Brett

by Kylie Walker

  His leg was fucked.

  Well, not fucked as in the semblance of never being able to walk again, thank God, but fucked enough to put him out of the first half of the season I’d wager. I wasn’t a doctor, but I’d be willing to bet he’d torn his ACL – it was one of the few injuries that no star player ever wanted to be faced with.

  “What the hell happened?” Head coach Don Harper was all but wringing his hands. He’d been a hell of a lot calmer when I’d first met him the previous week. But that was understandable. Now he was facing a firestorm in the coming season.

  “Not his fault, coach.” A redhead with a southern twang piped up, his expression sober as he stared down at Brett’s leg. “Had a run in at a club Friday night. Literally.”

  “Yeah,” Brett took over from his teammate through clenched teeth, sitting up to look the coach in the eye. “Some drunk douche forgot to put the parking brake on his car. Equally drunk I wasn’t too keen on watching a bunch of people go splat against the side of the building.”

  I found myself oddly touched by this explanation. It was far too outlandish to be anything but the truth, but definitely went against the only impression of Brett Kinney that I had. In my mind, he was a young, careless womanizer that didn’t think twice about scooping up as many unwilling females as he possibly could. Seeing him now just reminded me that I could hold a grudge for a long, long time.

  …but I couldn’t lie and say it didn’t do other things to me as well.

  Don’t get me wrong – despite whatever feelings I had about Brett, there was no part of me that enjoyed seeing him laid up with his leg mangled. But seeing him in general? That was a treat.

  Five years had changed him.

  Though his dark hair was the same, falling shaggy around his shoulders, said shoulders were now massive – and the fact that the man wore nothing but a pair of tight practice shorts and a Rogues t-shirt only enhanced the fact. He’d be close to thirty now, I realized, and he absolutely looked the part. Where he’d been clean shaven five years ago, he now wore a closely trimmed beard that only served to enhance the gorgeous structure of his face; and he had acquired a bevy of artwork over his arms and chest.

  At least five or six tattoos made up a sleeve that encircled his entire right arm, while a series of other designs encircled his collarbone and pecs. The sight was enough to make my mouth dry, and though I had no business fantasizing about the man when his career was in the balance, I was damned if I could help it.

  He had touched me. Every part of me. Kissed my breasts and belly and savored the haven between my legs in a way that convinced me that there was a God – hallelujah. We’d known each other for one night and he’d been inside of me more times than I could count…and since then, it appeared he’d done pretty damn well for himself. Quarterback for one of the best teams in the biz…the sight of him was enough to make me hot in places I thought I’d forgotten, my career be damned.

  Even in his current condition.

  As the doctor examined him, dictating to me, I took notes mechanically. I listened with half a brain while the rest of me struggled to stay cognizant in the face of the man that Brett Kinney had become. Was he still a womanizer, I wondered? Racking them up? Breaking hearts left and right?

  Honestly, he was lucky he hadn’t broken his leg.

  The doctor’s assessment proved that he had, in fact, torn his ACL pretty badly. The news had the head coach going pale and some of Brett’s teammates shaking their heads sympathetically. Doctor Williams, who I’d learned in the three hours that I’d known him, was quick and efficient – but he wasn’t big on audiences.

  “Mr. Harper, I apologize, we need the room for a moment. I’ll be out to discuss Kinney’s condition with you in five minutes.”

  Harper didn’t like that. He glared at the doctor for a good minute before sauntering from the room, his foul mood obvious to everyone present. Reluctantly, the seven or so other members of the team filed out after him, each looking more worried than angry. I took a deep breath, looking from Williams to Brett and then back again. I was waiting for the prognosis as much as anyone else in the room, and when the doctor finally spoke to Brett, I was on pins and needles.

  “Mr. Kinney, I’m not going to sugarcoat anything: Your ACL looks pretty bad.” Brett said nothing, instead merely frowning down at his leg as if it had insulted his sister. “I’d say you’re going to be out at least a third of the season, maybe half – and you’ll need reconstructive surgery.”

