Hot Stuff

by Kim Karr

  Coach Whitney eyed me with speculation. “Do you know where you are, Lucas?” he asked. He was starting the evaluation that I was sure Dallas would complete to determine the extent of my injuries.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow. “Yes, I’m mid-field, Coach.”

  Satisfied, he nodded, and then immediately turned his attention to Strawberry Fields. “Gillian,” he barked, “please explain to me what just happened?”

  Right there, I knew at the very least she was about to get her ass chewed out, but more than likely, regardless of what job she held, she was going to get fired on the spot.

  She opened her mouth to speak. “Da—”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” I blurted out. “It was mine.”

  This caused his head to dart in my direction, and I knew I was now the one about to get my ass chewed out. “Your fault? Care to explain to me, Quarterback, why the hell you would go barreling into a water cart? Are the drills we’re putting you through not challenging enough?”

  “Yes, sir, I mean no, sir.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Coach,” I corrected.

  His gaze grew fierce.

  So I shut the fuck up.

  “Jack,” Dallas said, “I’d like to take him to the training room for further evaluation.”

  “Do you think that’s necessary?” Coach asked Dallas.

  I started to argue, but Coach put his hand up silencing me, and gave his full attention to Dallas.

  “Yes, I do.” Dallas’s response was matter-of-fact. There was no hesitation or waiver in his voice.

  Strawberry Fields, or Gillian, I guessed was her name, handed me a bottle of water from that fucking cart. “Drink this,” she said twisting the cap off.

  Coach was shaking his head in disgust. “Fine,” he muttered. “Send him back out to the sidelines in an hour unless you find an issue, which if you do, I want to be notified about immediately.”

  Dallas nodded and motioned me toward the medical wagon.

  “I’ll be in to help as soon as I get the waters filled,” Strawberry Fields said to him, and it became obvious she was an athletic trainer in some capacity.

  My neck felt like it was stiffening by the minute, but I said nothing as I sat where Dallas insisted.

  The players weren’t staring though, and I was certain they were told to pay attention to their shit.

  Thank fuck.

  Still, the ridiculing would come, I was certain.

  Fuck me.

  Coach Whitney pointed his finger at me. “I want to see you in my office immediately following breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, Coach” I said, swallowing a lump in my throat.

  When he wheeled around to face Strawberry Fields, I caught sight of her face, and it was filled with concern.

  Our gazes held for a moment too long because Coach moved to his left a little to block my view. “Gillian,” he bit out.

  Unsure why I felt I had to see her, I shifted so I could get a glimpse of her face. She tried to speak, but he put a hand up, and instantly I could see her dejection.

  Gently, he lifted her dropped chin. “And you, you’ll join me before dinner, alone, in my room, and explain everything to me then. I don’t have time right now.”

  The strangest surge of adrenaline burned through my veins. It was a flame of jealousy I couldn’t control. Everything I’d heard about Coach Whitney was what a stand-up guy he was, but was he tapping Strawberry Fields?

  Then, she threw her arms around him and I almost went flying off the wagon until she said, “Yes, Daddy, I’ll be there. And I’m really sorry.”

  Daddy! Strawberry Fields was Coach Whitney’s daughter? She was Coach Whitney’s daughter!

  What the hell?

  I had just thrown myself under the bus for her, and she hadn’t even so much as tried to warn me that it wasn’t her head on the chopping block . . . it was mine.

  SIDELINED

  Lucas

  THIS WAS SERIOUS shit.

  During the previous offseason, the NFL had added a measure that would punish teams who failed to properly enforce the concussion protocols. Any violation could cost a team fines or even the forfeiture of future draft picks.

  For years nothing had worried me. I lived recklessly, fearlessly, taking each day as it came. Right now, though, I wasn’t sure I felt that invincible.

  The future, which hadn’t looked so bright since the day of the draft, suddenly didn’t seem so dim in comparison to what could happen in the next few minutes. If I were to be diagnosed with a concussion, it would be signing my camp death warrant. I’d be replaced as first-string quarterback faster than I could blink.

  What a humbling way to be knocked down a few pegs.

  The training room was empty, and I was glad for that.

  As soon as the tech moved the portable x-ray machine out of the room, Dallas closed the door. The report would go to the doctor, but Dallas had looked at the x-ray taken of my neck, and he was certain there wasn’t anything to worry about, at least when it came to any possible neck injury.

  “I don’t have a concussion,” I told him with insistence. “Like I said, I was just caught off guard. I should have been more on my toes.”

  He pointed to the table. “Shirt off and hop up. How about you let me determine the extent of your mishap?”

  Grimacing because it was apparently obvious I had been on the hunt, I did as he instructed.

  The muscles around my shoulder blades and just above them were starting to tighten, and that slightly worried me. I made light of it and told Dallas the pain was an ache from the way I landed, which more than likely it was.

  He raised a brow and told me to look up, to the right, to the left, and then down. This I did with a mild amount of discomfort, but I knew my range was slightly limited.

  During his exam, Dallas found a bump that was forming at the base of my skull just above my neck. “This is to be expected since a hard, blunt metal object practically bludgeoned you,” he said with complete seriousness.

