I followed him inside and eyed the set up. It was smaller, nicer, and more organized. There were less players on the team, but that didn't seem to matter to Heidi. Shit was nice. I walked to the back room, eyeing the rehab area and a pair of eyes met mine. I about jumped out of my shorts. “Oh, hi.”
“Hey there,” a deep, smooth voice with a slight southern accent answered me. The voice came from a head, a head that was sticking out of an ice bath. The head was attached to a firm, tanned chest. I had no idea where my chest fascination came from, but I needed to get a freaking grip. “You lost, ma’am?”
“No, I'm touring the place. I'm Grace.” It was my inner waitress, always introducing myself to people regardless if it was necessary or not. I was an idiot. Freaking idiot.
“Well, nice to meet ya, Grace. I'm real glad you stopped in,” he said in that twang, and I blushed... and giggled. Oh my god. I giggled.
“Thanks, what's your name?” I asked, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “I don't really follow baseball that much. I apologize.”
“Aw, hell honey, you're ruining my healthy ego.” He stood from the bath, his strong forearms supporting him, and I sucked in a breath. He was ripped. Freaking ripped and his short, tight shorts left nothing to the imagination. “Feel free to look. I don't mind.”
“Shit. My bad,” I admitted, backing out of the room before embarrassing myself. But, no, that would be too easy. Karma wouldn't allow it.
Anderson walked in, looked from my face to the ripped guy in small shorts, and frowned. The guy hadn't seen Anderson yet and chuckled.
“Baby, you can check me out anytime you want.” He turned with a big ass grin, but it fell a little when it landed on Anderson.
Brock's voice broke the small silence, his hand going to my shoulder. I doubted the touch meant anything, but to southern accent guy, it was territorial as hell. Then, he said in a voice I had never heard from him before, “G-thang, are you flirting again?”
Oh. My. God. He said G-thang.
He cock-blocked me.
I glared at him, shoving his hand off my shoulder, ready to tell him off. But, he must've read my face because he put his other hand on my other shoulder, boxing me in. “Sorry, Ricky, she's a natural flirt. Ignore her.”
“Ain't nothing, Brock.” Ricky, the sexy beast, gave me a small smile. “Nice to meet ya, Grace. I'll see you around.”
He walked out of the room, firm legs and all. I turned to yell at Brock, but he released my shoulders and burst out laughing. I hit his good arm. Hard. “What?” The asshole asked between laughs. “You deserved that.”
I began to argue, but then I remembered. I remembered the girl from Monday night. I sucked in my breath, shaking my head. “Damn it, Anderson. You're right.”
“Brock, and yeah. I am right.” Humor danced in his eyes, an easy smile falling on his face now. “I told you game on.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You cock-blocked me.” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “I'm guessing you didn't have a happy ending Monday, then?”
Oh my god. Filter. I needed one now. I asked the question so naturally, like I would've with anyone else but him. I didn't know how he would react.
He ran that damn hand over his jaw and laughed.
My nerves calmed, but I needed to watch what I said to him. He was my boss.
“Anna wasn't entirely fond of me after the bar.”
“No offense, Brock, but if a girl doesn't believe you and needs an explanation, she's not a keeper.” I shrugged and began walking around the room, taking in the differences.
He followed me, silently.
“Have you worked for every sport?”
“Yes. I have a multi-sport degree. But, I played football, so I feel more confident and comfortable with it. Plus, I prefer to be around it.” I wondered if he would talk about the injury, but he didn't.
He cleared his throat, pulling me from my own thoughts, and said, “I spend some time with track and tennis when the season is over. But then it's training in the off season.”
“That's sweet you can pick the sport.” I went over to the window, looking out at the field. “I don't know what direction I want to go after this year. I like football, baseball sometimes, basketball sure. I always wanted the internship to see what happens next. See what my options are. The entire process of rehabilitation is incredible. I met some pretty amazing trainers growing up and want to give back like they did.” I ran my fingers over the window sill, feeling stupid for admitting that. “Anyway, can you show me the place?”
