Power Play

by Anna DePalo

  “Some people pay to see that, you know.”

  Of course she knew Jordan got paid millions for his skills on the ice. Still... “Don’t you ever stop?”

  “Not when it’s this much fun.”

  “Well then, I guess it’s time for me to stop making it so enjoyable for you.”

  “You know, I really was going to let you off the hook today.” Jordan shrugged. “Cole came to see me because you were adamant about not being my therapist. Obviously, you’ve had a change of heart.”

  Now she looked like an opportunist. She didn’t know that Marisa had followed through and told Cole to have a talk with Jordan. “Why didn’t you cancel your appointment? Or ask for someone else before your scheduled time?”

  “I didn’t want you to look bad at the office. I figured it would be better if the word came from you.”

  Sera lowered her shoulders. She felt bad—guilty... Damn him. She was only trying to help her brother!

  Jordan just stood there, being himself—all sexy. Badass abs and chiseled pecs under a formfitting T-shirt, square jaw, magnetic green eyes and all.

  Sera gritted her teeth again. She could do this. She...owed him. “Thanks.”

  He cupped his hand to his ear. “What was that?”

  And just like that, they were back to squabbling. She knew she was rising to the bait, but she couldn’t help herself. “Thank you...for giving me the opportunity to see you grunt and sweat.”

  Jordan laughed but then started leveraging himself onto the treatment table. “Ready when you are.”

  She moved aside his crutches and then helped him stretch his legs before him. When he was settled, she examined his knee. After a few moments of poking and prodding, she had to admit he was coming along nicely. “The swelling is about as good as we can expect at this stage.”

  “So I heal well?”

  She looked up. “You’re a professional athlete at the top of your game. It’s not surprising.” When he looked pleased, she added, “Today we’re going to focus on increasing mobility and improving your quad function even more.”

  “Sounds...fun,” he remarked drily. “You know, it’s amazing we didn’t know each other in high school. You lost some opportunities to kick my butt.”

  “Amazing isn’t the word I’d use.” More like a relief. Her teenage self could have gotten into big trouble with Jordan. As it was...but she was older and wiser now.

  “Marisa mentioned you grew up in East Gannon. Right next door.”

  “And yet a world away.” East Gannon was Welsdale’s poor cousin. People had small clapboard homes, not mansions with expensive landscaping.

  Jordan looked thoughtful. “Welsdale High played East Gannon plenty of times.”

  “I didn’t pay much attention to hockey in high school. I left that stuff to Dante.”

  Jordan’s expression registered surprise. “And you call yourself a New Englander?”

  She stuck out her chin. “I played volleyball.”

  Jordan’s eyes gleamed. “An athlete. I knew there must be something we had in common.”

  Sera stopped herself from rolling her eyes.

  “And you also box to stay in shape, from what I understand,” he murmured. “So two things we have in common.”

  “I doubt there are three,” she countered, and he just laughed.

  She could get used to the way his eyes crinkled and amusement took over his entire face.

  “You went to Welsdale High?” she added quickly. “I figured you’d gone to a fancy place like Pershing School along with Cole.”

  Cole Serenghetti had been a star hockey player at the Pershing School. It was where he’d met Marisa, who’d attended on scholarship. They’d had a teenage romance until Marisa had played a part in Cole’s suspension. Then they’d led separate lives for fifteen years until fate and a Pershing School fund-raiser had brought them together again.

  “Serenghetti Construction wasn’t doing well during a recession, so I decided to take the financial burden off my parents by switching to Welsdale High for my junior year.”

  “Oh.” She tried to reconcile the information with what she knew of Jordan Serenghetti. Self-sacrificing wasn’t a word that she’d have associated with him. And she didn’t want a reason to like him.

  Jordan gave her a cocky grin. “I had an excellent run at Welsdale High School. You missed it all.”

  “No regrets.” Then, giving in to curiosity, she asked, “Do you ever wish you’d gone to Pershing School?”

  “Nope. Welsdale High had just as good a hockey team, and we were the champs twice while I was there.”

  This time, Sera did roll her eyes. “No doubt you think it was due to the fact you were on the team.”

  Jordan smiled. “Actually, I was a lowly freshman for the first win.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe you thought Pershing School was second-best to Welsdale. After all, the suspension that Marisa earned Cole meant that Pershing hadn’t won a championship in a while.”

