“It’s not too bad. I just want to be sure.”
Chloe reappears in my line of vision and I reach for her. She takes my hand and squeezes. “You’re going to be fine, Austin. Just relax.”
Right. Relax.
The doctor moves my knee, laying my leg straight on the gurney. The pain blinds me. Everything goes black.
My eyes peer open to blinding whiteness and a black, orb-like object. The orb is connected to a pair of legs, and that’s when I realize I’m staring at a woman’s ass. Chloe’s ass. How do I know? I remember the shape of her ass like I remember the warmth of her tits.
She’s bending over to rummage for something in her purse. My arousal rises sharply, numbing the dull pain in my leg. The world spins when I move my head slightly, and it’s all I can do to keep my gaze focused on her incredible body.
Waking up to your ass in my face is the highlight of my week.
Chloe whirls around, outrage shooting from her electric blue eyes.
Oh shit. Did I say that out loud?
“Yes, you did.”
“I’m sorry. My inhibitions are low as fuck right now.”
Her eyes narrow. “That would be the Vicodin. Sherwood.”
Just looking at her makes my mouth dry. She is fucking gorgeous.
My voice drops down to a whisper. “It would be super unethical if you took advantage of me right now, but nobody has to know.”
“Austin,” her voice snaps like a whip. “There are four other people in the room.”
I barely understand the words coming from her mouth. “What?”
A man clears his throat loudly, and I turn my head, the world spinning. Are there eight people? No, there are four other people standing there. A distinctly uncomfortable-looking man in a white coat, my coach, and a woman wearing scrubs. I decide that this is hilarious and burst out laughing.
Coach looks like he’d like to slap the smile off my face. So does Chloe.
“You guys look so hostile.”
The doctor takes a step forward, interrupting me. “I don’t think anything’s actually torn, but I can’t be sure.”
Something ice-cold touches my lower quadriceps, just above my knee. I jump a little.
“Sorry,” Chloe’s voice says gently. “Just trying to keep it from swelling. I think waiting for the MRI results would be best.”
“Me, too,” says the doctor.
“No hospitals,” I interject. Surely this is just a little sprain or something. “I can walk it off.”
Chloe smirks at me. “You’re already at the hospital, Sherwood.”
Oh.
Now that I’m a bit more coherent, I can feel the hardness of the hospital bed and my growing sense of humiliation that I might’ve said too much in front of, well, everyone.
The doctor snorts. “You are not walking it off. ”
“Did we win?” I ask Coach.
“We did.”
“Hot damn.”
Chloe crosses her arms firmly over her chest—well, under her breasts, which makes them plump up nicely. I stare by accident, and she glares at me. “You have more important things to worry about, Mr. Sherwood.”
I glance at the doctor. He’s stone-faced. “What’s the verdict?” I ask him. I’m thinking shredded ACL, torn MCL. Maybe both, for a beautiful shredded CL salad.
“Don’t know yet,” he answers in a clipped tone. “Waiting for the MRI.”
Everybody seems really cranky. This can’t be a good sign. On the other hand, I’m not hurting too badly at this point, which is probably not a bad sign. Mixed messages galore. I start to ask if there are any prevailing theories, but before I can get any words out, another doctor comes in. I don’t recognize this one, so she must be affiliated with the hospital.
“Good news,” she says. “Nothing’s torn. It’s just a very bad sprain.”
“Is there bad news?” I ask.
“You’ll be out for a few weeks. Four to six, minimum.”
“Shit,” Coach says, and I echo him.
“I can’t be out that long,” I add. “We’re heading for the playoffs—”
Coach breaks into my developing tirade. “You do what the doctor tells you to do, Sherwood. We’d rather have you out now than lose you for the championship. Or for all of next season.”
It’s a sobering thought. I glance at Chloe, who’s still watching me with a deep frown, her arms folded over her chest.
