I’m not blind. I like the way her jeans hug her tight ass and I’m sure I’d enjoy her in bed but that’s not what I’m looking for. There’s no way in hell she’s tough enough to get me in shape.
“Hello Mr. Quinn.” She holds out her hand as if she thinks I’m going to shake it.
When I stare into the space behind her head, she drops her arm back down, cheeks red. I don’t mean to be rude but this isn’t going to work out.
Stan hasn’t left yet so I jump off the table, grab my cane, and pull him aside. “What the fuck! I told you I wanted to be one hundred percent before next season. What the hell is that?” I point to the girl. “I need a real physical therapist, not a fucking Barbie.”
He eyes me like I’m a piece of shit. “You’re lucky to have her. Lucky to have anything at all. You screwed up big time.”
His attitude is totally uncalled for. “Hey. I wasn’t found guilty of anything. I’m the victim here.”
“Shit, CJ. You were in a car with a minor. The press has taken ahold of it and made you look like a rapist. Have you seen any fans lately? Any tweets that sing your praises? Now go make nice while I make sure your bills get paid.”
Dammit. I could’ve sworn on a stack of bibles that the woman in the bar that night was in her mid-twenties. I made one bad decision. I got into a car with a beautiful stranger who wanted a quick lay. I was just being a good guy, happy to accommodate but I’ll get it all sorted out. I have to. Otherwise all my dreams are down the shitter.
While I’m deep in those unhappy thoughts, Stan swivels on his heel and slams the door to let me know how pissed off he is. At least for now, I guess I’ll have to make nice with Barbie here.
My right knee hurts like a mother-fucker as I hobble back to where she’s standing. Even though she heard the whole interaction, I have to give her credit. She doesn’t seem the least bit phased. Instead of giving me lip, she takes my cane, puts it in a corner, and then points to the therapy table.
“Sit.”
Today is going to be a big fucking waste of time. Paper crunches under my butt when I hop up and cross my arms over my chest.
“Lie back.” The pretty blond removes her coat and hangs it up in a closet.
Then while I stare at the tin ceiling, she pulls my sweats up, pokes at my bum knee, which makes the tendons burn like hell.
“Next time come in shorts. It’s easier.” Her blond brows furrow, lifting my leg as if it weighs nothing at all.
“There isn’t going to be a next time.” I send her my perfected glower as she pushes my thigh into my chest.
That fucking hurts. “Enough!” I twist my leg out of her grasp.
She stares coldly, voice condescending. “Ten more times. You count.”
I do as she commands, feeling a bit childish but if she makes my injury worse, I swear I will fucking sue this place.
Once done with that torture, she turns to the treadmill, sets a too-fast pace, and says, “Walk.”
I stare incredulously at the timer. I can’t believe this little bitch. Who does she think she is? Without my cane, that’s impossible. After sixty agonizing seconds, when she’s not looking, I reach to slow it down.
Of course, she’s watching and slaps my hand. “Leave it, Mr. Quinn. Concentrate. Work on your gait. Tuck in your abs. You’re walking like a duck.”
Blow it out your ass, Barbie.
I wonder if this is payback for earlier and start to speak my mind when a blue-haired woman walks in the door with her husband. I have to hold my tongue while my blond torturer leads the elderly woman to a table, asking her questions about her hip and back.
What the fuck? Now I’m sharing my therapist?
Maybe Stan didn’t make it clear how important this is. Maybe that blond is one of those chicks who hates football and has no idea I’m worth millions but it doesn’t matter.
Barbie’s toast.
Chapter 3
I’ve already reviewed hotshot’s x-rays, personal history, and his prognosis. He’s going to need some hard work if he wants to be playing ball by next season. Mostly, he needs to stop using the cane and stop being such a dick.
“Hop up on the table.” I push his chest back. Damn if he isn’t rock hard but he could be stark naked with a twelve-inch cock and I couldn’t care less.
He nods, nowhere near as arrogant as he was when he came in thanks to his little walk on the treadmill. Good. I need this job and assholes like him make it hard for women to work in the field of sports therapy.
From his gait, I can tell he’s way too tense.
“Take off your shirt.”
It comes off over his head and he smirks arrogantly when my mouth drops open. Sure, I’ve seen plenty of athletes but this guy is by far, the most ripped. Pressing my lips together, I grab a drink from my water bottle, and pretend not to notice. That gorgeous pack of abs is just muscle, that’s all.
“Please lie on your stomach, Mr. Quinn.” I congratulate myself on how professional I sound as he turns, exposing his broad back, covered in tats.
When I begin to massage his shoulders, he shivers under my touch, and then growls. “Your hands are too damn cold.”
Ignoring him, I work over his entire back until my fingers ache. He issued a challenge and I’m going to take it. He may be a hotshot in his world, but so am I.
Well, I will be someday. Regardless, he can’t act like an ass and get away with it.
I push into his body deeper, trying to think positively. My clientele is growing as is my reputation. Hotshot here, should help bring in more work. I just need to prove to him how good I am. With that in mind, I focus on each little knot in his back and smile when he moans in pleasure.
When my phone rings, the ID is from the shelter and so excuse myself to take the call. I take a deep breath, praying I’ll have a place to sleep tonight. “Hello?”
“Is this Ms. Melanie Sanders?” The tone is pleasant and so my hopes rise.
Moving further away from the tables and toward the reception area, I find a little more privacy.
“That’s me.”
“This is Doctor Jenna Jones from Gracie’s Place. Will you be able to meet with me today?”
I glance over at Mr. Hotshot who’s not even trying to politely ignore my conversation. “My shift ends at five. I can make it into the city by six. Is that okay.”
“That’s fine. See you then.”
Before she hangs up, I barge in. “Listen, can I stay another night?”
What’ll I do if she says no? I don’t even own a sleeping bag.
“Let’s talk when you get here. Bye.”
Wow. That didn’t sound so good. I turn to my client who’s eyeing me with too much interest. Then I finish him up, wishing his skin didn’t feel so wonderful under my touch.
What the hell is wrong with me? He’s a chauvinistic football jerk with an ego the size of the state of New York. I shouldn’t feel any attraction at all, let alone what’s happening inside my panties.
It must be the break up. My hormones are off. I haven’t had sex for months. Last time I mentioned making love Des said he had some kind of infection and showed me a bottle of antibiotics. I’d actually felt bad for him and made him his favorite lasagna. Meanwhile, he was probably planning to kick me out of his apartment and move in with the giggler.
Thinking of him demands that I pick up my phone and leave another message. “Damn it Des. Don’t do this. At least give me my clothes back.”
I blush when Mr. Hotshot eyes me from the coat closet, putting on a blue jacket with a Giant’s logo. I thought he’d already left.
He opens his mouth to comment but I rush past him and out the door.
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From the Author
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Other Romances by Stella
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The CEO's Valentine: A Billionaire Romance (Players Book 5) Page 8
