by Violet Paige
I poured a glass of wine and turned on the TV. Other than yesterday, this was the first time I was making it a point to watch an AFA game. It was weird. I felt kind of nervous, even though he wasn’t playing. I felt the butterflies lift off when I saw the camera pan to him on the sideline. Damn it. He wasn’t wearing his sling. What the hell? I knew I wasn’t his doctor anymore, but I explicitly explained he had to wear it at all times if he wanted to heal those bones.
I was startled when I saw a beautiful brunette sidle up to him and shove a microphone in his face. She looked like a super model.
“I’m talking with Wes Blakefield, Wranglers star quarterback. Wes, we’ve heard some things about your hand. Can you clear up the rumors that you won’t be playing in the play off games?”
He flashed a gorgeous smile at her and I felt a pit of anger. Was he flirting with the sports reporter?
“Hey, Becky.”
She smiled. “What do you want to tell Wranglers fans?”
“As you can see, no cast, no sling. I’m just taking an extra week for precautionary measures. Wranglers fans don’t need to worry.” He rubbed the side of his sculpted jaw. “Easy sprain to recover from, and I have the best doctor looking after me.”
I eyed him through my TV screen. Easy sprain my ass—I had kicked butt on his surgery. There was nothing easy about putting someone’s hand back together.
“What do you think about Cosech starting tonight?” she asked.
“He’s been working through the drills and running these plays all season. He’s ready. And I’m really happy he gets a Monday night start.”
I rolled my eyes. I knew none of that was true. Wes was pissed the other guy was on the field instead of him, but at the same time, I was amazed at how convincing he could be. Becky sure seemed to believe him.
“Thanks for taking a minute for me, Wes.”
“Anything for you, Becky.” He tapped her on the back before turning toward his team’s bench.
I knew I was shooting daggers at my television screen, and I didn’t care. Professional flirt didn’t even begin to cover what he was. I settled onto the couch to watch the game. The first quarter was about to start.
13
Wes
That damn Becky Haley had to ask about my hand. I hoped without the sling it would look normal. As if the team had intentionally started Cosech to rest me up for the bigger, more important games coming up after the bye week. At least she didn’t ask for details on the sprain.
I grabbed a set of headphones and listened in to the plays coming in from the offensive coordinator in the booth at the top of the stadium. I couldn’t see Ross from down here, but I knew he had eagle eyes on the field. He was plotting the Warriors’ defense before they were.
I heard the play call and groaned. They had to change things to match Cosech’s abilities. He didn’t have the arm I had, but running every damn play wasn’t going to work. I watched as the quarterback handed the ball off to Persons and watched the running back get tackled before he even crossed the line of scrimmage. Fuck.
There were enough Warriors fans in the stadium to jeer at us. I looked up at the booth, knowing Ross was scrambling for another play. He called in another run, this time to the right.
Again, the Warriors read the call and Persons barely made it two yards. It was third down and I could feel it. We were going nowhere on this drive. But I kept my mouth shut. Cameras were on me. Fans were watching me. I had to act as if this was all part of our offensive plan to upend the Warriors’ defense. I tried to relax my shoulders and flatten the furrow on my brow, but I was fucking pissed. We blew the last play and had to punt.
Cosech ran off the field and over to where I was standing.
“That sucked,” he breathed.
“Yeah, they read your every play.”
“What do you think I should do?” he asked.
The guy was a second year quarterback. No one every expected him to play. He barely got a touch on the ball in practice. This week was his first foray into our routes, our plays, our calls. I felt sorry for the kid.
“Look,” I slung an arm around his shoulder. “They can read your eyes. You’re not looking downfield like you’re going to pass it. You look right at Persons the whole time.” I sighed. “You’ve got to keep your eyes moving constantly. Keep them guessing. They won’t know if you’re going to throw short, long, or hand it off.”
He nodded. “I’ll try it.”
I knocked him on the back. “Don’t try it. Fucking do it,” I snapped at him.
I couldn’t believe this. Our entire season I had won games. We had won, and now this moron was on the field. We had to get through tonight and in two weeks, I’d be back.
I looked at my right hand. It hurt, and I knew it wasn’t anywhere near capable of throwing a pass, let alone picking up a football. I was going to have to have help.
I sat on the table, waiting for Dr. Jones. I knew that wasn’t his real name. He’d never tell me, or anyone, what it actually was. And I wasn’t going to ask. That was how this worked.
A nurse came in with a tray of syringes and placed them on a table next to me.
“The doctor will be in any minute.” She smiled, then left.
I wasn’t the kind of man to hesitate or second guess my decisions. This had to be done. It was the only way. The point in life was to win. It was to be stronger and better than everyone else.
My dad beat that philosophy into me. I had every trophy to prove it. Every title. Every recognition, except the Super Bowl.
I waited for Dr. Jones. The man who entered the room had a pointy nose and gray hair just above his ears.
“Eric?”
I nodded. “That’s right.” We all used aliases when it came to this kind of medicine. But we both knew he would recognize me from a hundred feet away. I was the most recognizable quarterback in the country.