“This is what we’re going to do,” Coach informs me. “You’re going to do exactly what you’re told. You’ll work with the docs and with Chloe, and if I hear one word about you stepping out of line, not doing your PT, or trying to push before you’re ready, you’re going to hear from me. And it won’t be pretty. You got that?”
“I got it, Coach.”
“Good.” He glances at his watch then storms out of the room, undoubtedly to go back to tell the rest of the team they’re down one wide receiver.
The two doctors exchange a look, then the team doctor makes a jerking motion with his head. The other two—the hospital doctor and Chloe—meet him in the corner. They talk quietly for a bit, just low enough that I can’t quite make out the words. It’s irritating as fuck.
Finally, the team doctor turns toward me. “There’s not much else we can do for you right now except prescribe meds and a treatment regimen. We’ll leave that regimen to your PT here.” His attention shifts to Chloe. “I’ll email you the official diagnostic information and some suggestions regarding long-term treatment.”
Chloe nods.
“We’ll keep you here,” the doctor continues, “until we get all the paperwork taken care of. We should have you out of here by the end of the day.”
“Fine.” I’m getting sullen and irritable now. I want more meds. My knee hurts.
The team doctor smiles at Chloe then, giving her a pat on the upper arm. “We’ll just leave him in your capable hands.”
The two doctors depart, leaving me alone with Chloe. Alone with Chloe.
“In your hands, huh?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “You know what he meant.”
“Of course I do.” I cross my arms over my chest, mimicking her posture. “This is the kind of thing I fantasize about on a regular basis. Me basically naked, completely at the mercy of a beautiful woman.”
“I bet you do.” She takes a step toward me, lowering her arms. Watching her, I let my eyelids droop a little, giving her my best bedroom eyes.
“You want to be my nurse for a while until they let me out of here? Maybe you could give me a sponge bath.”
She stops in her tracks. I’m pissing her off, I can tell. That’s fine. Irritating her is taking my mind off the pain. Plus it’s fun.
“I don’t think you need a sponge bath at the moment.”
“Sure I do. I came straight off the field. I’m all…sticky.” I let that hang in the air a moment so she can wonder exactly how and where I might be sticky.
Her eyes go dark, her expression darker. It’s the kind of expression that would make a smarter man fear for his life. Fortunately, I’m not a smarter man.
“Look,” she says, her voice hard and flat. “Let’s get a few things straight here before this goes any further.”
“You think it might go further?”
“That’s not what I mean. Shut up and listen to me.”
She’s bossy. I give her my full attention. I may or may not be smirking at her.
“First—nothing is going to happen between us. Nothing. Ever. So quit acting like there’s a chance in hell I’m going to sleep with you.”
“We don’t have to sleep—”
“Shut up. I’m not done.” She holds up two fingers. “Second—I don’t like you. At all. You’re irritating, rude, immature, and the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever had the displeasure of trying to work with. I’m not here because I want to be. I’m here because my boss wants me to be. If I had my way about it, I’d be with other patients. Patients who don’t make rude innuendoes
every time they open their mouths. Third, and probably most important—I’m here to make sure you can walk back out on that football field in four to six weeks. That’s what you want, that’s what your coach wants, and that’s what I want. So you do what I tell you, exactly as I tell you, when and how I tell you. And for your side of the bargain…”
Her teeth clench for a moment before she goes on.
“You will stop with the innuendoes. You will not hit on me during our therapy sessions. You will wear appropriate attire during treatment. This means no more too-tight briefs. My seeing your dick is not necessary for the successful treatment of your injuries. Therefore keep it covered the fuck up. Is that understood?”
“Sure. I get it. It makes you uncomfortable, and it’s unprofessional.”
“Exactly.”
I give her a second to think she’s in the clear, then add, “So. Am I getting a sponge bath, or what?”
Fire shoots out of her eyeballs. Well, almost.
“What did I just say?”
“Is this a therapy session? I didn’t think so.”
