Cross Crease (On The Edge Book 3)

by Elizabeth Hartey

  I haven’t heard much from D or about him, other than Nikki’s recent praise. The team was away this week. Happily, there were no injured Winds’ players requiring care or rehab.

  While away, D sent two texts with three words. I miss you. Nothing else. I didn’t tell him I missed him too. Even though I do. So much. My return texts were only to wish him luck in his games and to congratulate him on starting tonight.

  I pick up the remote and click to the NHL channel broadcasting D’s game just in time to hear the announcer introduce the Winds to the ice and see the beautiful-ass parade gliding across my screen.

  “Dammit. Why do hockey players have to have the best bodies?” I shrug and let out a huge sigh. But my breath catches when my favorite ass glides past, the one I could pick out in a beautiful-ass lineup.

  I cross the room and sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the television. Touching the screen, I use my fingers to follow D around the ice until he takes his place at the net.

  Right from the opening face-off, the game is in overdrive. The puck gets traded back and forth between teams. But with both goalies playing with catlike reflexes there’s no score when the first period ends.

  When the second period starts, the competitive aggression on the ice is seething. The puck is passed to Dalt, and the sparks begin to fly. He kicks it ahead, chases it to the side boards, and a Stars defender smashes Dalt into the boards.

  The next time the puck is passed to Dalt along the boards the same defender skates toward him. As he’s about to smash into Dalt’s left shoulder, Dalt flicks his left arm up in the air, sending the Stars player flying. He takes a hard, crashing seat on the ice, and the Dallas fans in the arena explode, booing, jeering, and hissing like a metal pot in a microwave.

  I’m nervously chewing my nails when the puck is passed and flies down the ice toward D. I see it happen almost before it does. D dives, sprawling himself out. In a flash, he wiggles across the goal on his stomach like a fighting scorpion deflecting the puck with his right pad. Then he’s up, both legs spread out into a front split, twisting to the left and then the right to repel the puck. I can see the pained grimace cross his face even through his mask. To add to the calamity, I’m not sure if it’s an accident or on purpose when a Stars forward comes sliding knee first and full force into D’s thigh. I gasp when D flops onto his back, writhing in pain.

  Running my hand over the screen again, I imagine I can soothe him with my touch through the glass. “Oh God, D. Get up. Please get up,” I whisper to the liquid crystal display. But I know he won’t get up because he’s hurt and in pain and I can’t do anything to help him.

  Suddenly my view is obliterated when the whistle blows and the screen fills with green and grey jerseys. Both teams’ benches have emptied. A full out brawl has broken out in the crease.

  I’m screaming at the television like a crazy woman. “Get out of the way! Where’s D? Someone help him!” It takes only moments—which seem like an eternity—for the refs to stop the brawling and the team doctor and trainer to get to D.

  After they carry D off the ice, I don’t know how long I stay seated on the hard, living room floor sending texts to D to see if he’s okay, before I pass out in exhaustion right on the spot.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wolfe

  When I come hobbling into EliteCare on my crutches for my evaluation and rehab session, it’s the first time I’ve seen Pippa since the wedding. She’s a goddess even in scrubs with her hair pulled up in a messy bun. I have to remind myself to breathe.

  There were several missed texts from her before I could get to my phone after they carried me off the ice at the American Airlines Center.

  Heaven: Are you okay?

  Heaven: Please let me know if you’re okay.

  Heaven: Have they given you a diagnosis yet?

  Heaven: D, tell me what’s going on?

  With the last one, I could almost see her standing there with her hand on her hip reprimanding me for not getting back to her fast enough and for being foolish enough to strain a groin muscle. I smiled to myself imagining her lecture to me about all the proper ways to stretch and warm-up to avoid the injury. But my smile quickly faded when the whistle blew and we lost to the Stars 1-0.

  I managed to get off a short text to her in between the prodding, poking, and x-rays.

  Me: I’m fine but the game is fucked. I’ll see you on Monday.