  Jordan held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I don’t blame Marisa. She had her arm twisted by the fates.” He gave her a cheeky look. “And no, I didn’t transfer because I thought Welsdale High had a better hockey team. I figured whichever side I played on would have the superior team.”

  “So I was right, after all. You claim all the credit.”

  Jordan relaxed his teasing expression. “As I said, since the two teams were about equal, I decided to do my parents a favor by saving on tuition. But I let them believe that the hockey team was the reason for my switching schools.”

  Sera got serious, too. “Well, it was a nice thing to do. Apparently, you do have a pleasant side...occasionally.”

  He angled his head. “Want to help me brush up on my manners?”

  “I’m not a teacher, and something tells me you’d be a poor student. But actually, right now I have something to show you.”

  He perked up.

  “Heel slides,” she said succinctly, all business. “The first exercise for your knee.”

  “Oh.”

  She guided him in a demonstration of sliding the heel of his foot along the treatment table, extending his knee for twenty seconds. After that, as he reclined on the table, he did repetitions by himself while grasping a belt that was anchored with the heel of his foot.

  “Great,” she said encouragingly. “This should improve your quad function.”

  He grunted as he continued, until she felt he’d done enough.

  She took the belt from him and put it aside on the counter. “Now I’m going to teach you something you can do at home by yourself.”

  He arched a brow, and she gave him a stern look even as she felt heat rise to her face.

  “Great,” he managed. “I suppose I should be glad that there are no paparazzi around, angling for a picture of me on crutches.”

  “Exactly.” Putting her index finger at the location of one his incisions, she moved her finger back and forth, her touch smooth but firm. “This scar massage is to reduce inflammation. You should continue to do this daily.” She started a circular motion. “You can also vary the direction.”

  Sera kept her gaze focused on his knee, and Jordan was quiet for a change—watching her.

  “So I have a question,” he finally said, his tone conversational. “Have any of your clients flirted with you? Before me?”

  “We haven’t flirted. Well, you have, but it takes two to tango.” With an impersonal touch, she placed his hand where hers had been on his knee. “Now you try.”

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment, imitating her motion. “Okay, what about before me?”

  She covered his hand to guide him a bit, ignoring the sudden awareness that came from touching him again. “Some have tried, none have succeeded.”

  “Wow, a challenge.”

&nbs
p; “You would see it that way. But nope, a futile endeavor is more like it.”

  He looked up. “Throwing down the gauntlet.”

  She met his gaze. “You’re too incapacitated to bend low enough to pick it up.”

  “But not for long,” he replied with a wicked glint.

  “Now we’re going to try the stationary bike,” she announced, ignoring him.

  Jordan raised his eyebrows. “I’m going to be biking already?”

  “Your good leg will be doing all the work.” She was relieved they were moving to the wide-open gym. Verbally tangling with Jordan Serenghetti while they were alone was like walking a tightrope—it took all her focus, and she needed a break.

  He followed her over to the gym on his crutches, and she helped as he gingerly got on the bike.

  Because he exuded so much charisma, Sera could almost forget Jordan was injured. She refocused her attention and instructed him in what to do.

  He slowly pedaled backward and forward with his right leg, his left knee bending and straightening in response.

  “How’s the pain?” she asked.

  He bared his teeth. “I’ve had worse in training sessions with the Razors.”

  “Good. You want to push but not too hard.”

  “Right.”

  She watched him for a few more minutes until she was satisfied with his effort. “Good job.”

  “Effusive praise from you,” he teased.

  “We’re not done yet,” she parried.

  After several more minutes, they returned to the treatment room, where she instructed him on how to do straight-leg raises while resting on his back. She followed this up with having him do raises from the hip while he was lying on his side. Then she helped him sit up to do short arc quads, raising his leg from the knee.

  As he was finishing up his last exercise, she glanced at the clock and realized with some surprise that their time was up.

  She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and exhaled. “Okay, that’s it for today.”

  He raised his brows. “I’m done?”

  She nodded. “You’re making excellent progress. You’ve gained some more motion in your knee since the surgery, and that’s what we’re going to continue to work on.”

  He smiled. Not mocking, not teasing, just genuine, and Sera blinked.

  “Glad things are working out,” he said.

  That made two of them. For her peace of mind, Jordan couldn’t get well fast enough.

  Four

  “The companies behind the endorsement deals need reassurance. When do you think you’ll be playing again?” Marvin Flor’s worried voice boomed from Jordan’s cell phone.

