by Jamie Knight
“Can I ask you if…”
“Shhh!” she says. “No talking.”
I say nothing. Yeah, she’s hot but she’s also a feisty one.
I have to admit that turns me on. I will my cock to stay in place instead of springing up, which would be very embarrassing right about now.
She releases the cuff and places it back in one quick movement.
“Take off your shirt,” she commands.
“No problem!” I say.
I whip it off and throw it to the floor. It’s times like these that I’m grateful I have had such a rigorous career both as a SEAL and an MMA fighter and that I’ve stayed in shape. I want to impress her with my washboard abs and my toned, strong pecs.
She’s not even looking at me, though. So much for that goal.
She comes over and starts feeling my shoulders, chest, and back. I flex my pecs to impress her.
She doesn’t even notice.
“It’s my leg, you know…”
“Yes, I know,” she says. “But it’s all connected.”
She’s close to me and smells good, something lavender-like. I look up at her and just want to kiss her. Kiss her forehead, cheeks, then lips. Then move down to her neck and breasts.
I bet her big, plump tits are so nice to look at and squeeze and suck on when her shirt is off – they look great even with her scrubs on. Then I’d move down her stomach to her pussy and then….
“Do you?” she asks, as if she’s repeating herself.
“Huh?”
“I said, do you have any known allergies?”
“Uh, no… no.”
She sighs and shakes her head and mutters something about playing games.
But I say nothing. She wants to play games, I’m willing to play. I’m a competitor, after all. A fighter who will battle for what he wants.
And I want her.
Despite this less than perfect beginning, I will have her.
I know I will. Because I’m the type to take what I want and I want her.
It won’t be easy, since she seems like a fighter of a different sort. Feisty and sassy, she’s sure to put up a challenge. But she will be worth it.
“Your knee is hurting you, correct?” she asks and bends down to it.
“Hurting me?” I ask. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”
I know I’m getting angry, but I can’t help it, no matter how hot Amanda is. I wanted Anne to treat me but instead she stuck me with this newbie and it seems like she doesn’t even do her homework.
She stands back up and steps back.
“I just mean…” she says.
“And I just mean that after all of the ton of records at your disposal, you don’t even know the basic facts of my case?”
“Listen, Lincoln,” Anne says and comes over to me. “She’s a professional. Don’t be like that.”
“If she’s such a fuckin’ professional, why doesn’t she know what I’m going through?”
“Lincoln,” Anne says, and places her hand on my shoulder.
I swat her hand away and say, “Fuck this!”
I grab my shirt and pants and leave the room in only my boxer briefs. As the door closes, I can hear Amanda asking Anne what the fuck is up with me.
Not giving a fuck what I look like, I exit the sliding doors as lots of people look at me.
Haven’t they seen a fighter before? Hell, when we get weighed, we sometimes are butt naked.
Fuck these people. They don’t know what I’ve been through.
I reach the parking lot and pull up my pants at least and hop into the truck. I throw my t-shirt on the passenger seat and slam the steering wheel.
“Fuck!” I exclaim, really loud.
I look around and see a stray dog crossing the street and almost getting hit. I jump out of the truck.
“Come here, boy!” I whistle.
He jumps into the cab and sits on the passenger seat, shivering with fear.
I feel like shit. I pat his head and tell him, “Good boy, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”
He lowers his head, pants, and wags his tail.
“I’ll take care of you,” I repeat.
Unlike the way I treated Amanda Nelson.
Now I feel like complete shit.
Chapter 3 - Amanda
I’m happy today.
Or at least I was, before Lincoln Drake came in as my newest client and ruined my mood. So now I’m telling my version of events because it’s probably hard for people to believe that I could like this guy or have the hots for him. I know it’s weird, but I can’t help it.
Like I was saying, though, I’m happy today.
These new purple scrubs I bought at Walmart smell clean and fresh. I love my job and feel that the transition from being a nurse to a sports therapist was an easy one. I liked nursing, but the hours were tough. Going in for twelve hour shifts four days a week, over all kinds of different hours, just messed with me.
Most of the time I didn’t know if it even was morning, noon, or night. Now I can work eight to four, or ten to six, or even nine to five like normal people.
I glance down at the chart. Lincoln Drake, I read. Ex SEAL, current MMA fighter who has been advised to quit but doesn’t want to, knee problems, no cartilage, in constant pain, no meds but in dire need of physical therapy, which he was also initially resistant to.
Sounds like a piece of cake, I think. After all, who ruined the curve in her Anatomy and Physiology course in college? This girl.
Still, there’s a stereotype that pops into my head when I read a medical chart such as this. I’ve dealt with these kinds of guys before. Arrogant, sexist, coming on to you and thinking they are just the shit. Just because you’re a hot guy doesn’t mean every “chick” will fall for you.
Certainly not me, anyway. I’d rather be with my gymnast girls, training for the Olympics. Now there’s a group worth working for. Respectful, sweet, eager, and grateful, I’d rather have dozens of them over one MMA fighter any day.
