Playing Hard

by Melanie Scott

  “The Castros treat me well.”

  “We’re talking about Finn.”

  “Finn does, too,” she said stubbornly. “Tonight wasn’t a normal situation.”

  “If he keeps playing ball, at least in the majors, then being under this much stress will be normal. Are you going to let him get away with it if he keeps behaving this way?”

  She bit her lip. “No.” She sounded certain. But she couldn’t help thinking that Ollie was right. That maybe she and the Castros had been cutting Finn too much slack for years. “No, I’m not going to let him get away with it. But right now, I don’t see that adding fuel to the fire—right when he’s dealing with losing a big game—is going to do any good. So can’t we keep this between us just for a little while longer?” She put a hand on his cheek. “Please?”

  He didn’t look completely happy about the idea, but he nodded. “Okay. You have more to lose out of this than I do right now. So I’m willing to let you try things your way. But have you thought about what happens when we tell him. What if he really throws a fit? Whose side will the Castros take? Or Em?”

  “They’ll be okay,” she said stubbornly. “We’re family.”

  “I know,” he said. “But sometimes, that kind of family, the found kind, sometimes you have to outgrow them.”

  “Are you going to outgrow the Saints?” she shot back.

  He tensed. “I guess I might have to. When I retire. Depends what I decide I want to do.”

  “What do you want to do?” Maybe it was chicken to change the subject back to him, but she didn’t want to think about Finn and the Castros. About what life might be like without her second family. About maybe losing Em. Because she wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Another shrug. “Still working on figuring that out.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That’s different from what you said last time I asked,” she said. “Are you thinking about it? Retiring? Did the doctor say something about your hand?”

  “Semantics, Amelia. No, the doctor hasn’t said anything about my hand. In either direction. Which means I have thought about the subject occasionally this last week.” His mouth went flat. “Not that I have any answers.”

  “You’ll figure something out. You could always start by going back to school if you wanted. Try out some classes. See what catches your interest.”

  “Sweetheart, I think when I retire the first thing I will want to do is enjoy the novelty of doing nothing for a while. And staying in one place all year instead of less than half of it.”

  She couldn’t really picture him doing nothing for very long. It was obvious that being out of action was already driving him a little bit crazy. “I’d travel,” she said. “If I could do anything I wanted.”

  He nodded. Then yawned. “I think we had this discussion already, didn’t we?” He peered over her shoulder. “Christ, it’s after three. You should sleep.”

  “At this point I’m not sure that three hours of sleep is going to be any better than none.”

  His expression turned speculative. “Oh? Really? In that case, what exactly did you plan for the next three hours, Ms. Graham?”

  “I was just going to count sheep,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him, fatigue vanishing as she watched the heat filling his eyes. “Unless you have a better idea.”

  He dragged her hand down from his chest. Placed it over his rapidly hardening cock. “You know what, I suddenly have several.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  All things considered, she should be feeling much worse than she was. Sure, she was on her third cup of coffee for the morning, and she knew that she’d pay for the lack of sleep eventually. Still, she wasn’t dragging her ass through the day like she usually would if she’d scored less than three hours of sleep.

  No, instead she couldn’t stop herself from grinning stupidly every five seconds. Apparently starting the day with shower sex with Oliver Shields did wonders for a girl’s powers of recuperation. In which case, she was just going to have to keep having it. Think of all the things she could get done if she could get by on just a few hours of sleep a night, buoyed up by the powers of orgasms and completely satisfied hormones. She could damned well conquer the world.

  The thought, crazy as it was, made her smile again. She finished her coffee and pitched the empty take-out cup toward the trash can in the corner of the room. It arced perfectly through the air, landing neatly with a gentle thud.

  “And the crowd goes wild,” she said loudly and then forced herself to turn her attention back to the stack of work waiting for her.

  Every so often as she worked, her attention strayed to her phone. She moved it out of reach on the farthest corner of her desk where she wouldn’t be tempted to pick it up every five seconds to see if Oliver had texted her.

  But it wasn’t only Oliver she was thinking of. She’d had a very quick call from Mari just after she’d gotten to work. She’d wanted to ask about Finn but Mari hadn’t let her get a word in edgewise as she launched a rapid-stream Thank you and we’re at the airport already and about to board and do you want me to take a message to your mother?

  She’d laughed and told Mari to give her mom a hug and take one for herself at the same time. But after she’d hung up, she’d wondered whether Mari was just being her usual live-life-at-sixty-miles-a-minute self or whether she hadn’t wanted to give Amelia the chance to raise the subject of Finn.

  No. She’d said she’d give him a day or so to cool off. And that she wasn’t going to let him treat her like crap. So she should just stop worrying about him. She would call Em later, see what she’d heard from her parents, who would be back in Chicago by lunchtime. Knowing Mari, she’d be insisting Em come for dinner so she could be given the play-by-play of Finn’s game. If she called after dinner, then she had the best chance of getting a report on Finn’s mood.

