Earning It

by Angela Quarles

  Pepper takes a deep breath. “Eamonn’s concussion concerns me. Especially since this is now his fourth.”

  Motherf—

  “Fourth?” Eamonn kept three concussions from us?

  “Yes. Oddly, he finally fessed up after all this time.”

  After my text. I’m not liking the slow burn of anger and betrayal sizzling through me. We’re supposed to be a team, and we’re supposed to be able to trust each other.

  That realization pulls me up short. Because I’m failing to trust Eamonn right now as a team member. “I’m sure Eamonn knows his limits and how far to push it.”

  But right as the words come out, I realize that yes, I know my limits. I trusted my SEAL team members to know theirs. But I can’t just transfer that trust straight to another group.

  A memory flashes of one of our deployments in the remote mountains of Afghanistan that the Taliban controlled. Dependence on the team is so ingrained as part of how we operate, that we’re always covering for the team member beside us, no matter how routine. We were ingressing on a lone airfield and its hangar, that intel said was abandoned, during the black of night. It hadn’t been abandoned, and I’m here because that time, like many others, another team member literally had my back.

  That trust was there because we held our team members’ lives in our hands. And while we’re looking out for each other’s safety and wellbeing here, the mindset and stakes are not the same. More importantly, they don’t think the same.

  Pepper jolts me back to the present. “Are you seriously trying to tell me how to do my job?”

  Fuck.

  See? That right there shows that, despite our attraction, we’re doomed.

  Pepper

  I push away the take-out salad and turn to the computer at my desk in the practice group. Just like at home, I’ve already put my decorative stamp on the office. Except here, I have soothing photographs interspersed with framed full-color posters of the musculature system, another of the major bones, as well as casts of knees, feet, and hands.

  I’m in between appointments, and I’ve finally gathered the last bit of detail to file my PPE to Mr. Langfield. My hunch about Eamonn was correct, and surprisingly, he opened up to me at practice.

  Four concussions is one too many. Some doctors will allow as many as seven over a lifetime before they take someone off a team’s roster, but with all the recent studies about the long-term effects of multiple concussions, I’m a bit of a hard ass. If I can prevent someone from becoming a vegetable, I will. And I’m not alone. Many more doctors feel like I do—our radars going off on four or five.

  I didn’t do the right thing once, and it nearly cost me everything. My parents, with their alternating bouts of silent judgment and passive aggressive comments, had driven me to excel ever since I could remember. Every science fair ribbon, every cheerleading trophy, every A, all of it, had been to earn their approval. I should have reported my injury before that championship, but I…I couldn’t face them. My insecurity, my anxiety clouded my judgment, and others suffered.

  I hadn’t quite connected the dots until the stress of med school and my residency. Increasingly, I found I had to keep shutting off my emotions in order to do my job well. Until I didn’t. I knew, I knew, my relationship with Phil wasn’t good for me, but I’d tenaciously held on. My emotions had gotten all twisted with him since he’d been the first guy I’d opened up to, been seriously intimate with, and fooled myself into thinking he saw me, and was with me for me.

  So when he’d been injured during practice and had asked me to write him a prescription, I’d trusted my feelings and emotions for him and did. I trusted him.

  Only to find out I was one of several doctors he had doing this. I was put on probation with a severe warning from my supervising physician.

  And I hate that that still didn’t end the relationship. I planned to, but I was also so scared about getting my board certification after that fiasco that I kept putting it off.

  I pull up the team’s files and fill out the last of the report. My finger hesitates over the Send button. Luke won’t be happy, but that doesn’t matter.

  I’m not too happy with him right now.

  Bottom line? I need to do the right thing. But the fact that I even contemplated otherwise tells me I still haven’t found the right balance—my emotions for Luke have compromised my integrity.

  I press down on the Send button and can’t help but think this spells the end to whatever Luke and I might have had.