  Now, as I settle into a chair in the reception area, I can see Pip standing in the hallway at her office door having an animated discussion with another doctor. Every once in a while, when the music being piped into the waiting room goes into a softer refrain, I catch a few words.

  “Sorry, kiddo. This one’s all yours. I’m swamped.”

  “But I can’t,” Pippa protests.

  “Sure, you can. It’s a Grade two strain. It’s already been…” The music picks up again. I can’t hear the rest of Dr. Joe’s sentence. But I see Pippa shaking her head.

  They’re obviously discussing who is going to work with me and by the dread on her face, I’m guessing Pip has drawn the short straw.

  “I don’t get it. Most women and some guys would give a week’s salary to get to work on Damon Wolfe’s adductor muscles.” Dr. Joe chuckles. But Pippa isn’t smiling.

  The dread has morphed to sheer revulsion when I catch part of her answer. “…all theirs, but I, on the other hand, am trying to stay away from all hockey players’ adductor longus muscles. If you…

  Dr. Joe lets out a big laugh at Pippa’s statement. “Sorry, again, kiddo. But you’re in the wrong profession if you don’t want to work on hockey players’ thighs.”

  Thankfully there’s no one else in the waiting room at the moment to hear his comment. But when Pippa realizes their conversation is a little louder than is appropriate she glances down the hall. When her gaze lands on me, her face turns rosy red.

  I wiggle my fingers to wave hello and shrug my shoulders at the awkward situation. She stomps into her office and slams the door without returning the wave. But a second later the phone buzzes on the front desk. Carmen, the receptionist, lets me know a PTA will be right with me. I’m sure it was Pippa calling her, sending the PTA to get me. It gives Pip a few more minutes to avoid seeing me.

  “Hi, Wolfe. You’re in room four today. Let me help you,” the PTA enters the room and offers her assistance to help me up. “Look at you. What did you do to yourself?” the overly friendly PTA asks.

  “I got it,” I grab my crutches and hoist myself up ignoring her hand. “I had a little mishap in the last game. Nothing serious.”

  “Bet you could use another massage,” she whispers and gives me a wink. Another massage? Do I know her? What did Carmen say her name is? Nancy? Mandy?

  “My Jacuzzi tub is up and running again and I just got a whole new supply of essential oils,” she continues to whisper while escorting me into room four. “And honey,” she adds, wiggling her brows up and down. Honey? Oooohh. Yeah. I remember the oils and honey.

  “Thanks, Sandy. I’ll take it from here.” Pippa enters the room behind us as the PTA, whose name apparently is Sandy, helps me up onto the examination table. Hopefully, Pip didn’t hear Sandy’s offer. I don’t want her to think I initiated it or that I’m interested.

  “Okay. See ya later, Mr. Wolfe,” Sandy says in a more professional tone. But when she adds, “Call me if you need anything. Anything at all,” I’m not sure if she’s talking to Pip or me.

  “That’s it for now, Sandy. Thanks, and close the door on your way out,” Pip instructs her.

  When the door closes, Pip stands in front of me with her hands in her pockets, her iPad tucked under her arm. We both stare at each other for a moment. I’m not sure what to say; how to tell her everything I want her to know.

  She’s the first to break the silence, blowing out a big breath. “Nice to see nothing keeps the infamous Damon Wolfe down. Not even a strained groin.” She slides the iPad from under her arm and begins tapping the
screen.

  Damn. I don’t want her to think I’m interested in Mandy. “No. Pip. I wasn’t…”

  “It’s fine.” She stops me from explaining. “I’m happy you feel well enough to…to…date. I just need to ask you some questions before we do the physical evaluation.” She’s happy I’m well enough to date? Doesn’t sound like a woman who’s wallowing in heartbreak. “I already have your personal information since you’ve been here before and we keep all the Winds’ players info on file. So, let’s get right to the injury and how it occurred.”

  “I thought you saw how it occurred. I got all your texts the second I hit the locker room.” And you seemed way more concerned than you’re pretending to be now.