I enter the examination room. Anne is there, and she smiles at me.
“Hi, Amanda,” he says. “This is Lincoln.”
I look over and see him. He’s cute. Very cute, in fact. Dark Italian good looks, scruffy beard, steely blue eyes and that slicked hair. I bet he’s hairy underneath his t-shirt and I’m one of those weird girls who likes a hairy guy.
But more than that, I’m a professional. I know to never mix business with pleasure.
“Hello,” I say. “How are you?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” he says.
We shake hands. I can feel his calloused palm and thick fingers. He could really use a manicure.
I look over my chart and call up his record on the computer.
“So, knee injury, tendon previously replaced, possible surgery.”
“No,” he says. “No surgery.”
“Let me start with your vitals.”
Or at least this is the way I remember our conversation going. It all got fuzzy for me as soon as he turned into pure rage and stormed out of my office.
“Why?” he asks. “You need to fix my knee.”
“I will,” I say. “But as a nurse I like to start from scratch. It’s all connected.”
He sighs.
“Take off your shirt,” I order him.
I definitely remember that part, even though I told myself to act as if I didn’t even notice, and I think I did a pretty convincing job.
His face brightens, and he takes off his shirt and throws it on the floor.
I glance at him then away.
He is a stud. His broad shoulders, bulging biceps, juicy pecs, and hairy chest just do it for me.
But he’s also cocky and arrogant. I can tell he’s just waiting for me to drool or to complement him or something. I’m not going to give him that satisfaction.
I remove the blood pressure cuff, wrap it around his biceps, and inflate it.
“Ow!�
�� he says. “That’s too tight!”
“I’m sure you can handle it,” I say, without looking at him.
I place the stethoscope at the crook of his elbow where the cuff meets and listen.
“Do you think that I…”
“Shhh,” I say. “I’m trying to listen.”
He says nothing and scratches his chest hair, which I find incredibly erotic.
I release the cuff and place it back.
“So, doc,” he says. “Am I going to live?” he asks and folds his arms across his chest.
“Yes, I believe so,” I say.
I look back down at his chart.
“Good,” he says. “Because I got a road tour coming up.”
“About that,” I say. “I think you could benefit from an MRI.”
“No way,” he says. “I don’t want anything like that.”
“Well,” I begin to say when Anne comes over.
“Lincoln,” she says and places her hands on both of Lincoln’s shoulders.
Lincoln looks at her and listens. I smile to myself, thinking that if anyone can set Lincoln straight, Anne can.
“You know, Anne, how I feel about invasive treatment,” Lincoln says.
“Let Amanda explain your options and then you can decide from there.”
Lincoln looks over at me with a sour look on his face. His crossed arms over his chest just make me more attracted to his strong upper body. I just want to bite into the crook between his neck and shoulder with my teeth.
“Well, Mr. Drake,” I begin. “Given the state of your knee, you have several options.”
“What are they?” he asks and looks over to Anne.
Anne comes over to Lincoln and places her hand on his right shoulder.
“To begin with,” I say, “your joint tendon could be repaired.”
Lincoln scratches his right shoulder with his left hand.
“Done that already.”
“Or, much less invasive, there is the option of artificial cartilage being injected.”
“No,” he says. “That shit is just Teflon.”
“I see,” I say and think, what’s next?
I know he’s just going to reject any suggestion I throw at him, but I have to go through all the other options anyway. It’s just how some patients are.
“There is also the option of the doctor going in and drilling holes in your kneecap to discharge the scar tissue so that the knee heals from behind.”
Lincoln jumps off the table, picks up his t-shirt from the floor, and looks towards the door.
“No fucking way,” he says. He comes up to me with his hands on his hips. “I told you, no fuckin’ surgery!”
He’s in my face, veins bulging, and has a scary, distorted look on his face. Still, I need to be and am the professional.
“Well, perhaps the worst-case scenario that could enable the most optimal movement for you would be a complete knee replacement.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he rages.
I step back and clutch the chart to my chest and bump into the wall.
Anne approaches Lincoln.
“Bud, stop this.”
She places her hands on Lincoln’s shoulders again. Usually this has a calming effect with patients, but not this one. Lincoln throws them off.
“Fuck all of you,” he says, and turns to me. “I told you, no more fucking surgery!”
He slams out the door, pounding in his wake. The rest of the floor is reduced to silence as his ranting fades into the distance.
I take a deep breath, look around the room, and shake my head angrily.
Anne comes over and pulls me to her chest as I ask her what the fuck is wrong with Lincoln?
I have had patients treat me badly before but this one really takes the case.
And the worst part – the part I can’t even confess to Anne – is that I still think Lincoln is so fucking hot.
Chapter 4 - Lincoln
I feel like a piece of fucking shit.
Why did I treat that physical therapist like that? Amanda – the hot one. She’d done nothing wrong, but, no, I have to go and be my usual fucking asshole self. And during the holiday season, no less.
I stop at Walmart to get the dog some food, collar, leash and a big bed. He’s a big boy. Looks like a cross of pit bull, shepherd, and husky. Beautiful dog abandoned and alone left to die on its own.