  At least there hadn’t been any mention of Saints players in the papers today for any reason other than not making it to the championship series. The New York papers always seemed to favor the Yankees and Mets over the Saints—maybe because the Yankees and Mets didn’t have the same less-than-stellar performance history that the Saints had had until Alex Winters and his friends had taken over. Today there was a certain degree of satisfaction that it was the Yankees who were going to take on Boston for a berth in the World Series.

  Or so she’d gathered from the few minutes she’d spent trying to read the news on her phone and navigate Manhattan streets as she’d walked to work. She could’ve caught a cab but she’d been hoping that the walk would help wake her up.

  So, no, leave Finn to himself. Unless he called her first. He should call her first. After all, he was the one who’d behaved badly.

  Thinking about it killed some of her buzz. Her energy level started to fall and she looked at the trash can. She absolutely couldn’t have another coffee until she had lunch or she’d dissolve her stomach. Plus probably turn herself into a jittery mess.

  She had things to do. No jittering allowed.

  There was, however, no rule against chocolate and she had an emergency stash of See’s Candies in her desk drawer.

  She pulled out the box and ate three in rapid succession. The sugar hitting her bloodstream perked her up and she turned her mind back to her email.

  She was reading the latest status report from the IT guys about her model when the email notification pinged again.

  The sender was Leon Tang. From Hong Kong.

  Her heart started to thump. She fumbled the mouse and accidentally opened the wrong email in her eagerness. By the time she’d gotten to the right message, she was so nervous she had to read the short note twice to understand it.

  Boss just said big new project being announced next week. Maybe Monday. Maybe Tuesday, Leon had written.

  The word seems to be an acquisition. They’ve been sniffing around a few smaller banks here. Will keep you posted.

  She sat back in her chair, heart still racing. An acquisition of another Hong
Kong bank would definitely require some extra bodies on the ground in the Hong Kong office. The question was whether one of those people would be an economist.

  And if Daniel would pick her to be that economist.

  God. For a moment she let herself imagine it. The sprawl of Hong Kong, as she’d seen it on TV and in movies. So much life and bustle crowded into one small space. So very different from everything she knew. She saw herself standing in the middle of it. Living in another country.

  Living her dream. A goofy grin spread over her face just at the thought.

  And then she remembered Oliver.

  * * *

  It was late again when she got to Oliver’s apartment that night—though not as late as usual. She’d made it to seven p.m. but then left, worried she might actually fall asleep in her office if she didn’t. Daniel had left early for a client dinner with two of the other VPs. That meant he wasn’t coming back.

  She could have gone home, of course. Gone home and slept for eight or more undisturbed hours, but she wanted to see Oliver. Even though now, as she stepped out of the elevator, she was feeling unaccountably nervous. Leon hadn’t heard anything more when she’d emailed him near the end of the day. So there was no need to tell Oliver anything yet, was there? That she might be leaving? At least for six months or so? She didn’t even know if there was a project or if she might have a shot at a transfer.

  No point causing trouble until she had to. Not when they were both tired and he was still dealing with the Saints losing.

  She’d tell him when she knew something.

  Then they could figure out what it might mean.

  After all, they’d been together less than two weeks. They weren’t even public yet. If Oliver didn’t want her to go, could she give up her dream for something so new? Should she even contemplate that possibility when she’d spent five years working for this?

  She didn’t know.

  That made her nervous. Her stomach had been churning all day.

  She let herself in and put her bags down in the hall, along with her coat, before heading into the living room where she could hear the sound of the TV.

  Oliver had his foot propped up on the ottoman, an ice pack weighing down his ankle, a frown on his face as he stared at the TV. He looked up as she came through the doorway. “It’s nearly eight,” he said, sounding cranky.

  “Which means I left work early. So why don’t we try this again. Hi, Oliver, how was your day?” She paused, waited to see how he was going to respond. She spent enough time around masters of the universe to know that letting them get away with the shit they tried to pull was never a good idea. But she’d also learned that some of them didn’t take kindly to being called on their shit. If he was that type, then he was going to find himself out of luck tonight. She was too tired. She could just go home again.

  But to her relief, he smiled. “Hi, Amelia. How was your day in the towers of capitalism?”

  “Full of long meetings and too much coffee. How about you?”

  “You know, woke up. Hobbled to the couch. Did some excitingly painful physical therapy. Hobbled back to the couch. A thrill a minute.”

  She nodded at the shiny black-and-silver exercise bike that was standing a few feet away from his sofa. “That’s new. That must be a good sign, if they’re letting you use a bike?”

  “Not just yet. Another day or two. Even then I get to do a whole ten minutes a day.” His scowl reappeared. “Ten minutes!” He sounded disgusted.

  “Ten minutes is better than no minutes.”

  His fingers were tapping out a restless beat on the thigh of his sweatpants. Really loose, ratty faded gray sweatpants that had one leg chopped off above the knee shouldn’t be hot.

  But they were. He was. God. She was in trouble.

  “Ten minutes sucks,” he said.

  Being limited to ten minutes of exercise a day sounded pretty good to her. Though she wasn’t getting much exercise that wasn’t walking to and from work lately. Too many late nights and early mornings. Her yoga teacher was going to give her the frowny face when she made it back to class.