  “Shit.” Now he cursed – though I had to give him that he’d waited this long to do it. “I can’t be out for half a season, Doc.”

  “You can and you will,” William replied curtly. His tone was professional, but not unsympathetic. “And it’s a small price to pay, honestly. Considering the lives you might have saved.”

  At that, Brett barked out a laugh. “I’m the stupidest hero I’ve ever run across.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t attempt any more heroics on a drunken night out, if you’re asking for my opinion.” Williams replied, before glancing down at the clipboard in his hand. “Now, I can get you in for surgery tomorrow morning with one of my guys – on top of his game. But you have to promise me you won’t push yourself through this recovery you could do permanent damage.”

  The quarterback’s dark brown eyes narrowed before he shifted on powerful arms.

  I swallowed thickly as Brett glowered for a long moment. When he spoke, it was with resigned irritation. “Fine.”

  How was it that the man could be suffering from a serious injury, laid out on an examination table, and I was still mooning over him? It had been five years – and not only that, the last time I’d seen the bastard, he played me for an idiot.

  And I was still struggling not to further injure him by hopping atop the exam table and riding him into the sunset.

  “I’d also thank you to get well acquainted with Erica here.” And then, all at once, the doctor was gesturing me forward and my face rapidly turned into a Macintosh apple. “She’s going to be your therapist when you’re recovered enough to start. She’ll report directly to me.” I was torn between sinking into the ground and pretending I didn’t exist and running for the hills. “You might not have met her yet, but the company that provides the dome with top recovery therapists hand-selected her. She seems to know her stuff.”

  It was obvious that Brett recognized me – though I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. There must have been a long string of girls since me and that I was memorable was almost enough to mend my wounded pride. Almost.

  “We’ve met.” Brett extended his hand for me to shake as my face went up in flames. When his fingers curled around mine, the contact sent a jolt of desire straight southward. It was his hand, for God’s sake, and I was soaked instantly. Though it was horrible of me, I thanked all the powers that be that the man wasn’t standing over me at the moment because the heat and nearness of him probably would have made me do something ridiculously stupid.

  “Have you?” As I jerked my hand from Brett’s grip, Williams looked between us in surprise before a small smile graced his face. “Wonderful. That will make the transition all the easier.” As he took down another note on the clipboard, he exhaled a long breath. “As long as you follow medical constructions, Kinney, we’ll have you up on your feet in no time.”

  I could tell by Brett’s expression that he wasn’t too reassured. “Look, doc, if I’m following your conditions, I have a few of my own.”

  Williams sighed, no doubt exasperated by the sheer volume of professional athletes he dealt with making demands on a day to day basis. “Alright, Kinney. Let’s hear them.”

  “If I’m going to need rehabilitation, I’d rather do it in my own home. I’ve got my own equipment there.” At the very notion, my eyes widened in horror. It was bad enough that I was going to have to work with Brett for the next six months, but in his home? I’d hoped the public atmosphere of the Dome – one of the most e
lite sports facilities on the west coast – would ensure that I never really had to be alone with the man. It would ensure that we never rehashed the events of years ago –if he even remembered them at all. In my experience, men tended to put very interesting spins on their memories. If you added that to Brett’s career path, I’m sure he thought he was some sort of God where women were involved. Most professional athletes did.

  “We’ll have to make an assessment of your equipment, but I don’t see why that should be a problem. As long as Erica is in agreement.”

  I was most certainly not in agreement, and it was on the tip of my tongue to say so – but then I realized that I would have to explain why. And I didn’t exactly relish the idea of having to explain to a doctor that I couldn’t act professionally because I’d bonked one of my patients in the not too distant pass.

  Right – maybe not the best idea.