  Luke

  It’s not one of my best ideas. Standing out in front of Pepper’s door. I’ve been vibrating on the edge of coming over here since the game and my injury, but the bodyguard detail kept me from following through. Now we have the report to tackle too.

  She answers, the door opening only partway. “What do you want, Luke?” The porch light is behind me and casts her partly in shadow. What little I can see of her kicks my heart into overdrive.

  “To talk.” To kiss you. To ask you, are we still…whatever it is we were to each other?

  She pulls in a deep breath. Her eyes tell me she’s gonna regret what she’s about to do but can’t help it. She opens the door wider and steps back.

  Breezing by without touching her about kills me, but keeping this visit professional is important. As much as I wish otherwise, this isn’t a social call. No, it’s now Mission: Report Persuasion. Eamonn was fuming at her report, saying it was his body, and was willing to sign a waiver. But Mr. Langfield was insistent—abide by her decision or no money. Which means bye-bye division playoffs. The team sent me to “get her to see reason.”

  I wanted to come here for me—to apologize for not telling her about my injury—but like a patsy, I’ve come for the team instead.

  The door shuts behind me with a soft click.

  “Luke. I’m tired.” She crosses her arms. “I had a long day with patients, and tomorrow’s a full schedule. Can we make this quick?”

  Her abruptness throws me off. And suddenly I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. If the team wants her to change her mind, then Conor, our captain, or Eamonn, the cock-thistle who put us in this situation, can come do the dirty work.

  And I get the feeling I’d punch either of them if they showed up right now to even ask it of her.

  Yeah, I’m still stung by that cock-thistle’s betrayal—and thank you Deadpool for giving me such a perfect word for him. The cock-thistle.

  I can’t do this. Not even for them. I turn and step to the door. I’m clasping the doorknob when she says, “I know why you’re here.”

  I glance back over my shoulder. “Why’s that?”

  “Eamonn. My report.” She shuffles over to her couch. When I step farther inside, she nods to the other end of the couch and settles in on one side, tucking her feet under her.

  Jesus, I can’t help but stare at that couch. Memories from our hot-as-sin sex there engulfs me. And lying on the armrest is the blue blanket, folded primly and reduced to nothing more than a decorative touch. Everything in me aches to be close enough to her to be under the trusting security of that blanket.

  I glance up, and her face is completely impassive, as if she’s not thinking about it too. And maybe she’s not.

  I guess I’m just a horny bastard, who stupidly believed we’d been inside each other’s personal bubble.

  I should apologize for fucking up at the game, but the words choke in my throat. I fall into the cushions on the opposite side of the couch and slouch into the corner, my elbow propped on the armrest with the blanket. I’ve fucked up with her, plain and simple. The old humiliation and shame from all of my father’s beatings grip that apology tight. What’s the point? I shouldn’t have fucked up in the first place.

  “Maybe you’ll still be able to find another player to replace Eamonn.”

  “For hurling?” I drop my head to the back of the couch, defeat robbing my voice of any heat. “Do you know how hard it was to recruit the fifteen we have? And we don’t want ho
bbyists. Going in, we all agreed to take this as seriously as if we were pro—our commitment to ourselves. Hurling’s rules are a bit complicated.”

  “How much more difficult is it for a goalie though?”

  I grind my teeth. “He still has to be smart and learn the rules so he can anticipate the possible moves against the goal. It’s not as simple as just slotting in some goalie from another sport. Besides, we don’t have time to bond this guy with the team, build trust, that kind of shit.”

  She sits back against the couch, closes her eyes, and says simply, “I’m sorry.”

  She shifts on the couch, and that small movement slightly shifts the air between us. The pull of our attraction is still there, but it’s weighted down by recent events. I have no idea if I can even wade through that weight and breathe life back into that attraction. I suspect I’m not enough.

  “How’s your knee?”

  Her voice is still in doctor mode, so I just answer with a curt, “Fine.”

  “I’ll work with you on some physical therapy we can do.”