But there would be no paper trail for Wes Blakefield. I’d signed everything as Eric Hawkins. Eric Hawkins was the man getting gel injections to fuse his bones together. Eric Hawkins was getting as many doses of HGH as a man his size could tolerate.
“This will be simple.” Dr. Jones picked up one of the syringes from the tray. “First, I’ll numb the area with an anesthetic.”
I nodded, appreciative there would be some pain relief involved. My hand hadn’t stopped hurting all week.
“Next, I’ll insert the gel with a larger needle. I’ll use the ultrasound camera to guide the needle between the bones.” He pointed to the suspension system hanging overhead. I looked up to see a lens pointed at my hand.
“All right.”
“Once the gel has penetrated the area, I’ll start with the first round of HGH. We’ll begin a regimen at a high dosage, and I’ll show you how to administer the rest at home.”
It sounded standard and practical. It sounded exactly like what I should have done the instant the linebacker crunched my hand. But then I thought of Lennon. And how I wouldn’t have met her. How I wouldn’t be in whatever I was in with her if I didn’t end up in her OR.
“Go for it. I’m ready to get this hand back together.”
“Just lie back. Try to relax and we’ll begin.” Dr. Jones certainly didn’t have the same bedside manner as my surgeon. I closed my eyes and pictured her hair falling around my face. I tried to block out the stabbing needles poking through broken bones. I focused on her breath in my ear. The sounds she made when she clenched around my cock. God, she was everything I needed.
An hour later, Dr. Jones squeezed my shoulder. “I’m finished.”
I opened my eyes. “That’s it?”
He nodded, handing me an opaque white bag. “You have two weeks worth of syringes inside. They are pre-measured. I still think you’re rushing it a little if you expect to play in two weeks, but it’s possible.”
“That’s all I need to hear.” I hopped off the table. “Thanks, Doc.”
“I guess we don’t need to say anything else?”
I shook my head. “No. Everything is understood.” His career was as much at stake as was mine. One whiff of this and I’d be out of the league, and he’d lose every client he had, as well as his medical license.
I left his office, my hand numb, but my mind optimistic the Wranglers were back in contention for the Super Bowl.
14
Lennon
Twelve-hour shifts were long, but they felt like an eternity when I knew Wes was waiting for me on the other end. I scooted out of the hospital before one of the nurses could catch me and drag me back in to check on a patient. My pager was on. I was available for an emergency, I told myself.
I had enough time to peel off my scrubs, shower, and make it to Wes’s for dinner if I drove quickly and took a shortcut through the city.
For the first time since I had moved to San Antonio, I was kicking myself for not shopping. I’d worn the only sexy thing I had in my closet Saturday night. Other than jeans and a dozen tank tops, I was out of fashionable clothes. This man was used to going out with super models and cheerleaders. Every woman I had seen on his arm was paid to look amazing. Me, I was a surgeon. My fashion consisted of scrubs and a wide variety of yoga pants.
I shuffled through the hangers in my closet, knowing nothing was going to make me happy. I wanted to stun him. Wow him. Seduce him with another gorgeous dress, but I couldn’t make those clothes magically appear. I settled on a pair of fitted jeans and a tank top that hugged my breasts.
I grabbed my keys and left for his place. This still felt unbelievable. We had another date. I never did anything on a Tuesday night.
He opened the door, grinning so wide my knees almost buckled. How could one man ooze sex appeal like that?
“Hey, Doc.”
“Hi.” Every part of my body told me to throw myself on him and jump in his arms, but I held back. Even if I knew I was hopeless, he didn’t have to know it.
I walked over the threshold, feeling happiness surge through me to be back here again. I hadn’t seen him since my rush to work yesterday morning, and I already missed him. Thirty-six hours was a reasonable amount of time to miss someone, right?
The door closed. “You look beautiful.”
I spun on my heels to face him. “I’m out of black dresses.”
He ran a finger along my shoulder. “I think you’re sexy in everything.”
I blushed. The lines were good. I ate them up. “Are we going out?” I asked. When Wes called, I didn’t hear much other than he wanted to see me tonight.
“Do you want to go out?” He let his finger slide from my shoulder along my collarbone.
I didn’t want to go anywhere. I wanted to kiss him and run my hands through his hair and feel his hard body pin mine to the table. I wanted his tongue and his hands and his cock.
“Yeah, let’s go out,” I answered. “Unless you think we shouldn’t.” I remembered wherever he went, he was photographed. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen with me, the non-super model.
“Why shouldn’t we? We both know the night’s going to end up the same way. We should eat.”
“And how is it going to end?” I challenged.
“With me buried deep inside you and you screaming my name while I fuck you so hard you think we’ll both ignite.”
Oh God. My legs wobbled. I couldn’t form words. I needed a witty retort. Something sarcastic and quick, but the image he painted played over and over. Maybe I wanted that instead of food.
He held the door open for me. “Ready?”
I nodded. He had stolen every word right from my mouth.
