Power Play

by Anna DePalo

  “Mmm-hmm.” Sera flipped through his paperwork again. “Did you sign autographs while you were there?”

  He cracked a smile and folded his arms over his chest. “A few.”

  “I assume the nursing staff went wild.”

  He knew sarcasm when he heard it and couldn’t resist teasing back. “Nah, they’ve seen it all.”

  “You’ve been icing the knee?”

  “Yeah. The staff at the hospital told me what to do postsurgery.”

  “Until you could get yourself into more expert hands?”

  He flashed a grin. “You. Right.”

  She might totally be his type if she wasn’t so thorny...and since she was related to him by marriage, a casual fling was out of the question. Still, there were layers there, and he enjoyed trying to peel them back.

  Sera set aside his paperwork and approached him, her expression all business. “Okay, I’m going to unwrap your knee.”

  For all her prickliness up to now, her touch was light as she removed his bandages. When the bandage was off, they both studied his knee.

  “Good news.”

  “Great.”

  “No signs of infection and very little bleeding.” She pressed on his knee as he remained in a sitting position on the table but leaned back propped up by his arms.

  “Am I hurting you?” she asked, not looking up.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Manly.”

  “We hockey players are built tough.”

  “We’ll see.” She continued to press and manipulate his knee.

  “I’m your first. Otherwise you’d know.”

  “I’ve never been curious about how tough hockey players are.”

  “You’re mentally disciplined.”

  “We physical therapists are built tough.”

  Jordan smiled. “Built pretty, too.”

  “Behave.”

  “Right.”

  Then she reached over to the counter for an instrument. “I’m going to take some baseline measurements so we know where you are.”

  “Great.” He waited as she straightened his knee a little, measured, and then bent his leg and measured again.

  After putting the measuring instrument aside, she said, “Okay, not a bad starting point considering your knee has been wrapped since surgery. Our goal today is to improve your quad function and the mobility of the patella, among other things.”

  “What’s a patella?”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Your kneecap.”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me know if I’m causing you too much pain.”

  Her tone was surprisingly solicitous, so he joked, “Isn’t that what you promised? Pain?”

  “Only the intended and expected variety.”

  He was a high-level athlete—he was used to pain and then some. “How many ACL tears have you treated?”

  “A few. I’ll let you know at the end if you were my best patient.”

  He stifled a laugh because she’d deftly appealed to his competitive instincts. He wondered if she used the same technique to cajole all her patients. Probably some played sports—since a torn ACL wasn’t too unusual an athletic injury—even if she’d never treated a professional hockey player like himself before. “Will you dock me points for irreverence?”

  “Do you really want to find out?” Methodically, she taped two wires to his thigh. “I’m going to set you up with some muscle stim right now. This will get you started.”

  In his opinion, they’d gotten started with the electricity when she’d walked in the room. But he sensed that he’d teased her enough, and she wasn’t going to take any more nonsense, so he kept mum for the next few minutes and just followed her directions.

  After the muscle stim, she taught him how to do patellar glides. He followed her instructions about how to move his knee to gain more flexibility. They followed that up with quad sets and heel slides, which she told him to do at home, too.

  Overall, he found none of it too arduous. But at the end of half an hour, she announced that his ability to bend his knee had gone from around ten degrees to eighty.

  He grinned. “I’m your best?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Superman. Your knee was wrapped in bandages that interfered with motion until now, so you were bound to make some significant improvement.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “No, I’m very possible if you’ll consider your options. Now, insufferable, that’s another thing...”

  Sera seemed to grit her teeth. “You’ll need weekly appointments.”

  “How long will my therapy last?”

  “Depends on how it goes.” Her expression was challenging—as if she’d been referring to his behavior, good or bad, as well as his recuperation. “Usually three to four months.”

  “Nothing long-term, then?”

  She nodded. “What you’re used to.”

  A fling. The words drifted unspoken between them. She’d met his double entendre and raised him. Ouch.

  Two

  “I can’t do it. There’s no way I can be Jordan Serenghetti’s physical therapist.” Sera drew her line in the sand. Or rather, on the hockey ice—or whatever.

  “You have to,” Bernice, the clinic’s manager said, her short curly brown hair shining under the overhead fluorescent light.

  “He needs a babysitter—” of the centerfold variety “—not a trainer. Or a physical therapist.”

  “We’re counting on you to help us land this client.”

  And Jordan Serenghetti was counting on landing her. His appointment had ended over an hour ago, and still she was suffering the lingering effects. Annoyance. Exasperation. Indignation. She’d spent the time since naming her emotions.

  True, Jordan emanated charm from every pore. She wasn’t immune. She was still a woman who liked men, and she wasn’t dead. And okay, maybe she was the one with long-suppressed needs. But that didn’t mean Jordan was getting anywhere with her. Again. She still remembered the feel of his lips on her. And he didn’t have any recollection—none whatsoever. She’d just been another easily forgotten face in a cast of thousands. That much had become clear once she’d reencountered him years later while waitressing at the Puck & Shoot, and there’d been not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  She knew the score these days, and this time she was determined that the game would end Sera 1, Playboy 0.