  Now I feel like even more crap. She’s tired, upset with the team, and she’s still reaching out.

  I smile and lean back. “That’d be great. I’ve worked out some routines.” I open up and tell her my new regimen and the benchmarks I plan to make for recovery.

  She suggests some minor adjustments, and I’m feeling as if we’re wading back toward each other with our talk. I adjust my knee and wince.

  Of course she notices. “You’re still in pain?”

  “Yeah.” I’ve come to regret turning down the pain prescription the doctor at the ER had offered. I give her a grin. “You don’t happen to know a good doc who can write me a prescription, do you?”

  Instead of laughing at my lame attempt at a joke, Pepper goes rigid, and her face drains of all color.

  “You’re asking me to write you a prescription?”

  “No. I—”

  But she’s launched herself off the couch and rounds on me, fists on her hips. “First, you kept Eamonn’s concussions from me. I told myself you weren’t being so solicitous for the sake of the team—”

  At this, I lean forward. I resist standing because I don’t want to accidentally use my height and strength to intimidate her. “I didn’t know about Eamonn. Believe me, I’m pissed at him too.”

  But she keeps going. “—and now you’re plying me for drugs? Is that why you really came tonight?”

  What the—?

  An icy deluge of reality hits me as if a bucket of cold water has been poured over my head, and it leaves me shaking. I’m not some stereotypical trailer park punk, but apparently she still views me that way despite everything.

  “I was joking, Pepper,” I say with as much calm as I can manage.

  Chapter 15

  Pepper

  God, I have to get him out of here. Luke’s presence—taking up all the space he does with his emotions and hunkiness and all the unsolved mess wrapped up in potential—is like an unchecked item on my to-do list, and I don’t want it. I don’t have time for it. I don’t have the energy for it. Moving here is my chance to finally be the doctor I’ve worked so hard to become. The other doctors in the practice took a chance on hiring me fresh from my fellowship and with a probation looming over me, and how I handle this year will determine if I’ve made a case for myself—to expand their practice with me in that slot.

  And this fledgling-whatever-the-heck-it-is relationship jeopardizes that.

  If he leaves, that item will no longer be on my to-do list. Simple as that.

  I walk to the door. Fully aware of his stare on my back the whole time. I open the door, and a sharp intake of breath pierces the air behind me. And because I’m an adult, I turn and look him in the eye. There’s hurt there. But also a sort-of resignation I don’t want to examine.

  For a second, he remains on the couch, his eyes boring into me, his body tensed. Stubborn. And is it my imagination that his hand seems to caress the corner of the blue blanket?

  My throat thickens—I’m totally being the cold bitch that Phil always accused me of being. Well, so be it. That’s me. My relationship with Phil had messed with the delicate balance I’d achieved between my professional and personal life. And now with Luke? Who churns up way more emotions? No way.

  A part of me knows I’m being unfair, but I have to protect myself first.

  He uncoils to his full height, every movement measured and controlled. And he nods, his gaze never breaking from mine. Without a word, he walks by me, and I lean forward before I can catch myself and take a tiny sniff.

  Dammit. I’m not the kind of woman who sniffs at guys.

  The ice I siphon into me keeps me poised until he exits and the door snicks shut. Then a flash of heat and anguish rushes through me, melting that ice, that poise.

  I shuffle to the kitchen and hike up onto the stool. A flower vase with fresh asters from Publix sits in front of me.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Had I been expecting a protest? I twist the vase around and around in circles on its base.

  No.

  No. Shit. What’s bothering me is that I’d felt more for him than I realized, and it guts me that it’s over before it can really get going.

  I shove the vase away. All these tangled up emotions that I can’t sort also proves I’ve got no bandwidth for a relationship right now.