She points a finger at me. It’s shaking, she’s so furious. “You know exactly what I meant, and I am not—”
Her latest tirade is cut off when a noise comes from the phone on the table next to the bed. I stare at it. I haven’t heard an actual phone actually ring in so long I almost forgot what it sounds like. It rings again.
Chloe tips her head toward it. “Going to answer that?”
“If I do, they’re going to add like a million dollars to my hospital bill.” But, even though landlines are obsolete, I’m still somehow wired so I’m unable to ignore that sound. I pick up the phone. It’s probably one of the team doctors calling here since my cell is back at the stadium in my locker. “Sherwood.”
“Austin?” It’s not the voice of one of the team doctors. It’s a familiar voice, though, and I’m immediately flooded with a wash of guilt.
“Mom?”
“Oh, thank God. Are you all right? I saw on TV you got hurt and they took you off in an ambulance.”
I wonder how she ended up getting put through to my hospital room. Glancing at Chloe, I see her look quickly away. She’s trying not to eavesdrop, but she’s totally eavesdropping. I turn a little, putting my shoulder between her and my conversation. Not that it’ll make much difference.
“I’m fine, Mom.” I could kick myself for not having somebody call her right away. Mom’s not in the best of health, and I’ve always tried to keep her informed in case of injuries or anything that could even be remotely construed as an emergency. “Really. Everything’s fine.”
“Then why are you at the hospital?” Her voice is tremulous, and I wonder if she’s been crying. God, I hope not.
“Just routine. Some tests. They did an MRI because they thought I might have torn a ligament. But it’s just a sprain. No big deal. I’ll be playing again before you know it.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Are you in a lot of pain?”
“A little. It’ll be okay. They gave me medication. Now, stop worrying. Just relax. I’ll call you again later when I get home and give you all the details.”
“When will you be home?”
“They said I can go home in a couple of hours.” I glance over at Chloe again. She’s still watching, one brow winged up. I make a face at her. “I’ll call you as soon as I can, okay?”
“Okay, hon.”
Hanging up the phone, I turn back to Chloe.
“I guess I’ll be going, then,” she says. “I’ll touch base with you in the morning to set up your therapy appointments.”
“Chloe.”
She’s only taken a step or two toward the door, and she stops.
“I’ve got to be ready in time for the championship game. I don’t care what I have to do. I have to play if we make it.”
“Then do what I tell you to do. To the absolute letter.”
“All right. I will.”
“You’re going to need to double down on the discipline. You’ll have to work your ass off. No more excuses and no more fucking around.”
“If I mess up, are you going to spank me?
She makes a disgusted noise and spins on her heel. I’m chuckling at her as she stalks out the door.
5
Chloe
Deep breaths.
He’s just a man. You’re not going to let him get to you, are you?
I’m not attracted to Austin. He’s a client. A very, very important client who I have no business fantasizing about, who has made it quite clear to my boss that he will work with me and only me, and who almost definitely wants to fuck me.
He’s actively trying to get into my pants.
Every chance he gets.
I let out a sigh as I walk the path to Austin’s mansion. It’s huge and intimidating—just the kind of place where you’d expect a young, very rich football professional to live. Ostentatious. Showing off the fact he has money. At the same time, though, there’s an odd charm to it. It reminds me of houses I’ve seen in Georgia. That doesn’t seem to fit Austin’s personality, but what do I know? I just met the man.
My legs tremble as I stand in front of his door, not quite summoning up the courage to knock.
There’s so much at stake. The clinic’s contract with the team. A shit ton of money. My professional reputation.
All the pressure Dr. Richards put on me feels like a lead weight bearing down on my chest. It’s not that I can’t do the job—I can, definitely. It’s just that I’ve been given no choice at all in the matter. Sherwood’s put me in a corner, which has put Dr. Richards in a corner. It’s not fair, and it feels far too familiar.
