about your leg.
Yes. It’s Stevie.
Bishop: Are you okay?
Stevie: Fine.
Bishop: Your ex is a fucking idiot.
The dots appear and disappear a bunch of times before she finally responds.
Stevie: Ice your leg, Shippy.
Bishop: Don’t call me that. Lying in bed with ice on my leg right now.
Stevie: So you can follow orders. Good to know.
Bishop: Just depends on who’s doing the ordering.
Stevie: See you tomorrow.
Bishop: Okay.
I stare at the series of short messages for a long while, wondering what the hell is wrong with her ex and how someone as strong and feisty as Stevie could have ended up with someone like that in the first place.
The next night Stevie shows up at seven and acts like she didn’t tell me someone screwed her over recently. She also wears a huge hoodie and oversize jogging pants. She looks ridiculous. It should help, but it doesn’t.
I want to ask personal questions about her ex and her dad, but there’s no way for me to bring it up without it being awkward, so I leave it alone.
The week that follows is a weird form of torture. The daily double PT sessions are definitely helping the healing process. The bruising begins to fade from the horrible black to more of a purple green with some nice yellowing patches at the edges. It’s ugly, but it’s improving, and my team physiotherapist keeps praising me for all the hard work I’m obviously doing outside our sessions to help with recovery.
It’s all Stevie. If I’m in a mood—and let’s face it, I’m perpetually in a mood—she keeps pushing, dishing out the attitude the same way I give it to her.
For the first few days she wore baggy sweats, but it didn’t seem to have an impact on my physical reaction. So she stopped with the oversize clothes and went back to those athletic running shorts and tanks layered over sports bras.
And unless we’re in the private gym specifically for the people who live on the penthouse floor—which means it’s rarely ever used—I stick to my uniform of boxer briefs and sometimes basketball shorts.
Tonight I’m thinking maybe once Stevie gets home, we should order in dinner and get down to the PT. I’m feeling good, and tomorrow I have a checkup with my doctor, so I want to go in all loose and limber. We can work on some stretches, and Stevie can massage my leg, and I’ll finish with heat and ice.
Tomorrow night is the get-together at Alex’s place. I don’t really want to go because
I don’t love all the social shit;
it means I won’t get in a PT session with Stevie.
The season starts in a week, so I need to put some effort in with my teammates, since I won’t be on the ice for at least the first few games, and that’s me being optimistic. I’m hoping that with the extra PT, I won’t miss much more than that.
I’m in my living room, waiting for Stevie and flipping TV channels with the sound off so I can listen for the elevator. Yes, I’m aware it’s borderline creepy. I messaged her more than half an hour ago, but I still haven’t heard back yet.
The sound of the elevator dinging puts me on alert. I grab my crutches and pull myself up, pleased with how much less it’s hurt over the past few days. I hear a knock in the hallway, but it’s not my door. I make it to the peephole in time to see a guy disappear into her apartment.
A fucking guy. Who isn’t me.
I wait with my eye pressed against the peephole for the guy to come back out.
“Have you moved in the past half hour?” Nolan startles me.
“What?”
“I’ve walked through here three times, and you haven’t moved. What the hell are you doing?”
“A guy went into Stevie’s apartment, and he hasn’t come back out.”
Nolan’s eyebrows rise, and he smirks before he schools his expression. “And that’s a problem because . . . ?”
“Because we’re supposed to have a session tonight, that’s why. And she hasn’t answered my texts. I have to see the team doctor tomorrow. I need to go having made progress so I can get back on the ice, and now she’s leaving me hanging!”
“So you’re pissed that she has a life outside of sessions with you, which she doesn’t get paid for, unless you parading around in your underwear has somehow become a form of reimbursement?”
“I’m comfortable like this, and she doesn’t care. Besides, she offered to help me. It benefits her too.”
Nolan leans against the couch, and Dicken jumps up, sauntering along the edge until he can rub himself on Nolan. “Does it, now? And how might this little arrangement you set up benefit her?”
“She gets experience working with me.”
“So she learns how to best deal with assholes?”
Dicken meows, like he’s in agreement. He’s only loyal to the person most willing to feed him.
“Screw you. I’m not always an asshole. She gets to rehab an NHL player. She learns what works and doesn’t, what helps me make progress, how hard to push. It’s good for her, career-wise.”
“Why doesn’t she use the fact that she has an NHL-playing brother to get her into a clinic that works with professionals in the first place?”
“Because she doesn’t like using her brother’s connections to get things.”
“Well, she’s living in that apartment, isn’t she?”
“Only because her dickhead ex-boyfriend cheated on her and she didn’t have anywhere else to stay. It better not be him in her apartment. I will beat his ass.” I don’t care if I have to break his nose with my crutches; I will take that motherfucker down. I pull out my phone and compose a message to Stevie, but I’m agitated, so I have to delete it a bunch of times and start over again.
I finally go with:
You ready for me? Should I come to you?
It’s not confrontational, and there are no death threats, so I think it’s good. Nice and neutral.
“You sound a little territorial for someone who swears he doesn’t have the hots for our neighbor.”
“I’m not being territorial. I need her for my rehab.”
Nolan snorts. “You keep telling yourself that, Shippy.”
I don’t bother responding to Nolan, because he’s baiting me, and inchworm dots appear on my screen. I frown when I read her message:
Not a good time. Msg l8r.
“Not a good time? Message later? What does that mean?”
“It means she’s busy and she’ll get back to you when she isn’t. I told you to stop being a pussy and just claim the pussy.”
I motion to my crotch. Today I’m wearing boxers that say DANGER: CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE on them. I figured Stevie would find them funny, because it’s tr
ue. At least it doesn’t feel like I’ve dipped my balls in acid every time I get hard anymore. “I can’t claim the pussy.”
“Your tongue and fingers aren’t damaged, though.” Nolan shakes his head. “You’re an idiot. If she has a date, you have no one to blame but yourself.”
He wanders down the hall, complaining about how I’m wasting my good years being celibate.
I stand with my eye at the peephole and wait. And wait some more. It’s almost eight by the time the door finally opens. So I step out into the hall, ready to do exactly what my brother said I should before someone else does: claim the pussy.
CHAPTER 14
SERIOUSLY?
Stevie
The second I step out into the hall, Bishop’s door flies open. He leans on one crutch, eyes narrowed and homed in on me. “We still on for tonight, or you busy with something else?”
I can feel RJ behind me. “Winslow, this isn’t the damn locker room. What the hell are you doing in your goddamn underwear?”
My brother’s giant hand clamps over my eyes, and his pinkie nearly goes up my nose.
I bat his hand away and spin out of his reach. “Like I’ve never seen a guy in his underwear before.”
“Rook?” Bishop’s somewhat angry expression softens when his gaze shifts to me. “Why didn’t you say your brother was over? I’ve been waiting for like two hours.”
“I didn’t realize I needed to give you a play-by-play of my evening plans.”
“What the hell is going on here?” RJ’s blazing eyes are fixed on Bishop.
Based on the way these two are glaring at each other, I have a feeling they don’t like each other very much. It may explain why my conversations with Bishop that revolve around hockey are only ever related to his PT and his friend Kingston. Bishop actually seems like he might be a bit of a loner. Or a homebody. Or both.
RJ’s lip twitches. “Are you hanging out with this guy?”
“I’m helping Shippy with PT.” I use the nickname on purpose, to let Bishop know I don’t appreciate whatever the hell drama he’s about to cause me.
“Shippy?” RJ looks like his eyes are about to bug out of his head and roll across the floor.
A Favor for a Favor Page 11