  Luke

  The CrossFit sessions have come and gone this evening, so I head to the nearby late-night gym. The pissed-off that’s roiling inside me needs purging, and swimming won’t cut it. Pepper’s accusations and calm dismissal have me all messed up, and I need to push myself. Yeah, the PT doesn’t want me running yet, but I can’t seem to care. When I reach the treadmill, I tilt that sucker up and set a punishing pace.

  In addition to the punishment for fucking up, maybe if I push myself to exhaustion, I can become numb again. Unfeeling.

  Funny. I craved being around her because she broke through the perpetual gray that cloaks me, but now I’m all feeling—like a live, exposed wire—and I want that numbness back.

  A gym rat climbs onto a machine next to me, sees my settings, and adjusts his to the same.

  Really?

  I chuff a laugh and up the ante without even glancing his way. It’s not at the level I normally do, but he can’t compete with even an injured me.

  And sure enough, after upping his to match my low-for-me setting, a desperately disguised wheezing reaches my ear, and his face turns red. He rolls off and limps to the locker room.

  Stupid fucker. Know your limits. I know mine, and I’d stupidly tried to reach for more with Pepper.

  Then I curse and hit the stop button. What the fuck am I doing on a fucking treadmill? I pride myself on knowing my limits and got butthurt because she didn’t trust me. But trust goes both ways. And this right here? Running on a treadmill with a torn meniscus puts the lie to my judgment.

  Pepper

  Tricia and I are ensconced at the bar of the Purple Chow having a quick lunch before we both have to head back to work. Of course, she’s noticed my mood. It’s been two days since I’ve seen Luke, and frankly, I’m not sure what to make of myself or the situation.

  Yes, I’ve looked back at our conversation and seen that I’d jumped to conclusions about his request for a scrip. I should have given him the benefit of the doubt. But the larger problem still remains.

  “Let me get this straight. You kicked him out of your house because you didn’t want to deal?”

  “Er, yes…” I did the right thing. I need this job to be permanent. I can’t afford to sacrifice my job for my personal life.

  I’m devastated about ending things with him, though. Both nights, I cried myself to sleep and woke up with swollen, grainy eyes. But I take a shower, drink my cup of tea, and stick to my new routine. Somehow I get through the day, although at first I worried about it affecting my decision-making abilities. I’ve operated on less sleep, though. I guess that’s what the gruel
ing hours of med school and residency train you for.

  She wipes her mouth. “And how do you feel about that decision now?”

  I push the last bit of soft taco to the edge of my plate. “I’m miserable.”

  “So you opted to forgo working things through with him to avoid emotion, and you haven’t avoided it.”

  I slump. “I thought I could just shove it away and get on with my career.”

  “What are you afraid of…really?” She puts down her fork with a clatter and faces me with her prosecutor stare. “I think you’re afraid of your own feelings.”

  I jerk at that. “No. You don’t get it. Whenever I let my feelings rule me, my career suffers.”

  “Is this about your cheerleading accident?”

  “Not fully, but it was a symptom of the problem.”

  “Catch me up here.”

  I blow out a breath. “Whenever I get caught up in emotions, my judgment gets impaired.”

  “Like not telling anyone about your injury.”

  “Exactly.” I slump with relief at not having to explain. Tricia knows what it was like for me in high school.

  “That was a long time ago, sweetie. You’ve matured.”

  I straighten. “No. It was the beginning of a pattern. There was this one time. During my fellowship…” I fill her in on the trouble I got into with writing a scrip for Phil because I’d been too wrapped up in our relationship. I should feel ashamed at not only having to share this black mark with my best friend, and what she must now think of me, but also because I did keep it from her, but honestly? I’m all tapped out right now. I’m kind of in fuck-it-all mode.

  “So when Luke asked you for a prescription…”

  “Yeah. I flipped.” And since I need to be honest, I correct her. “Technically, he didn’t ask. He only jokingly asked if I knew a good doctor who would write one. Trish…I just… He morphed into Phil right then, and I didn’t stop to evaluate. See, my judgment gets impaired when I’m emotional.”