  Endure months of close contact with Jordan? It would test her nerves and more. So after her session with him had ended, Sera had sought out Bernice in her office to plead her case. Standing just inside the doorway, she focused on the bobblehead dolls lining her boss’s bookshelves. All the major sports were represented there—including hockey. Scanning them, Sera didn’t see Jordan. It gave her hope that she had a small chance of convincing Bernice. How big a fan could her boss be?

  “How about you reassign me and I bring you another baked lasagna to thank you?” Sera cajoled.

  “Ordinarily I’d consider a small bribe,” Bernice parried, her desk chair turned toward the office’s entrance, “especially if it’s one of your homemade dishes. But this time, no. The staff has been enjoying the big pan of baked ziti you brought in for lunch today, though.”

  Sera lowered her shoulders.

  “If we do a good job,” Bernice continued, “we should get regular business from the New England Razors. It’ll be a huge boost for Astra Therapeutics and for your career.”

  Sera held back a grimace. As far as her boss was concerned, there’d be no getting out of this gig.

  Bernice tilted her head. “You’ve dealt with difficult clients before. We all have.”

  Sera opened and closed her mouth. This was different. But she could hard
ly explain why. “Isn’t this like nepotism? I get the plum client because he’s related to me by marriage?”

  Bernice chuckled. “The fact that you’re practically family should make this assignment a piece of cake.” Her manager looked thoughtful. “Or if he’s a bad in-law, well then, we’ve all had those, too.”

  Sera pressed her lips together. Damn it. She’d worked so hard to get her physical-therapy degree. She’d moonlighted as a waitress and endured three grueling years back at school for a graduate degree. And now Jordan Serenghetti stood in the path of her advancement.

  Bernice gave her an inquisitive look. “On the other hand, is your problem that Jordan has too much magnetism? Some people get starstruck by celebrities and have a hard time focusing on the job.”

  Sera spluttered. “Please. The fake charm is a big turnoff.”

  Her manager raised her eyebrows.

  Sera’s face heated, and she quickly added, “I’m not taking it personally. There isn’t a woman alive Jordan doesn’t try to charm.”

  “You know, if I were a little younger, and my husband would let me, I’d consider dating Jordan Serenghetti.”

  “Bernice, please! You’ve got gold with Keith. Why trade it in for pyrite?” Sera knew her manager had just celebrated her sixtieth birthday and thirtieth wedding anniversary.

  “What makes you think Jordan isn’t genuine?” Bernice countered.

  Sera threw up her hands. She wasn’t about to dig into her past with her boss—and explain how she’d honed her instincts about men the hard way. She was wise enough these days not to be taken in by ripped biceps—hadn’t she seen them up close an hour ago?—and hard abs. Probably those lips were still magic, too. “The problem is he knows he has the goods.”

  Bernice laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with a man who’s confident.”

  “Try arrogant.” Sera knew she had to talk to Marisa. Perhaps her cousin could convince Jordan that this work arrangement wasn’t a good idea. If she couldn’t get out of this assignment herself, maybe Jordan would back out.

  Knowing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with Bernice, Sera decided to back off and change the subject. But when her workday ended at four, she made the short drive from Astra Therapeutics’ offices outside Springfield to Marisa and Cole’s new home in Welsdale.

  Sera pulled up to a classic center-hall colonial and thanked her lucky stars for May in western Massachusetts. The breezy, sunny day could almost erase her mood. She had texted Marisa in advance, so when she got out of her beat-up sedan, her cousin was already opening the front door.

  Marisa wore a baby sling and raised a finger to her lips but exchanged a quick peck on the cheek with Sera. “Dahlia just fell asleep. I’m going to lay her down in her crib and be right with you.”

  “You and Cole have gone all Hollywood with the baby naming,” Sera remarked wryly, because even months later, the baby’s name brought a smile to her lips.

  “If Daisy is acceptable, why not Dahlia?” Marisa said over her shoulder as Sera closed the door and followed her into the house.

  “And here I thought Rick and Chiara would go all name crazy, but no, nope, they had to settle on something traditional like Vincent.” Frankly, it wouldn’t have surprised her in the least if the middle Serenghetti brother and his new wife, actress Chiara Feran, who resided in Los Angeles most of the time—home to the weird Hollywood baby-naming craze—had come up with something like Moonlight or Starburst.

  Sera bore only a passing resemblance to her cousin. They shared the amber eyes that were a family trait, but she’d grown a shade taller than Marisa by the time she was fourteen—and her dark blond hair set her apart from her cousin, who had long curly brown locks. When Sera had been younger, she and Marisa had been deep in each other’s pockets, and sometimes she’d wished the similarities had been strong enough that they could easily pass as sisters.

  “I’ll be right back,” Marisa said as she started up the stairs from the entry hall. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

  As Sera made her way to the back of the house, she noted once again that it bore the stamp of domesticity. The new home was still sparsely furnished, but the signs of baby were all around. She figured that Jordan must break out in hives here.