  So, when he looked to me, instead of losing my cool, I nodded stiffly, wondering if this wasn’t the ninth circle of hell. I’d moved to Cali to improve my professional resume, to further my career, and, certainly, to have fun. I hadn’t imagined I’d be dealing with one of the only men to ever mar my pride.

  Life could be such a bitch.

  “Well that’s settled then. You’ll be up and about in no time, Kinney.” With that, Doctor Williams shook Brett’s hand before passing me the clipboard with his notes. No doubt he was steeling himself to speak to Don Harper, and I didn’t envy him one bit. But even though I didn’t want to be privy to that particular conversation, I was hot on the doctor’s heels on his way out.

  I’d be damned if I was caught alone with Brett Kinney before I was good and ready – and I certainly wasn’t ready now.

  “No.”

  Though I usually found Adele’s dramatic reactions to everything hilarious, that night, it just exasperated me more. I sipped on my third glass of white wine, hoping that a pleasant buzz would help me forget that, in a little under a week, I’d be spending three hours a day, four days a week, in the company of a man I’d be struggling not to throttle.

  Or fuck – let’s be honest.

  “Yes, Adele. Yes. Brett Kinney.”

  The blonde groaned, taking a sip of her own wine. We’d tried an agreement earlier that evening that we were just going to binge watch Netflix and NOT talk about men, but that hadn’t worked so well. Adele had pried about how pissed I was until I finally answered her. “You know he tried to call you a shit ton. After, you know, the party.”

  With a groan, I merely shot her a dirty look. It was long established that she was the one who had given Brett my number when he’d asked for it, which resulted in a two week string of me ignoring his calls and text messages until I finally broke down and blocked him. Even five years on, I can remember waking up to my text tone.

  Morning beautiful?

  How’s it going?

  I missed you leaving?

  Eventually, of course, the messages had changed tones.

  Did I do something wrong?

  Can we at least talk about it?

  Just take one call. Please.

  Nineteen-year-old me was vindictive as fuck, and twenty-four-year old me wasn’t much better. When I thought of the next six month with Brett, all I saw was him in the arms of the bleached blonde after we spend the night more intimate than I had ever been with any man.

  “Damn. I didn’t think it was possible for him to get any more gorgeous.”

  “Hey!” When I snapped from my reverie to catch Adele scrolling through pictures of Brett on her phone, I leapt at her, snatching the device away. “Aren’t you completely not interested in him?”

  “Completely.” Adele replied innocently. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t say he’s hot.”

  I sighed, shaking my head as I returned her phone and took up my wine glass once more. “Yeah. Too hot.”

  Despite how much he pissed me off, it’s hard for me to forget that Adele does have a point. She’s been infuriatingly good at being right for our entire lives and now isn’t terribly different. Brett has a body like a Greek God, and even when he’s laid up, I want to lick him from the top of his head all the way to his toes.

  Very graphically.

  The very thought made the tips of my breast harden in awareness as warmth shot to pool between my legs. Damnit. Damn him. “In all seriousness though, Erica,” Adele drew my attention back to her slightly flushed visage once more, “You can do this. If anyone can, you can. They picked you out of everyone in your company to make this move and take this position. Are you really going to let Brett Kinney get under your skin?”

  “Of course not!” The answer came before I could really think about it, and before I could backtrack to reconsider, Adele merely cracked a confident smile, shooting me a thumbs up. “That’s my girl.”

  “I thought I was your girl.” Jenny chose that moment to slink into the living room and pour herself a glass of wine before collapsing on the couch. Since high school and moving to LA, she’d gained a bit of weight – and curves that wouldn’t quit. Of course, all this was on display as none of us wore more than a t-shirt and panties. Evening comfort is crucial, after all.

  Adele laughed, sticking her tongue out at her. “You are. Right after Erica.” She winked at me and I found myself cracking a smile for the first time that evening.

  “Well fine then, be that way. I was going to offer to be your lesbian lover…”

  Adele scrunched her face up in incredulity. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You don’t even know where your own clit is.”

