by K. Bromberg
But it’s his wince that pulls me from la-la land. It’s a simple motion, the lift of his arm behind his head, but I catch the grimace on his face. My eyes home in on his shoulder. On the vibration of his muscles as he shifts and adjusts to get comfortable and the mask now in place trying to pretend it didn’t hurt.
My training kicks in. Takes over. Throws that unwelcome pang of insta-lust I was momentarily mesmerized by out the window. I itch to put my hands on him so I can knead and stretch and try to give him relief from his nagging pain.
But right as I’m about to touch his shoulder, he shifts to look at me and asks, “Don’t you need music or something?”
My hands freeze as his words break through my concentration. They hit my ears, and my synapses fire for what feels like the first time since he stepped in here. Everything clicks into place. The hints that have been niggling in the back of my mind suddenly link together and make sense.
The throwback baller.
The All-American do-gooder.
And the notorious prankster.
How could I not have connected the dots earlier? That the man who is known in locker rooms around the country for pranking his teammates—like the ones he named moments ago, Tino and Drew—thinks they are pranking him. Getting him back for the legendary stunts he’s done to them.
And he thinks I’m in on it.
Velcro. Music. The ridiculous stage names.
Yep. He thinks I’m a stripper.
Or a hooker.
Lovely.
And while I should be insulted that he thinks I’m here because his buddies hired me to dance for him, at least our conversation makes some sense now.
Why does the thought relieve me? Because it redeems him? Not in the least. But maybe he’s not the asshole I pegged him to be. Maybe, just maybe, he was reacting to the situation he assumed and not to me.
But then again, he’s still lying down, still letting this play out, still letting me—the woman he thinks is here to strip for him—touch him.
And while I may have worked in enough clubhouses to know this prank is tame in the scheme of things, I also know there is no better way to get a prankster to take you seriously than to prank him right back. So, I make the split-second decision to ride this ruse out. I’ll play the part, and then when the time is right, I’ll tell him the truth. Perhaps his disappointment that I’m not a stripper will knock some of the cockiness from his smile.
When I meet his eyes again, I hold them just a touch too long, smile a little more seductively. “Do I want music? It’s your preference. Do you prefer that I . . . do it to music? Or would you rather we do a dry run first—see what feels good to you, what doesn’t, and then we can take it from there?” I don’t believe my voice has ever purred before, but right now I feel like I deserve the stage name Kitty.
Those thick lashes of his shock open at my sudden change in demeanor. He glances at me and then out of the training room’s windows to the empty locker room beyond. He must be wondering where Drew and Tino are, because no doubt they’d be standing by to watch their prank play out.
No dice, Hot Shot. The joke’s on you.
“There’s no one else here, Easton. Just you. And me.” I put my finger on his forehead and push so his head rests back. “And the little workout I’m about to give you.”
“A workout? Is that what you call it these days?” His chuckle says it all. So does the quick inhale of breath and the tensing of his muscles beneath my fingertips as I press on the skin atop his rotator cuff to feel for the presence of scar tissue. The first step to try and assess why it’s taking his arm so long to heal when it should be far past the wincing stage.
His skin is smooth. Hot. And there’s a zap of electricity—a hum of something—when our bodies connect in this most innocent of ways. It’s so unexpected and unlike anything I’ve ever felt before that I have to stop myself from pulling my hand away in reaction.
“I appreciate you pretending to know what you’re doing and all, but—”
“Oh, I know what I’m doing, no worries there,” I croon to stop his protest. “Let’s try this now. Does that hurt?” He resists when I try to lift his arm over his head. At least he has enough sense to question letting a stripper work on his million-dollar arm.
“No. It’s just . . . I don’t think you should—”
“I assure you I’m more than qualified.” There’s panic in his eyes, fear over how far this stripper is going to carry on the I’m-a-physical-therapist-routine. So I carry on. “A torn labrum isn’t anything to mess around with. Only a professional will know how to make it feel better. And rest assured, I’m a professional.”
“Handling me is one thing, Scout,” he says with a bit of bewilderment, “but my arm is a whole other matter.”
“You don’t trust me to fix it?” I walk my fingers up his biceps, and his Adam’s apple bobs in reaction as he debates what to do next.
“I highly doubt that’s what you’re here for.”
“No?” I feign innocence. “Then why don’t we get down to exactly what I’m here for?”
In a move I use daily to stretch my players, and before I lose the element of surprise, I hop onto the table so that my knees cage the sides of his hips.
“Wait. Whoa.” Easton’s face is the picture of surprise—eyes wide, mouth opening and closing, eyebrows arching.
“I’m ready if you are.” The purr is back as I lean forward so I’m on all fours with our torsos parallel and my eyes locked with his.
“Yes. No.” He blinks rapidly as if it will help him grasp the fact that what was all fun and games a minute ago is now very real. A part of me likes that he’s hesitant and not all grabby-hands and raring to go with some random woman. The other part of me wonders if I really were a stripper here on a prank, just how far would he let this ride out. “My rehabber—Doc. He’ll be here any minute.” He stutters out the protest.