  “Do you want me to get you more ice?” she asked.

  “No, I’m almost done.” He fiddled with the ice pack then sat back. “The good news is I’ve been given the okay to lose the boot. Just have to keep the ankle strapped for another week and keep resting and icing it.”

  “Really?” He’d been limping by the end of yesterday. But she wasn’t a physical therapist so maybe that was normal.

  “Yes, really.”

  “That’s great.” She flopped down on the couch next to him, almost groaning with relief that the day was done and she could relax.

  “Tired?”

  “A little.”

  “Me too,” he confessed.

  She smiled at him. Then noticed that the bandage on his hand looked different, more of his fingers poking out. “Did your physical therapist change that?” She nodded toward the hand.

  “I did two lots of excitingly painful physical therapy today. One with the physical therapist and then I went to the hand therapist.”

  “Different person?”

  “Apparently it’s a specialized field.”

  She waited but he didn’t offer any further comment. Curiosity, however, got the better of her. “What did they say?”

  He looked down at his hand, lips compressing briefly. “They said there’s a long way to go.”

  “Well, that’s something, isn’t it? Sounds like they think you’ll be fine.”

  He shrugged. “Good would be, You’ll be good as new in four months, Mr. Shields.” He looked cranky again.

  “I’m sure they were just being cautious. Doctors never want to give you the best-case scenario. Bodies aren’t an exact science after all.”

  His expression didn’t change.

  “Did the therapist give you exercises to do?”

  “Yes. I’ve done them. Following doctor’s orders like a good patient. Not that moving a rubber ball with my fingertips is what I call exercise.”

  He sounded frustrated. She’d cabbed it uptown to Ollie’s apartment. The most exercise she’d gotten today was walking between meetings or ducking downstairs to grab a coffee from the nearest cart, and she was fine with that. But Oliver was an athlete. Used to working out. To being able to do whatever he wanted with his body. To being in motion. He was probably one of those annoying people who got a runner’s high.

  Amelia put in her time at the gym and yoga but she’d never felt much more than sweaty and relieved it was over at the end of a session. She relied on chocolate for her endorphins. Still, if Oliver was missing his workouts, that could explain part of his bad mood.

  “You’re just cranky because you’ve got endorphin withdrawal or something,” she said.

  He looked skeptical. “Endorphin withdrawal?”

  “You’re used to exercising. Working off tension and stress physically. We just need to figure out another way for you to deal with stress until you can do that again.”

  Dark eyebrows shot skyward. “Are you about to tell me to take up meditation?”

  “No,” she said. “But you need something to make you happy.”

  “Interesting theory, Amelia. And now that I think of it, I know something that would produce plenty of endorphins.” A wicked grin spread across his face, and heat rushed into hers.

  “I—” she began.

  “You brought up the subject,” he said before she could come up with something. “You said I needed endorphins.”

  “I’m not a doctor,” she said, feeling herself start to smile, tiredness once again evaporating under the mystical powers of Oliver Shields. Maybe she was the one hooked on endorphins. The ones he provided.

  “No, but you might be just what he ordered,” Oliver said. “How about it, Amelia? Want to make me feel good?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said cheerfully and climbed into his lap.

  * * *

  On Friday, Oliver had another app
ointment to see his surgeon. Hopefully to get the stitches removed. They were itching like fury, which was annoying as hell, particularly when there was no way he was going to scratch and risk screwing something up.

  His ankle was almost better. He was hardly limping. It was still sore, but he could walk and fit his foot back into a shoe. He used the stick when he went out of the apartment but got around inside without it. And he’d already defied doctor’s orders to do almost thirty minutes on the exercise bike yesterday. It had made his ankle ache, even at the snail’s pace that was all that he was allowed, but the movement had felt good and ice had taken care of the ache.

  Maybe Amelia was right. Maybe he was an endorphin addict.

  Well, there were worse things to be hooked on.

  He was sitting in the waiting room, scrolling through his phone with his left hand, which still felt weird, when Lucas and Alex walked into the reception area.

  His gut tightened. Why were they here? Had Dr. Banks called them here to be with him? Was he going to get bad news?

  He’d had a second session of hand therapy the day before and had received the same noncommittal response when he’d asked about his prospects. But that was what the hand therapist had said to him. Who knows what she’d said to George Banks.

  “Isn’t two of you overkill for just getting some stitches out?” he said as Alex and Lucas joined him on the two chairs next to his.

  “I’m just here to make sure it all goes smoothly,” Lucas said.

  That much he could expect. He wasn’t actually that surprised to see Lucas, who’d been gate-crashing his appointments all along. But Alex? He turned to Winters, trying to decipher if there was any tension in the man’s eyes. “What’s your excuse?”

  “Just protecting my investment.”

  “Dude, I’m not a stock portfolio.”

  “No, but you’re damned expensive,” Alex said. “So I wanted to hear what your doctors have to say.

  “So you can figure out if you need a new first baseman?”