  There was no way to describe the anger I was beginning to feel. For the past four years, on weekend afternoons, I ran around a field pursued by eleven men who wanted to hammer me, and what could end it all for me was a fucking water cart.

  A light knock sounded at the door before it slowly swung open. Strawberry Fields walked in, apprehension written all over her features. “Is everything okay?” she asked softly.

  Dallas looked back at her, a little more than concerned. “I’m not sure. I think I’m going to try a little electric stimulation to see if I can’t break up the spasms he seems to be having.”

  Suddenly she looked more than nervous, she looked terrified, and for some reason this pissed me off even more.

  Anger flashed in my eyes when her gaze met mine. It was misplaced. I knew this wasn’t her fault—it was mine.

  After all, I’d been the one unfocused.

  She moved gingerly around the edge of the table. Nervousness and uncertainty were evident in her body language, at least until Dallas put her to work. Then she moved in a manner that told me she knew what she was doing, which helped put me a little at ease.

  Together, they manipulated the tight area around my neck. When that didn’t work, they moved on to traction, which provided enough relief that Dallas was no longer furrowing his brow.

  I did the best I could to ignore Strawberry Fields, or perhaps I should refer to her as the Coach’s off-limits daughter, but it was hard. The way she smelled. The way her skin felt on mine. The way her breathing picked up infinitesimally as she stared at my chest when she thought I wasn’t looking.

  There were moments I had to close my eyes and block all the white noise out, which had the added benefit of helping me relax.

  Although Dallas couldn’t determine with certainty any definitive diagnosis of a concussion, something didn’t sit right with him. “I think we should call the team physician in,” he said.

  A pang of fear raced thr
ough me. “Please, Dallas, don’t do that. If you do that Coach will put me on watch. Today is only day one of training, and contract or not, you know not being at practice will keep me off the field come game time. And that will end my career before it starts.”

  Strawberry Fields handed me ibuprofen for the inflammation and ice for the swelling, and then cleared her throat to speak. “Lucas,” she said, and I swore my name on her lips made me shudder. “That isn’t necessarily the case.”

  After downing the pills, I stared at her.

  She was staring right back.

  That was when I drew my brows together in consternation and leaned toward her a bit. I was dying to hear what she had to say. Sure, I was being an ass, but come on, look what I had at stake. “Go on,” I said.

  She took a step back and went on. “He could give you a steroid injection. Dexamethasone is a fast acting, anti-inflammatory and will stop the spasms.”

  “I know what a steroid shot is,” I bit out. “And contrary to what you might think, I prefer to avoid putting chemicals in my body whenever possible.”

  “That is not at all what I was inferring,” she said in a husky voice that sent shivers down my spine. Her voice alone would have seduced me under any other circumstances.

  “I agree we should wait on any injections,” Dallas said, trying to ease the building tension in the room. “For now. Just remember it is an option and will get you on the field if need be. Let’s give it enough time to see if the ibuprofen and ice work, first. That could be all you need.”

  It’s not like I’d never practiced or played with pain, because I had. “Then you’ll give me until tomorrow before calling the team physician?” I asked him, or better put, pleaded with him. I would have got down on my knees and begged if I thought it would have worked.

  Thankfully, he nodded. “Come in here before you hit the field tomorrow. I’ll have one of the medical staff put you on the stationary bike or treadmill and monitor your cardiovascular activity to determine if there are any signs or symptoms we need to be concerned with.”

  Strawberry Fields moved closer again, but kept her gaze on Dallas. “I can meet him in here before breakfast, so it doesn’t interfere with his meeting with my father or his training schedule.”

  Surprise gripped me at the earnestness—and urgency—in her tone.

  Dallas arched a brow. “That’s pretty early, Gillian.”

  She smiled indulgently at him. “I know. It’s not a problem, and it’s the least I can do.”

  She had that right . . . didn’t she?

  There was another thought in the forefront of my mind, and it wasn’t very gentleman-like at all.

  But then she looked my way. “If that is okay with you?”

  Fighting the darkness that threatened to erupt within me, I was just about to tell her to go to hell when I caught her wide-eyed gaze. I took a moment to take her in. Her strawberry blond hair and that beautiful face with those striking eyes, and I couldn’t believe it, but that darkness was gone, and so was the only noise in my head.

  This was my fault.

  Not hers.

  Classic Lucas.

  Shit like what happened was my normal. Like always, I had been on the hunt. Looking for a challenge. Being reckless. Unsatisfied with what I had. Wanting more. Interested in what I shouldn’t be interested in.

  If hitting on a girl at NFL training camp bled all kinds of wrong, then going after the coach’s daughter screamed insanity. And yet I wasn’t exactly ruling it out when I looked at her and said, “That would be great. I really appreciate it. I’ll meet you down here in the morning.”

  So yeah, she had it all wrong. She didn’t owe me anything. In fact, she’d be smart to stay the hell away from me. I was the devil wearing a Bears jersey. She just didn’t know it. Not yet, anyway.

  No worries . . . she would.

  A HAIL MARY

  Gillian

  IT WAS A bad idea.