He looked at me with those deep sky eyes again, jaw muscle twitching. “You'll know what to do when the time is right. Don't worry about that now. You're so young. You have time.”
“I'm twenty-four. I'm not that young, old man,” I teased, and his body went stiff. “How old are you, anyway?”
He cleared his throat, leaving the room to hopefully show me more of the baseball facility. He didn't answer until I poked again. “Brock, don't be an asshole. You said I could ask any—”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Psh, you aren't that much older than me, boss man.” I’d already known he was only four years my senior before I took the job, but I wanted to remind him there wasn’t a huge age difference. I followed him out to the field and ignored the attitude he was carrying. It wasn't my fault he was twenty-eight going on seventy. “I don't have that much time to figure shit out. I graduate in December.”
His response was a grunt. Awesome.
I huffed, ignoring him the rest of the walk. I eyed the field, the equipment, and mentally broke down the injuries that happened in baseball. I recalled one class said that it is mainly throwing arm injuries, fingers, and an occasional leg muscle if they don't stretch. Sure, they could get nailed with a hard line-drive, but thankfully that was rare. Football was the most challenging, had the most injuries besides hockey, and they had the shortest season. My mind swirled, not sure what to do.
Anderson found me eyeing the field and talked about the experience he had there. He talked about why baseball was great and how he'd hook me up with Heidi to see what that path would look like.
Then, we went by the tennis courts. I asked tons of questions, unfamiliar with tennis injuries.
He showed me how to tape an elbow so it could move, fingers that wouldn't get in the way of the racket, and how to install a backup brace.
“You just carry these things around?” I asked, eyeing the plastic monstrosity with concern. “It looks like it's from bionic man or something.”
His gaze flicked to mine, his eyes crinkling on the sides with humor. “I don't carry them around often. The majority of ankle injuries are here or baseball. Sometimes at football, but we get more funding, so we have casts and braces. This is only used during the middle of games or matches. Have you not used one before?”
“Nope.” I looked at it, annoyed I had no experience with it. “Can you show me how it works?”
“Sure. Hop up on the table.” He pointed to the bench where athletes get wrapped before games, and I removed my shoe. I hoped it didn't smell, and thank god, it didn't. I hadn't been outside all day, so I was fine, but, then I felt stupid. Anderson spent time with athletes who smelled worse than balls. Balls that were inside jock straps for hours a day. “You've worked with braces before, right?”
“Yeah, basic ones.”
He placed the brace around my foot, only there wasn't a bottom to it. It was just two sides, metal and bionic looking. “So, the point of this one is to stabilize the bone and joint, making sure it remains straight.” He used one hand to keep the brace around my ankle, his fingers touching my bare skin in the process. “When I tape it, it'll be at the base. Going around the heel.”
He wound the black tape around my ankle and heel, his hands working fast and magically. His fingers accidentally brushed against my skin a couple of times, and I considered it a damn near miracle I didn't make a noise. Once finished, he looked up at me with a smug smile. “Now hop down. Can you feel the diff
erence?”
I balanced on it, feeling my ankle unbendable. I smiled, “I sure can. That's awesome and good to know.”
His grin matched mine, a rare moment of truce we rarely had. And of course, I ruined it. His hands ruined it, really, if I was placing blame or anything. They felt too good, and I didn't like the warm, constricting feeling my stomach got at our proximity. We both had a passion for sports injuries, and this shared bond got too real. So, my usual absent filter decided this would be the perfect moment to bring it up. “I can't believe you called me G-thang.”
The truce evaporated, and his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting up into a grin of sorts. It wasn't a nice smile, more like one of disbelief. “I can't believe you told Q that in front of coaches.”
“Yeah, not my finest moment. But, really? To that kid? I wasn't flirting, not really,” I lied, I lied so hard through my teeth. And, he laughed.
“Bullshit, Grace. You were.”
“I guess this is as good as any time to say this. I am sorry about Anna. I don't know why I did it, maybe just to ruin your night.” There, I apologized. I meant it and regretted it. I closed my eyes at his blank face. And, I kept going. “Not ruin your night, but make it awkward. I don't know. It wasn't a great idea. I see that now. So, I'm sorry.”