  “I did see it happen. We were watching the game from home. But I need to hear it in your own words for the records.” We were watching? Who the fuck is we? She couldn’t have been watching with the douche. He never got into the sport. Fucking loser.

  “Sorry I didn’t answer your texts right away. They were diagnosing the injury. I couldn’t get to my phone.”

  “No problem. Sorry about all the crazy texts. I had a little too much wine and…well, you know how silly I get when I’ve had too much to drink.” Shit. She was drinking with Jackoff. Yeah. I know all too well what you’re capable of doing when you’ve been drinking.

  “I…uh…I don’t even know Mandy. I mean, I didn’t remember her.” But now that she reminded me, I remember the interesting things she can do with oil and honey.

  What in the hell am I doing? Pull yourself together, dude. This is Pippa. You practically grew up together. Why are you talking about Mandy? Say something meaningful.

  She shakes her head and gives me a strained smile. “Sandy.”

  “What?”

  “Her name is Sandy. I see some things never change. Let’s get back to your evaluation, shall we?” She forces another smile. Somehow, I’d feel better if she slapped me or yelled at me or didn’t speak to me at all. This creepy smiling thing seems…well…creepy and indifferent.

  “Things change. I’ve changed. Have dinner with me tonight. I’ll show you how much I’ve changed.” I reach out to touch her, but she moves away from the examination table and pretends she didn’t notice.

  “Sorry.” Her apology has an underlying you-pathetic-chump-not-a-chance-in-hell-am-I- having-dinner-with-you tone. “I’d love to, but I’m super busy with schoolwork and clinic notes I have to catch up on.” She doesn’t look at me when she blows me off, just keeps punching things into her iPad.

  “You have to eat, Pip. How about I bring takeout to your place?” If she wants me to beg, I can do begging. “You can take a few minutes to eat and get right back to your work.” I may be sounding a little too needy because I am. I need her.

  And then it hits me as if someone smacked me in the forehead. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Batt was in the room. The smug ass was right. I’m in love with Pippa. Completely. Totally. Inexplicably. It’s not just her body—although I definitely want that knockout body. I want all of her in my life: her smile, her wit, her sass, her strength, her vulnerability, her compassion. I miss her the second we’re not together. I want to be with her all the time. She’s everything I thought I’d never have, everything I thought I never wanted.

  There it is. I don’t know how it happened, how Pip became the center of my universe. Maybe I fell in love with her a little the first time she blew my mind with her storybook princess looks. Or the first time she challenged me to a competition and beat my ass at whatever it was. Or the first time she smiled up at me with those sparkling eyes. Or maybe it’s everything about her rolled up into one beautiful little package. She’s crept inside my heart and soul and melted all the icy vows to stay away from emotions, attachments…love. I belong with her and to her, totally, completely. And she belongs with me. Why didn’t I realize it before now?

  “That’s sweet but I can’t. Thanks, though.” Pip’s further rejection bursts my love bubble.

  She’s treating me like you treat the people you’re trying to let down gently. You know, the clingy, stalkerish types you’re not the least bit interested in, but you’re trying not to be a total dick, so you shoo them away with a nice thank you.

  No way. This is me. She can’t fool me with her façade. I saw the panic and fear on her face when she was trying to talk Dr. Joe into treating me. And I saw the anger and mistrust in her eyes when her glare landed on me in the waiting room. She’s far from uninterested. If she didn’t care about me, she wouldn’t…care.

  But I’m so fucked. I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with the girl I’ve done everything in my power to convince never to love me.

  I’m going to treat this as another challenge between us. Game on. I’m going to show her how I feel. Show her what I want, what she wants, and how spectacular we can be together. I’ve never been a quitter. But this time, we both win.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Heaven

  You know the Dolly Parton song, Here You Come Again? Sure you do. Everyone does. Once you hear it, the tune is on autorepeat in your head for a week. Think about the lyrics. Can you hear them? Well, that’s what it’s like every time I see D. Every. Damn. Time. I have to stop it. I have to stifle the racing beat in my heart and vagina whenever he’s in the same room as me.