I take a slow breath. Fine. It’ll be fine. All I have to do is run him through his workouts, make sure he understands what he needs to do to get out from under this injury. He’s motivated enough to get back on the field so he probably won’t give me a lot of flak about doing the work. So if I do my job, it’ll all be fine.
Just fine.
I knock on the door. There’s no answer for a few seconds. I glance at my watch. I’m right on time, and I told him last night and again this morning what time I was coming over. He should be ready.
Then I hear, “Coming! Coming!” from the other side of the door. The door opens, and there he is.
I stare at him, dumbfounded. None of the blood in my body knows quite where to go, but a fair amount of it rushes straight to my pussy and my nipples. I’m glad I’m wearing a jacket.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
His knee is wrapped up, and he’s using crutches to keep his weight off the sprained knee. That’s all well and good, but the rest of his wardrobe…
Basically, he’s naked. Except for boxer shorts, which are liberally decorated with bright red hearts, some solid, some just outlines, all scattered haphazardly over the dubious landscape of his crotch.
I want to be mad. I want to be furious. But all I can hear is my blood pounding in my head as my eyes scrape from his bellybutton to his collarbone, covering all points in between.
He is slabs and slabs of muscle. I can almost count an eight-pack on his abdomen, and his pecs are wide enough you could serve breakfast on them. There’s very little hair—just a slight ring around each nipple and that happy trail winding down his stomach.
You’ve seen this before, I remind myself, but I still can’t take my eyes off him. I clench the shoulder strap of my duffel bag, reminding myself of the weight of it, all the equipment inside it. Professional physical therapy things. Because I am a professional physical therapist, not a professional drooler-at-football-players.
“What?” he asks, all innocence.
My gaze jerks to his face, and at the sight of his smirk, I finally manage to get hold of the anger I’ve been looking for.
“What did I say about appropriate attire?”
“You said no tight briefs. Didn’t say a damn word about boxers. Or boxer-briefs, for that matter. So…I have to assume these are app
ropriate?”
“You’re wearing boxers with hearts all over your dick—what do you think?”
“I think you’re being a little judgmental.”
I choke out a laugh. “Oh God.”
“You’re basically telling me that I can’t express myself. What if I just like the pattern?”
As if Austin Sherwood, football god, could secretly admire heart-patterned clothing. If anything, his bed is probably in the shape of a giant football.
I guess it fits. Shows exactly where his heart is.
“I think I probably like the pattern more than you do.”
He smirks. “You can keep them as a souvenir, if you like.”
“No. Move aside.”
I have to admit the boxers are better than the damn tighty whities. I move past him into the house, barely managing to get by him without brushing my arm across that miles-wide chest.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.
“No. This is a professional appointment. There will be no drinking unless it’s water, and you’re more likely to need that than I am.” I spin, giving him my hardest look. “You will behave in a professional manner, you understand?”
“Sure. We went over that yesterday.”
It doesn’t look like it’s sinking in.
“Fine. Where are we doing this?”
I immediately regret the way I worded that; it leaves Austin far too many ways to respond. Many of which would motivate me to whack him over the head with something heavy. I can see him weighing all the possibilities as a vague smirk curls one corner of his mouth. I tense, waiting for him to come out with yet another sexual innuendo.
What he says, though, is, “What exactly are we doing?”
I’m almost disappointed. “Let’s roll your legs out. Then maybe a massage if you need one.”
He gives a sober nod. “We can go through the exercises in my living room and go from there.”
Holy shit, is Austin capable of acting like an adult?
It’s good that he’s behaving himself. It makes it easier for me to ignore the sparks in my chest and belly. All that bare skin in front of me is making it hard for me to focus.
He turns to lead the way into the house, and my attention catches on the movements of his wide shoulders as he maneuvers his crutches. Not to mention the way his ass clenches under the red-heart-decorated cotton boxers as he swings his weight, carefully resting it on the non-injured leg.
Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set) Page 5