“Why do you close your eyes or avoid mine?” he asked, throwing me off my game. I was expecting a verbal lashing or more questions. Not… Not that. He lowered his gaze, so his face was a foot away. “I noticed you do that a lot.”
“It's your eyes. They are intimidating,” I said. “Also, I know you sort of apologized, kind of explained, but I still worry you're going to go back to being that jerk to me you were that first week. So, I avoid your eyes. Those crazy blue things are intense, Anderson.”
“You are unlike anyone I've ever met,” he said, deadpanned and expressionless. “I won't snap at you again unless it's necessary. I have a hard time when people don't… What's the best way to say it?” He paused, eyes narrowed in thought. “When people don't take care of themselves? Or when they hurt themselves.”
“Was that your way of saying I can't take care of myself?” My voice rose, not liking what he was insinuating. “Because that's what I just heard.”
“Shit.” He stood, hand on the back of his neck again, rubbing it. His eyes clouded, his jaw clenching twice before he spoke again. His voice was softer, the deep timbre of it hitting me square in the chest. “Grace, that's not it. I've seen you hurt yourself, three times now. It pisses me off. I don't want to see you hurt. It drives me crazy that I couldn't prevent it.”
Oh.
Oh my.
That was why he got so damn cranky? He didn't like to see me hurt? That was romantic? Kind? A normal human emotion? I had no idea. “Okay.”
“Okay? You generally talk way too much, and that's your response?” he asked, one full pink lip tilting on the side in a beautiful grin.
“Yup.” I raised my brows at him, his odd answer mollifying me. “Now, let's go check out the basketball training room. I've never been in one.”
Chapter Seven
“Gracie May! You're being requested at booth four.” Brandy’s voice carried, causing four men to turn in my direction.
I gulped, giving the foursome an awkward wave.
Brock’s eyes met mine, slowly raking down my body to land on my knee. His eyes turned ten degrees colder, a tight frown overtaking his mouth for a split second. Oh, jeez. Was he worried about my damn knee, again? Is that why he brought three coaches with him on my last night working at the restaurant?
I walked over to their table and ignored Brock the entire time. “Hey, you guys, what's going on?”
“Grace, glad we got your section,” Logan said, smiling at me with too much charm. I returned the gesture and took in his polo, loose shorts, and sunglasses. “We just got out of a meeting. Tomorrow’s the big scrimmage, where we determine the starting lineup. You going to be there on the field?”
I looked at Brock to respond, but he beat me to it. His deep voice made me want to bottle it up and listen to it later. Preferably at night, in the dark. “She'll be there.”
“Sweet. We missed ya down on the field this week,” Logan drawled, looking at the other two guys at the table, a tanned, black haired man who smiled at me. “This is Bryan and Kris. They are coaches, too.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, hoping my face showed genuine interest and not worry. I tended to look constipated when I fought a frown. It was a lose-lose situation, so it was best if I avoided it. Like right now. Shit. Bryan gave me a half smile.
“How's it working for this asshole so far?” Bryan asked, shoving Brock in the shoulder.
My gaze flew to meet Brock’s.
His eyes danced with humor, narrowing on the sides and his lip curved up. “He can be a real bitch sometimes, especially if he's hungry.”
“That explains it, then,” I said, without thinking. Oh god. I just called him a bitch, passively. I bit my lip, but then the four of them burst out laughing. It was so loud, other tables around us looked on with confused expressions. “Just kidding?” I added, because yes, that would make it better.
“I'm not that bad,” Brock whined. He freaking whined, his bottom lip sticking out in such a playful way it shocked me. Broody Brock, hot; Asshole Anderson, hot but rude; but playful Brock. Shit. There was no match for that. “Am I really?”
I pursed my lips at him, a slow smile forming. “I prefer not to answer. So, gentleman, drinks?” While they ordered, Brock’s gaze stayed locked on me.
I took my time on my way back to the serving station. Fritz leaned had spotted me coming and leaned against the station with one eyebrow arched.
“Yes, nosey?” I asked when I reached him.