  Jenny flushed scarlet. Despite having a very healthy appetite when it came to men, at the ripe age of twenty four, she was still a virgin – and we liked to tease her about it. “Hey,” she defended herself, sitting up as she held her wine away from her body in preservation. “I probably know better than any man! I practice every day!”

  While I couldn’t dispute her methodologies, the words themselves took me back five long years to the one night I’d spent in Brett Kinney’s company. The night he’d reached between my legs and found my most sensitive spot with no issues whatsoever. He then proceeded to exploit said spot for the better part of half an hour with just his dexterous fingers, until my thighs were slick and I was trembling, on the point of unconsciousness.

  The mere memory was enough to make me shudder.

  Which let me know just how much trouble I was in for trying to rehabilitate Brett Kinney.

  Chapter 7

  BRETT

  I cannot tell a lie - surgery was a bitch.

  I’ve been injured before, but never so badly that I needed surgery – so to say I was pissed was an understatement. I was pissed the whole day up until the surgery. I was pissed going in and I was pretty sure I growled at the anesthesiologist as he was putting me under.

  When I woke up, I was still sedated to within an inch of my life, and so I remembered fuck all of any and everything I said.

  Of course, Colin and Zeke were glad to fill me in at my apartment, once I’d been discharged.

  “…so, Erica.”

  I lay in bed with my leg elevated, as per the doctors’ orders, craving the beers my friends were drinking. From what I’ve heard, alcohol and painkillers don’t mix, and I wasn’t quite that crazy. At Zeke’s words, my gaze snapped to him warily. “What about her?” We’d just been talking about the plays I wouldn’t be able to execute for the next six months before his abrupt change of subject.

  Zeke looked at Colin, as if he knew how to best proceed, before finally turning back to me. “Brett, man…you honestly have no idea what you said about her in the hospital?”

  Fuck. Was it that bad? The last time I’d seen her was five years ago, and I have to admit, the fact that she’d just walked out without a word fucked me up. The instantaneous connection between us was unique…and the sex…Christ, she was hot as fire.

  And the years had only been kind to her. Seeing her standing over the examination tabl
e at the stadium was like being hit by a bolt of lightning. She was still hot as hades, and not even the prim t-shirt and sweatpants she wore could take away from that. It was ridiculous as hell that I could be laid out like I was, struggling against the hard-on that threatened at the very mental image of her. “I assume you’re going to tell me.” I glared at each of my teammates in warning. I might be off my feet, but they knew who was in charge.

  Zeke sighed, running a hand through his auburn hair as he visibly mulled over the prospect. When he spoke, his words made my face burn. “July fourth party at your parents’ house a while back…something about a blue bikini and the sweetest body you ever tasted.”

  Colin snorted, swallowing his laughter, and I groaned. “So you know the new therapist a bit more intimately than the rest of us, I take it?”

  I covered my eyes with a hand, cursing my loose lips under anesthesia. “Fuck.”

  Zeke’s lips quirked upwards. “Yeah, there was a lot of talk about that too.” If possible, my face got redder than it already was. While I’d been with my fair share of women, I wasn’t usually the type to divulge all, so the idea that I had blabbed, even under the influence of drugs, was pretty fucking embarrassing.

  “I don’t want to know.” I groaned, shaking my head slowly, before Zeke cut me off swiftly.

  “Brett you’re fucking pining for this girl. What the hell happened?”

  Jesus, had it been that bad?

  I had moved on after Erica and my little interlude, hadn’t I? Sure. I’d pilfered her number from Adele and contacted her a few times, but when she blocked me, that was that. Alright, maybe not completely. Let’s say I’d been upset for a few days – a week or two – spent more than my fair share of hours wondering why the hell she walked away from me without a trace, but that was in the past. And so much shit had gone down since then that I was certain that Erica was a distant memory.

  Until she turned out to be my fucking recovery therapist. “It’s ancient history.” I grumbled, reaching for the glass of water on my bedside table.