The restaurant served Tex-Mex and enormous margaritas. I licked the salt on the edge of the glass. Wes smiled at me.
“How was work today?” he asked.
I stifled a laugh.
“What?”
“It’s just such a normal question. You really want to know about what I did at the hospital today?”
“Sure. Tell me. Save a life?”
“As a matter of fact, I helped a man walk again.” The tequila tasted good. I dipped a chip in a bowl of queso. We were still looking over the menus.
“That’s fucking awesome.”
I looked around to see if anyone had heard him. Wes didn’t seem to care what language he used or where he was when he used it.
“Thanks. It was pretty awesome. What about your day?”
“Me? Not much. We have a bye week. That means no game on Sunday,” he explained. “And I can’t practice. I spent a few hours at the office, then hung out at the apartment. Not really comparable to helping a man walk again.”
My hand landed on his. “Don’t compare what I do to what you do. You’re basically a god in this city. No one cares if I stitch bones back together.”
“Until they’re the ones who need you.” He leaned closer. “And I sure as hell needed you.”
I felt a rush of adrenaline shoot down my spine. “You know people are staring at us.”
He nodded. “They always stare when I go out. And I guarantee our picture is already on every social media site.” He kissed me long and hard until I had to break away to breathe.
“What was that for?”
“If they’re going to take pictures, might as well give them something hot.” He winked at me.
My heart was still pounding, and he had awakened that deep ache between my legs. I took another sip of the cold margarita. I tried to be casual and not look around at the cell phones snapping pictures of us, or listen to the whispers at the table one over from ours.
“You really live like this?”
“Always have. Growing up in a small town and being the first quarterback to take the team to state, it started early.”
“And you don’t mind the invasion of privacy?”
“Comes with the territory. If this is the price of winning, I’m okay with that.”
I was stunned. I could think of lots of tradeoffs that would make this difficult.
“Why is winning so important to you, Wes?”
“Is there anything else?”
I folded my menu in half and placed it on the table. “I hope so.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to lecture me on the meaning of life and how there’s more to life than winning a game?”
“I don’t think I have to. You just told yourself.” The layers of ambition ran deeper in him than most men.
“This is what I do. I win. I compete. And I don’t let anything stand in my way. You should know that now.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, now before…”
“Before what? Before we go home tonight and you fuck me again like promised?” I was getting mad. I couldn’t help it. I was seeing his arrogant quarterback side. The side I had read about online.
“That’s not what I was going to say.” He lowered his voice. “I was talking about this. Us.”
“Oh. Us?” My tone softened. Was there an us? It had only been a few days since that night in his apartment.
“I guess I need to say something, Doc. Ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“I need to know you’re not seeing anyone else.”
“Me? You’re worried about me dating someone?” I almost laughed, but he looked dead serious and his green eyes were fixed on mine.
“Yeah, that’s not going to work for me.” He shook his head. “I need a straight answer.”
“And what about you?” I knew I had every right to ask this question, but I didn’t know I’d get the truth. This was the man who never saw the same woman two days in a row.
“Not since Saturday.”
I rolled my eyes. “Wow.”
He grabbed my hand. “Before Saturday doesn’t count. For either of us.” His gaze was deep. “I don’t want anyone else to have you.”
“I’m not property. You make it sound like you can own me.”
He traced the side of my cheek and my breath caught in the back of my throat. My body betrayed every word I said. I knew he owned me. He possessed my b
ody. I’d give it to him as many times as he asked. So why was I playing this game?
“We’re leaving.” He stood, pulling me up with him.
“But we haven’t even ordered,” I protested.
He threw a hundred dollar bill on the table to cover the drinks and chips.
“We can’t finish this conversation here.” He tugged me through the restaurant and into his car. He didn’t say another word as he whipped through the streets and parked in the garage under his building.
“Wes, what’s going on?”
He walked to my side of the car and helped me out, leading me to the elevators. He punched in the code for his penthouse and the silence filled the space as we rode to the top. So did the sexual tension. I could feel my body gravitating toward him. Needing him. Wanting him.
As soon as the door closed behind us, he shoved me against the door, his lips furiously covering mine. I couldn’t keep up as his hand worked under my top, squeezing my breast, twisting my nipple. He spun me around, my hands splayed against the door as he pulled the jeans over my ass and past my knees.
I was trembling and shaking, quivering with need. Whimpering as his hand slid between my legs.
“You don’t think I own you?” His finger curled inside me.
I closed my eyes. Oh God. I gripped him.
His breath was hot on my neck. “Tell me, Lennon. Tell me to take you. Tell me you want me inside you. Tell me you are mine. You belong to me.”
I panted as he dipped in and out of me. The passion built between my legs as he made me wetter with each perfect stroke, grazing my clit, then twisting inside my entrance. I could feel the control leaving my body as if he siphoned it from me.
“Tell me,” he growled against my ear.
“I’m yours. I’m fucking yours.” I sank on his hand. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t belong to anyone else,” I moaned.
He bit along my neck. I leaned into his chest as his fingers slid in and out of me.