“What makes you assume I was going to ask anything?” He chuckled and leaned his head on his hands. It made him look five, not twenty something.
“Because you're you.” I punched in their order for beers and brought the pitcher of water to fill their glasses.
“Okay. Fine. It’s like fucking pulling teeth with you.” He rolled his eyes, then laughed when Tony barked his name. Fritz had gotten written up countless times for language, yet, he was never fired. “Tony has ears like a goddamn shark.”
“Do sharks have ears?”
“I think so. Or maybe noses. His ears are like shark noses to smell blood.” He nodded, proud of himself for his comparison. “Did you know someone once told me dolphins had retractable nip—”
“Shh.” I grabbed his lips with my hands. “No. How I haven't throat punched you, I have no idea.” I released his mouth and slowly walked backward. I warned him with my eyes to be careful. It was then, I realized how much he reminded me of a dog. He was loyal as hell, one of my best friends, but he humped a lot, barked, and thought the world revolved around him. Plus, he left messes everywhere.
“So, Grace, are you liking the facility?” Kris, the guy with a thick neck asked as I dropped off beer. His intensity almost rivaled Brock’s, but his attention caused a blush to creep up my neck. “You've been busting your ass from what I've seen.”
“Yeah, you're killing it, girl.” Logan said. God, did these guys just produce testosterone every second of every day? Did girls throw themselves at them every hour? I was sweating just trying to maintain a conversation with them. “One thing concerns me though, Grace. I think it concerns all of us.”
My face blanched. What the hell could it be? I despised blanket statements like that. Like, when Gilly texted me we needed to talk immediately, I thought of every possible thing I could've done wrong. Maybe I loaded the dishwasher incorrectly or burnt the place down with my curling iron. I hated—freaking hated—the lack of clarity. I looked at him, then the other three, seeing furrowed brows. Brock’s eyes were a normal blue, the beautiful shade that didn't have a mood named to it yet. My frown must've spoken enough for me because Logan hit the table, shaking his head. “Grace, you look guilty as hell. I wanted to talk about Chip, that's
all.”
Oh. Chip. That's what this was about. I sighed, the tension leaving. For some reason, I feared they knew about the semi, sorta, major crush I had on Brock. I raised a brow. “What about Chip, exactly? That's an odd statement.”
“He's a major player, Grace,” Logan said, his eyes darkening.
I waited for the joke or the rest of the story because that couldn't be it. I looked at Bryan and Chris, both wearing confused expressions. Then, I looked at Brock, and his face was like granite again—nostrils flaring, mean eyes, and tight jaw. He needed to chill out. “Are you warning me? What are you saying, exactly?”
“Don't mess around with a guy like him. He's all fun and games. You're too damn sweet, Grace,” Logan said, patting my hand in the process.
“Thanks for that warning, Logan, but I got it under control,” I said, a small flair of annoyance in my tone. “He’s so not my type. Don’t worry.”
And we’ve said ten words to each other ever.
“Ah, so you have a type? Do tell.” Logan’s eyes lit up, dancing with mirth.
“Uh, no way. I’m not doing this with you guys. Bye.” I took off, laughing softly. I was used to Fritz taking on that older sibling role, warning off guys and what not. But, Logan? I was good. I punched in their food order, still replaying the conversation over in my head. First, why did Brock look so mad? Second, they were talking about me and a player? That couldn’t be good. I wanted to be respected at the internship, not known as a side piece or something like that. I cringed. I had never been that girl.
An hour later, after I’d delivered their food and avoided more questions from them, I stood at the booth adjacent to theirs. An older couple sat, all smiles and full of joy. I loved those tables. They wanted a nice meal, were pleasant, and they always left me in a good mood. I enjoyed chatting with them, learning they were new grandparents. The guys were talking at the next table, but I couldn't catch the exact words until I dropped my booklet, and it slid underneath the booth attached to theirs. I bent down, sighing as my knee throbbed, and before I picked the black, sleek folder up, I heard them.
Internship with the Devil (Shut Up and Kiss Me Book 1) Page 6