“No, he won’t.”
“He won’t?” His voice rises in pitch.
“Nope.” I shake my head and lift my eyebrows.
“I knew it. I knew Drew and Tino were behind this.” He breathes out a laugh that’s part disbelief, part relief, but when he starts to sit up, I remain right where I am.
“Nope. Not a prank.” That stops him cold.
“What do you mean? You’re a . . .”
“A physical therapist,” I finish for him.
“That’s a good one. Cute. But I call bullshit.”
“Actually, it’s not.” I reach out with one hand, and just as I’m about to touch his shoulder, he yanks it out of my grasp. His hiss from the pain, the kneejerk reaction, is audible. “And you need me.”
His eyes bore into mine—gauging, judging, questioning—before that cocksure grin of his returns. “I’m sure a lot of other guys need you . . . Scout, is it? But I’m not one of them. I don’t need to pay to see some skin.”
“First, you’re not paying me, the club is. And second, I’m fully clothed.”
“Drop the act, sweetheart. The club’s not paying you shit. They’re paying Doc, and right now, he’s somewhere waiting for me, and I need to find him. So, time’s up. It was cute, you had me going for a bit, but it’s time for you to head out.”
I nod in mock resignation as I slowly climb off the table, but my eyes never leave his as I lean down close to his ear. “You get a pass today, just so you can wrap that pretty little head of yours around the fact that I’m your new physical therapist. Be here tomorrow. Same time. Same place. Don’t let my appearance fool you, because I’ll work you out all right, but only so I can get you back on the field.” I step back, take in his wide-eyed expression as it morphs slowly from arrogance to the realization that I just might be telling the truth. I smile. “Oh, and leave your assumptions at home. I may not be Doc, but I sure as hell am a Dalton. It’s been a pleasure.”
And with that, I turn my back and head for the door. My hands are trembling, and my body is riding high on something akin to adrenaline, b
ut I’m satisfied that he’ll take me seriously from here on out.
“Hey, Kitty.”
Despite every urge in my body to keep walking and not acknowledge the stripper alias, my feet stop. And I hate that they do, but at least I don’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to face him.
“The name’s Scout. And, for the record, I’m not sure whether to be flattered or pissed off that you’d think I’d accept money to dance for you or sleep with you.”
“So, you’d do it for free then?” The chuckle that follows is smooth as silk, full of suggestion, and twists my insides with a potent combination of disgust and lust.
“Not hardly,” I lie.
“Good thing I didn’t take the bait then. I was ready to kiss you senseless just to call your bluff and prove you were a stripper.”
“Good thing I didn’t knee you in the nuts because you had.”
His laugh is warmer this time around. “Lucky for me, I practiced restraint.”
“Remember that term—practice restraint,” I say, feeling like I’ve made some headway. “I won’t be easy on you, you know.”
“I’ll count on it. And Scout? I knew you weren’t a stripper.”
“Way to try and save face, Hot Shot.” Men and their egos. “But if that’s the case, then why’d you let me keep the act going?”
“Only a stupid man would stop a beautiful woman when she’s straddling his thighs.”
“And here I thought you’d redeemed yourself,” I mutter through the smile he can’t see.
“Redemption’s boring. I prefer excitement,” he goads.
“Great.”
“Tomorrow, Scout.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
I walk out of the locker room, the echo of my footsteps down the concrete corridor nowhere as loud as his voice on repeat in my mind. I was ready to kiss you senseless just to call your bluff.
If that would be my punishment for being wrong, why the hell would I want to be right?
“It’s just pain. I’ve played through it before. I can play through it again.”
“And risk ending your career?”
“Look. I know my body better than anyone. I’m not going to risk my career by pushing myself too early, which is why—”
“Which is why the club hired Doc.”
“Don’t remind me.” My laugh is loaded with sarcasm but my thoughts are already back on the athletic brunette with challenging gray eyes and a smartass mouth. The one I’ve probably thought about more times in the last few hours, while waiting for my agent to call back, than I care to count. “And for clarification, it’s not Doc doing my rehab. It’s Scout. Whoever the fuck Scout is, because I’ve made some calls, been asking around, and I can’t find shit on her other than she’s his daughter. His daughter, Finn? Not some topnotch professional who is scheduled out for months in advance because she’s everyone’s go-to. Look, I’m not one to knock taking up the old man’s profession because . . . well, because pot meet kettle. But taking over and actually being as good as him are two entirely different things. The club promised they’d get me the best physical therapist after the bullshit I had to put up with from the other one. Second best isn’t the best, Finn. This is my arm we’re talking about here. My career, so—”
“The same arm you want to chance by thumbing your nose at the club’s protocol and declaring yourself ready to go without the therapist’s consent, right?”
Fuck. Finn’s got me there. I roll my shoulders in reflex and hate that there’s that slight stab of pain when I do—my constant reminder that I’m not ready to play, and yet that’s all I want to do to get my life back to its norm.