  No, he was the bad idea, but there was little I could do now except go.

  My breath hiccupped, and as I reached for my phone to turn my alarm off, I once again recalled every second of the conversation I’d had with my father last night.

  Lucas Carrington was the player I’d run over. I still cringed just thinking about it. The only thing making it worse was finding out who he was.

  This insanely hot, flirty, bold player with a brooding side was my father’s golden egg. The quarterback he’d eyed long ago, watched countless interviews with, and in the end decided he wasn’t worth the risk, but then at the last minute dire circumstances caused him to change his mind. He’d decided to draft Lucas because he said it was fated. That losing his quarterback the very day of the draft was some kind of sign he couldn’t ignore.

  The truth was Lucas Carrington was my father’s Hail Mary.

  And the crazy part was it wasn’t like my father didn’t know what he was getting into. He did. He knew that Lucas wanted to get the hell out of Chicago, that he had attitude issues, and that he had yet to learn the meaning of having real respect for his team.

  And so it turned out, my father ignored all the warning signs that screamed pass, and instead picked up this Notre Dame elite player because he saw something in him.

  With a sigh, I sat on the edge of my small bed and placed my feet on the linoleum floor. That was my father for you. He saw something in someone and stopped at nothing to bring that person to his or her potential.

  In Lucas’s case, though, I worried that not only was he more than he could handle but this time his expectations might have been unrealistic. Perhaps he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

  Shoving my phone in my bag, I stood and hurried to the dresser that was mere feet from my bed. The room I stayed in was small, but at least I didn’t have a roommate. Then again, it wasn’t as if I ever did when I was here. There were never girls my age around to share a room with.

  That hadn’t changed.

  I’d been awake for hours and had already showered and dressed before I’d laid back down to wait for the time to pass.

  For some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about Lucas and the strange attraction I felt toward him.

  This was the first time I’d ever thought about one of my father’s players that way, and I couldn’t stop thinking. Thinking about what would happen between us if I weren’t an intern, or if I wasn’t the coach’s daughter? Would he kiss me, run his rough hands over my body, or maybe more?

  Would he still . . . even though he shouldn’t?

  Would I let him, knowing he shouldn’t?

  My mind had become a flurry of upheaval and I had yet to comb through the mess.

  Forcing a last-minute glance at myself, I looked in the mirror and winced. My face showed evidence of my early rising. There were dark circles under my eyes that no amount of makeup could hide and my hair had refused to do anything I wanted it to, so it went into a braid.

  No more time to fret. It was time to go.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled my braid over my shoulder and hurriedly left my room. I was on the fourth floor of Chapman Hall, and my father stayed across the hall from me. Technically speaking, he had a number of rooms—one he used as a living space, one as an office, one as a viewing room, and the other as his bedroom. Still, I didn’t want to run into him.

  The rest of the staff occupied the fifth and six floors, and the players were spread out across the top three floors. Last year we were split among dorms, some of which didn’t have air conditioning. This year we’d been relocated to the newest and largest dorm. And not only did it accommodate all of us, it also had air conditioning.

  Downstairs at the door, I closed my eyes. I could do this. I knew how to take care of injuries like his. I was more than qualified. And yet, I had a sinking sensation in my belly that I couldn’t expel.

  Once I pushed the door open, I had to squint against the wash of the early morning summer sun and then I finally ventured out.

  Olivet’s grounds were beautifu
lly landscaped. The sidewalk paths wound their way around the buildings, which were nestled into the trees.

  The team practiced on the four grass fields at the very east end. They also used the fitness facilities and meeting rooms in the Douglas E. Perry Student Recreation Center, which was located on the Northeastern side of campus directly across from the practice fields.

  I wasn’t in a hurry.

  Yet I walked as fast as I could across the grounds.

  When I found myself inside the large brick building and heading down the hall to the training room, my palms began to sweat. After I wiped them on my gym shorts, I unlocked the door and scolded myself for being nervous.

  I could do this.

  I could absolutely be in the same room as a hot guy with ripped abs, sinewy muscles, and broad shoulders.

  I’d been around men like him my entire life.

  So why was he different?

  It was dark inside the room, no one was here yet, and I took a moment to breathe deep before flicking on the lights and then emptying my bag.

  This room was about half the size of the Bear’s Training Room in Chicago, but it was still state-of-the-art. Remodeled a few years ago, it had been designed with the Bears’ needs in mind.

  “Hey,” a deep voice said. “I’m reporting for duty as ordered.”

  I jumped, turning to see Lucas in the doorway.

  His blue gaze practically drank me in and instantly I felt my nipples harden. I was wearing a tank top and feared their protrusion was more than evident. It was just so hard not to notice how gorgeous he was. Even in his grungy state, there was so much raw power emanating from him. Unshaved, and his hair a sexy mess, he wore sweatpants and a Bears T-shirt. A duffle hung from his shoulder in a lopsided way, and it was the first thing I noticed about his condition.

  Something about it wasn’t right, and I snapped right back into work mode.

  “Good morning,” I said. “How do you feel today?”

  He dropped his duffle to the ground. “Terrific.”