  I’m a strong, powerful woman in control of my own destiny. I’m a strong, powerful…I’m a professional. I can do this. I will do this. I can treat Damon Wolfe for a groin strain. I can check his range of motion, stretch his adductors, and do an ice massage on his inner thigh without the slightest flutter of my ovaries. I can.

  I absolutely, positively will not succumb to his gorgeous face, sigh-worthy body, and mind stupefying smile. I can’t play this game with him anymore. I may be a strong woman, but my heart is a stupid, weak fool. I won’t let D crush it ever again. My brain is in control from now on.

  “Let’s do some passive motion tests. Lie back on the table, please. Let me know if and when the movements cause pain,” I instruct D in my most professorial tone.

  “I feel pain,” he states.

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “I feel pain because you won’t have dinner with me.” He gives me the half grin which he knows causes every panty in the area to moisten. But since mine are the only panties in the immediate vicinity, and I am now immune to Wolfe and his fever-inducing tricks, my panties will not be affected by his charms today or ever.

  “As your therapist, I would be going against my own recommendations for recovery if I were to allow you to go to dinner. Initially, you’re going to need to rest and keep ice on this,” I continue to instruct him while I begin the tests. “Then we can begin with a few simple exercises. We should be able to get you back in the game in a few weeks, maybe less if you follow all my instructions.”

  “I definitely want to get back in the game. I’ll do whatever you say, listen to every command,” he says in a stupid seductive tone while touching my hand, the hand I’m using to hold up his bent leg.

  I apologize to all the health gods, Hippocrates, and whoever else we doctors are supposed to recite vows to for what I do next. Sorry, but I can’t seem to help it when the range of motion test I’m doing on D goes slightly beyond passive causing him to let out a pained yelp. After all, I’m still only an intern. I haven’t honed my gentle touch skills yet. Right?

  “Oh. Did that one hurt?” I coo in pretend empathy.

  Okay. I’ll admit there may be a slight conflict of interests here and maybe I shouldn’t be treating my arrogant, pain in the ass, HAF ex-friend. But I promise I would never do anything which would increase his injury. And I am very good at keeping promises—unlike someone else in this room.

  “Ow. Fuck yes, it hurt. Can you take it easy?” D whines.

  “Of course. I would never want to do anything to hurt you.”

  “Listen, Pip. I—”

  “Let me get an ice pack. Stay there. I’ll be right back,” I interrupt hi
m and slam the door behind me.

  Leaning back against the door, I take a few deep breaths. Be still my beating vagina. This is ridiculous. Why do I still want him? He’s conceited, cocky, a repulsive womanizer and…we’ve been friends for years. I can’t treat him like a stranger forever. I should tell him the truth but let him know nothing sexual is ever going to happen between us…uh…again.

  I’m a strong, powerful…blah, blah, blah. I’m not so strong and powerful. I’m scared to death to feel everything I’m still feeling for D. Get out of your vagina. Right. Time to practice some good, strong psychic self-defense.

  What was I doing? Oh. Right. Ice pack.

  ***

  “I’m back. How we doing?” I ask D in a rehearsed, cheery, health provider voice as I reenter the treatment room. He’s still lying on his back, one arm draped across his eyes, the other hand applying pressure to his inner thigh.

  “I don’t know how you’re doing, but I’m hurting like a bitch,” he grits out from under his arm.

  “The ice will help. Let’s get your…um…those…” Oh. My. God. I have to get his pants off. I should’ve had him do it before he laid down. They’re sweatpants. He could have easily slid them off while he was standing. I should’ve had Sandy do it before she left the room. Now that he’s lying down he’s going to need assistance. Should I call Sandy in to help him? Brilliant, Heaven. That wouldn’t be awkward at all. Get someone in here just to slide his baggy sweatpants off. I bet he’d love it, though, if I did get Sandy to remove his pants. Damn. This is so unprofessional.

  “You still there?” D peeks out from under his arm and reminds me I’m supposed to be helping the injured patient lying on the table in pain. “I’m looking forward to any relief you can give me. This thing is really throbbing,” he groans.