  When her cousin came back downstairs moments later, Sera put down her glass of flavored water and braced her hands on the granite kitchen countertop. She wasted no words. “Marisa, Jordan is about to become a client of mine.”

  Her cousin’s expression remained mild as she turned on a baby monitor. “They’re sending him to you to help recover from his torn ACL.”

  Sera didn’t mask her surprise. “You know? And you didn’t warn me?”

  “I found out just this morning. Cole happened to mention Jordan was heading to Astra Therapeutics. But I wasn’t sure he would definitely be assigned to you.” Her cousin wrinkled her brow. “Though, come to think of it, he did make an offhand comment to Cole about possibly asking for you...” She shrugged. “We thought he was teasing because, ah, you two have always seemed to rub each other the wrong way at family gatherings.”

  “Well, it’s no joke, but someone has made a mistake.” Wanting to spare her cousin any awkwardness with her in-laws, and because, frankly, her first encounter with Jordan had been embarrassing, she’d never mentioned to Marisa that she and Jordan had briefly crossed paths in the past. It was bad enough that others could sense tension between her and the youngest Serenghetti brother.

  “If anyone can whip Jordan into shape, it’s you,” Marisa teased.

  Sera scowled as she pushed away from the kitchen counter. “This isn’t funny.”

  “Of course not, but maybe you’ve met your match.”

  Sera shuddered. “Don’t say it.”

  The last thing she needed was for anyone to think Jordan was a work challenge that she couldn’t conquer. First off, she didn’t want to conquer anything—especially him. Second, no way was he her match in any other sense of the word—not that Marisa could mean that. The fact that Jordan had found her infinitely forgettable at twenty-one was evidence enough that they weren’t fated in any way.

  Her cousin glanced down at some paint chips fanned out on the kitchen counter. “Who knew there were so many shades of beige for a guest bedroom?” she asked absently. “I just want a soothing tone, and Cole is kidding me about using Diaper Brown.”

  “Is that the name of a paint color?”

  Marisa pinked. “Paint colors are a running joke in this house ever since Cole and I redid the kitchen cabinets in my old apartment.”

  Her cousin and her husband had only months ago moved into the new colonial in Welsdale that Cole had built for their growing family. They’d moved in right before Dahlia was born, and Sera knew that the process of decorating weighed on Marisa, especially as a new mom. “Most of us can use a professional. Get a decorator.”

  Marisa looked at her thoughtfully. “Isn’t that why Jordan is coming to you? Because you’re a professional?” She tugged on the hem of her top and rubbed at a stain. “Why are you so reluctant to help him?”

  Sera opened her mouth and then clamped it shut. Because...because... No way was she getting into any embarrassing past incidents. “He’s obnoxious.”

  “I know you two have a testy relationship, but he’ll have to do what you tell him.”

  “He’s a smooth operator.” Happy-go-lucky. With a bad memory to boot. And he didn’t know the meaning of struggle.

  Marisa glanced at her keenly. “You’re protesting too much.”

  “Paraphrasing Shakespeare? Spoken like a true English teacher.”

  “Former English teacher. And I’m on maternity leave from the assistant principal position at the Pershing School.” Marisa yawned. “Something to eat?”

  “No, thanks. And you’re doing great in your leave as a new mom.”

  Her cousin gave a rue
ful laugh. “I know, but family history and all. At least Cole is on board.”

  Sera gave her cousin a reassuring pat. Marisa had been raised by a single mom, Sera’s Aunt Donna. Marisa’s father had died before she’d been born—having already made clear that a baby didn’t factor into his plans for pursuing a minor-league baseball career and maybe getting to the majors.

  Men. These days, Sera didn’t need more confirmation that they could be fickle and untrustworthy. Her awful experience with Neil had taught her enough. Jordan had just been the start of her bad track record—one she seemed to share with the women in her family. Must be in the genes. “You and Cole have to convince Jordan this is a bad idea.”

  “Sera—”

  “Please.”

  * * *

  Jordan shifted in his seat next to his brother and glanced around the crowded bar. Business was humming as usual on a Thursday evening at the Puck & Shoot. None of his teammates from the Razors were around, partly because many had scattered for home or vacation in the postseason.

  Sera also no longer moonlighted here as a waitress—and that was a good thing, he told himself. He could still recall his reaction when he’d first discovered, shortly before Cole’s marriage, that the hot blond waitress at his favorite dive was Marisa’s cousin. The fates had a twisted sense of humor.

  Still, tonight, even without his teammates and Sera at the Puck & Shoot, it almost felt like old times. He nearly felt like his old self—normal. Not injured and off the ice, with brothers who’d suddenly morphed into fathers—though he was happy for them. It felt good not to be holed up at home, which would have just given him more time to mull his uncertain future and push away his regular companion these days—unease.

  If he could only take out his frustration and pent-up energy the way he normally did, things would be better. “Man, I miss our evenings at Jimmy’s Boxing Gym.”

  Cole, sitting on the bar stool next to him, smiled. “I’ve got better things to do with my after-work hours these days.”