by Lane Hart
“Yo, Kohen, you okay?” one of my teammates calls out. I’m not even sure who it is since I can’t seem to look away from the big, bright emerald eyes of the scheming woman in front of me. “Shit! Someone get the trainers,” the same person yells.
Roxanne was beautiful in the photo Coach showed us. In person, she’s…breathtakingly gorgeous. I’ve seen her type before, though, the stuck-up, high-maintenance diva that will make a man walk barefoot through glass shards scattered on hot coals to touch her, and then in bed turn out to be nothing more than a frigid bitch in a stunning package.
During my second year, straight out of a stellar rookie season and signing a three-year contract with more zeros than I had ever seen before, I fell into the trap hook, line and sinker for Lola Davis, one of the fresh-faced Lady Cats. That’s every man’s wet dream, right, to be with a professional cheerleader who’s not only incredibly flexible but has the stunning face of a Hollywood movie star? Lola turned out to be one helluva actress before I found out she was only working her way through the Wildcats’ roster to reel in the biggest fish she could find. As the team’s newest kicker, that certainly wasn’t me.
“Jesus, what happened?” the voice I recognize as Lathan’s asks, and then Roxanne and I are suddenly surrounded by a group of big ass, grumbling men.
Someone pulls Roxanne to her feet, out of my grasp and away from me. Then, like a school of fish, the entire group of men shifts with her, asking her if she’s hurt, does she need anything, pissing me off even more.
What the fuck?
“Is this what it looks like?” Lathan asks quietly, crouching down next to me, his gaze roaming from the busted windshield on the SUV to my bloody palms and the gravel still lodged in the skin of my knees and shins.
“Yeah, Tonya Harding the sequel,” I tell him with a sigh.
Finding my cell phone face down on the pavement, Lathan picks it up and studies it for a moment before offering it to me with a raised blond eyebrow. Once it’s in my hand, I see the photo of Roxanne on the screen and remember what I was doing when I got hit. Fuck.
“Are you hurt other than scrapes? Dave’s gone to get the trainer,” he says rather than comment on the phone discovery.
“Just bumps and bruises except for my left knee that got busted up,” I admit, slipping my phone into my shorts pocket. “I think I felt it pop.”
“Shit,” he grumbles, well aware that a knee injury could be season ending, if not career ending, depending on how bad it is. And my fucking contract is up at the end of the season. That means that however bad this shit is, I’ve got to get back on the field ASAP, or I’m out of a job, assuming Dane, my backup, can hack it. There’s no way in hell the blonde bombshell, who’s currently being eye-fucked by half the team, will be the starter. Sure, she’s pretty and a great pick to be the team’s feminist movement poster girl, but it takes more than a pretty face to nail a ball through the uprights under pressure.
“A little physical therapy and I’m sure I’ll be good as new,” I tell Lathan, hoping I’m right.
“What are they gonna do with her?” he asks, nodding to the new fan club.
“No clue.”
“What happened, Kohen?” Jon, one of the trainer’s asks as he kneels down next to me.
“She fucking hit me,” I tell him. “And something in my left knee snapped.”
“Goddamn it,” he grumbles as he gently prods my swollen knee with his fingers, making it hurt even worse. “How fucking fast was she going?”
“I dunno. Fast enough that my feet left the ground,” I answer honestly. It’s nice to have someone indignant on my behalf.
“Hey, Ben, why don’t you go pull the surveillance footage? I know Coach and Robert are gonna wanna see it,” he says to one of the security guards standing around us who nods and heads back inside. “Can you straighten your leg all the way out?” Jon asks me while untying my left shoe and removing it and my sock.
“That’s as low as it goes,” I tell him, gesturing to the slight incline.
“I’m gonna move your foot around, so tell me if this hurts or if it feels numb,” Jon says before pressing my toes back and then shifting them forward.
“That doesn’t make it worse,” I tell him.
“Good. We’ll need to get an x-ray to make sure there are no breaks in the bone and probably an ultrasound to check the blood flow and arteries, but the movement of your foot is a positive sign that it may only be a minor dislocation.”
I nod, biting my tongue to avoid asking him the burning question on my mind, when will I be able to play? Until all the tests are done, I knew he won’t be able to tell me shit.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Lane Hart lives in North Carolina with her husband, author D.B. West, their two daughters, a few lazy cats and a pair of rambunctious Pomeranians. When Lane's not writing she spends her free time relaxing at the beach while looking for sea turtles in the summer months and cheering on the Carolina Panthers in the fall.
Connect with Lane:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/WritingfromHart
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Website: http://www.lanehartbooks.com
Email: [email protected]
Find all of Lane’s books here on her Amazon author page!