How I identify with him.
It seems like that’s how my life has turned out, without my meaning for it to happen that way.
I leave him in the truck, but on the inside part of it, and I put a blanket on top of him in case he gets cold while I run in. Luckily, it’s winter, so these assholes in Walmart won’t film me and put me on YouTube and shame me for leaving a dog in a truck on a warm day.
Fucking pricks. Mind your own goddamned business, I would tell them, if I could.
It’s not that I’m in favor of animal abuse. It’s just that people get so nosy and over-react and report people for things that aren’t even that big of a deal.
You’d never know it, but I was sent to Catholic school as a kid. My mom worked nights as a waitress after my father came home from working all day, so that we could be educated well.
And I remember how in fourth grade, we used to go to Sr. Francis Bernadette’s class for reading. Everyone feared her, but as we sat down, she gave us her first piece of wisdom.
“Remember!” she yelled out of fuckin’ nowhere. “The eleventh commandment. M-Y-O-B! Mind your own business.”
All the other kids shuddered, but in my own little wimpish way (believe me, I was a little thing who was lucky he didn’t get run over every time he crossed the street – that’s why I eventually started bulking up in the gym and then joined the military and became a fighter on the side), I thought to myself, that is good advice.
And the lesson of Sister Francis Bernadette has stuck with me since.
She would not recognize me now, I’m sure, but, then again, we all change. I just happened to go from dorky skinny kid to big tough guy, which is more of a drastic turn-around than most.
I stand in line at one of the registers at Walmart, and this little kid in front of me turns and points to his dinosaur toy.
“This is Rex,” he says. “You know, from the movie?”
I say nothing and shake my head.
“He means Tyrannosaurus Rex from Jurassic World,” his mother says.
She smiles at me but I’m in no mood to flirt. For some reason, single moms always think I’m their type. I guess it’s something about how my big arms could rock their kids to sleep and then throw the mom over my shoulder and carry her into our own bedroom for a different kind of rocking.
I’ve had my share of them who wanted me and I’ve taken advantage of some of the opportunities but I don’t want any of it today. I still can’t get that physical therapist, Amanda, off my mind, and I still feel bad for what I did when I was at her office.
Still, I don’t want to be rude.
“Cool,” I say to the little kid.
The cashier rings me up and bags my stuff, and as I leave the store, I can see the dog in the passenger window of the cab of my truck, wagging his tail and panting. He’s only half under the blanket, and he doesn’t seem cold. So any nosy busybodies can just keep walking right by, thank you very much.
“Oh, Rex,” I say.
And that’s it. My new buddy.
And his name is Rex.
I hear it through the grapevine that Anne talked to Damien about me, and I don’t appreciate it.
As Sr. Francis said, M-Y-O-B, mind your own business!
I know they mean well and are trying to figure out the best treatment for me. But I’m still pretty mad.
I go to the gym because I need a good, hard workout to try to clear my head. I start with the treadmill because, despite everything, I’m pissed off at Damien, and he’s on the other side of the gym. Being
over here on my own gives me the chance to pound away my problems on the machine.
He looks up and over at me and I look down. I increase the speed of the treadmill until I’m running at a really fast clip.
He saunters over, acting like Mr. Tough Guy, and I ignore him.
“Hey,” he says.
I say nothing and just look at the wide-screen televisions that are playing a football game.
“Anne is worried about you, you know.”
I still say nothing. I’m running too fast; my knee aches. It’s killing me.
“Anne feels like you’re in a bad way,” Damien says, and wipes his face with his towel. “I’m just going to come out and say it so we can clear the air. I know you’re avoiding me.”
Fuck him, I think to myself. Suddenly I feel a pop in my knee. I fall on the belt of the treadmill and then I slam against the cinderblock wall behind me.
“Fuck!” I say and grab my knee.
I’m panting heavily. My knee is so fucked up. I can’t do this anymore. My face grimaces from the pain, sadness, and frustration.
Damien comes over and helps me up. Some of the other gym attendants help me over to the chairs at the side.
They help me sit down. I grab onto my knee and look up at Damien. He puts his arm around my shoulders.
“I can’t go on like this,” I say.
“I know, bud,” Damien says. “Let me help you.”
I lean back in the chair while Damien pulls his Jeep up to the front door. Some of the other people at the gym help me in and Damien drives me back to my apartment. Then he helps me in by himself, which is no small feat.
“Thanks,” I manage to grunt.
I was silent the whole way here, because of the pain and also because of the embarrassment.
I fall onto the couch, breathing heavily.
Damien props my leg up onto the couch and takes my workout shoes off.
I feel heavy and tired.
When I awake, Damien is on the phone in the kitchen and he’s talking loudly. I can hear him pacing back and forth.
I don’t give a shit. I shut my eyes.
When I wake up again, Damien is sitting across from me in the big, white, plush Pottery Barn chair I just bought. He’s scrolling through his phone.
I’m kind of pissed because I don’t want that chair to get dirty.