“Easton.” He sighs. “You agreed to the terms and have to abide by the parameters now.”
His disapproving tone grates on my nerves. “We’ve gone over this.” What feels like a million times.
“Well, you’re the one who signed the papers—”
“You’re goddamn right I did. They carted me off the field and the pain was so brutal I would’ve signed anything for them to get the oxy quicker to dull it some; so don’t chastise me like I did something stupid. You would’ve done the same exact thing.”
His silence is more irritating than his disapproving tone. “I would have at least read the papers first.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I know. But I didn’t, and now I’m forced into their rehab guidelines. Can they really put a deadline on when I have to return? It’s not like everyone heals the same.”
“Should they? No. Can they? Well, you signed the paper that said you’d be back by August first, so yes, now, they technically can.”
I roll my shoulders, pissed at myself for signing it, at him for his constant nagging over it, and at all the shit that can’t be changed. “And if I’m not ready by then?”
“I told you, they can trade you.”
“And you also told me during the last negotiation that I had an iron-clad contract, Finn. Eight years with an extension option.”
“It is iron-clad. . . but then you went and signed the first papers they put in front of you without reading them, and—”
“It wasn’t like . . . you don’t understand.” Frustrated, I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes to shut out the stadium laid out before me, taunting me. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t quite understand this new general manager yet, but I guess it’s his new protocol.”
“What is?” he asks. “Making a player sign something when his arm was just ripped apart? Sounds pretty callous if you ask me. What’s the purpose? Is dotting all your I’s and crossing all your T’s really that important in that moment?”
“You’re preaching to the choir, dude.”
“Everyone says he’s the best there is when it comes to this kind of thing, and there’s no way they can all be crazy, so hang in there.”
“Easier said than done,” I gripe.
“Yeah well, the bright side is that it typically takes him three years to successfully restructure an organization before he moves on to the next one.”
“Three years?” Fuck.
“Let’s just hope all these new policies and strategies are worth it. I expect to see a pennant won before he leaves.”
“Always looking for the diamond in a pile full of cow patties aren’t you, Finn?
“One of us has to.”
“Strategies are one thing, but treating your players with respect is another. Giving me a finite amount of time to rehab and return to the starting line-up is definitely not a way to show me respect.” Everything about the situation pisses me off and rubs me the wrong way.
“I know. The timeframe is most likely Cory’s way to add a bit of pressure so you get back on the field as soon as possible. After all, you’re their star player.”
“He does know this is my job, right? Star player or not, I’m a big boy who’s well aware of what my fucking obligations are.”
“He does. I promise you I gave him an earful over this. But look at the positive, he listened to you and brought in Doc—hired him exclusively for your rehabilitation. That shows just how much the club wants—no, needs—you back to help them win that pennant he’s promised the city.”
“Perhaps. But if they wanted me back so desperately, it would be Doc here, not his daughter.”
“She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t qualified. You sound like a prima donna. You wanted a different physical therapist and you got one. Suck it up, Wylder. You’ve got less than three months to get your spikes back between the chalk lines, so use the resources they got for you and quit—”
“My bitching,” I finish for him as I scrub a hand through my hair and look out at the empty stadium. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“This is getting fucking old. I’m stuck on the DL, being pressured to return on a timeline by the club I’ve played for my whole career, and all because I decided to go for home and try to score the extra run? Santiago didn’t even have the goddamn ball when he blocked the plate. S
o what? He fucks over me and my arm both in one goddamn dirty play, and all the fucker gets is a hundred-grand fine and a four-game suspension? You want to know why I’m in a crappy mood? It’s because I’m getting the shit end of the stick here, with no damn clue why he did it.”
I know he’s heard it all before. My bitching and moaning over the injury. Over being taken from my game, my life, and forced to sit here on a daily basis and watch it play on without me.
“I can’t tell you why Santiago has a beef with you . . . but he does. That’s pretty damn evident.”
“No shit. Sorry,” I say for what feels like the tenth time. “I’m just having a pity party.”
“I get it, East. You want back out there.”
“Like fucking yesterday.”
“I know dude, but I can’t make your arm heal any faster. You’ve had the best surgeons, the best resources, and now you’ll have the best physical therapist there is in baseball.”
“But—”
“You think Doc’s going to risk his career by ruining yours? If he sent his daughter to rehab you, then no doubt she’s qualified to get you back. Just ride it out. Put your earphones on if you need to, listen to one of those damn audiobooks that I can’t for the life of me understand how you listen to, and tune her out . . . but put in the hours. Get better. And you’ll be back before you know it.”
Easier said than done.
“Yeah. Sure.”
I end the phone call, lean back into the hard plastic of the stadium seat, and prop my feet on the empty row in front of me.
And I dare to look at what I’m missing out on. The nets of the backstop fade away as I stare at the place where I’ve lived my life—between the chalk lines and behind home plate.
It’s fucking beautiful. A blessing and a curse. My pleasure and my pain.
The only thing I’ve ever known.
The only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.