  Jordan shifted on his sofa. Marv had been his agent since his professional hockey career had started nearly ten years ago. He was good, tough and a whiz at promotion. Hence Jordan’s promotional contracts for everything from men’s underwear to athletic gear and sports drinks. Marv was in his sixties and a dead ringer for actor Javier Bardem—and well into his third decade as a top-notch sports agent.

  “Why don’t you partner with your sister, Mia, for a line of men’s apparel? Isn’t she an up-and-coming designer?”

  Jordan stifled a laugh, pushing aside the thought that Marv’s half-joking suggestion—at least, he thought it was only semiserious—might be a sign of desperation. His house phone rang, and he ignored it. “First off, I don’t think Mia’s ready to branch into men’s sportswear just yet. And second, we’d throttle each other if we worked together. Sibling rivalry and all that.”

  Jordan gazed at the lazy, late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Welsdale penthouse. Usually in the off-season, he was a whirlwind of energy. Vacationing in Turks and Caicos, making personal appearances...working out to keep fit. Now the weights in his private gym lay unused, and he hadn’t met Cole at Jimmy’s Boxing Gym in weeks. At least he’d been able to shed his crutches the other day, since he was close to four weeks postsurgery.

  Marv sighed. “So, okay, what’s the latest on when you’ll be back on the ice?”

  “Doubtful for the beginning of the season. We’re looking at three months of therapy at least.” Jordan winced. His endorsement contracts had clauses in them, and if he wasn’t on the ice, he’d stand to lose a cool few million. And then there was the upcoming negotiation of his contract to continue to play for the Razors...

  “What’s the prognosis?”

  “There’s no reason not to expect full recovery.” At this point.

  Jordan could almost hear Marv’s sigh of relief.

  “Good. Because everyone is aware of the family history.”

  Meaning Cole. Meaning ACL tears ran in the family. And had been career-ending for at least one Serenghetti already. Not good. “I’m in great hands, Marv. The best.” He couldn’t complain about his doctors. His physical therapist, on the other hand...

  Sera had surprised him at their last session. He was happy to help smooth Dante’s way with the Razors. And Sera was going to be his reluctant physical therapist for the duration...even if she sometimes acted as if she wanted to take a few shots at him in the boxing ring. The thought made Jordan smile. In fact, the biggest problem with his prolonged recovery was that his plan for what to do with the endorsement-deal money might be in jeopardy. He’d had a few restless nights about his career hitting the rocks, but he was a fighter.

  “Well, if we can’t get you on the ice, we need to keep you in the public eye with a positive spin,” Marv continued. “That should help keep the companies that you’ve partnered with happy.”

  Jordan heard his landline ring again and told Marv to hold on even as he picked up the receiver with his free hand. After building reception announced that his mother was on her way up, Jordan switched back to his agent. His day was about to get more interesting, and Jordan knew he had to wrap things up with some quick reassurances. “Don’t worry, Marv. With this banged-up knee, I’m not likely to be partying hard in Vegas.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But good press with your name attached to it would be better. It’s not enough to stay out of trouble.”

  Jordan knew Marv would love his plan for what to do with the paychecks from his endorsement deals, but he wanted to keep his idea to himself for the moment. He hadn’t mentioned his intentions to anyone, and anyway, good publicity and Marv’s worries weren’t the reason he wanted to go ahead with his plan. No, his reasons were deeper and personal, which was why he’d kept a lid on his goal till now.

  “I suppose a semiserious relationship isn’t in the cards.”

  Jordan coughed. “No.”

  He intended to enjoy his pinnacle of fame and fortune. He’d spent enough years being the sickly kid who’d been stuck at home—or in the hospital. That was, until he’d grown into a solid teenager who could slap the puck into the goal better than anyone.

  On top of that, his current lifestyle wasn’t conducive to home and hearth. He was on the road half the time when he was playing, and the NHL season was long in comparison to other sports. He wasn’t ready to settle down. He was still Jordan Serenghetti—NHL hotshot and billboard model—despite his temporary detour. He’d spent years on the ice. He wasn’t sure who he was beyond the identity that he’d taken a long time to carve out for himself.

  Marv grumbled. “Well, at the moment you are staying in one place for a while. There’s hope. A relationship with a hometown sweetheart would give us some positive ink in the press. Work with me here.”

  The only woman Jordan was seeing lately was Sera...and she was hardly the type who’d be mistaken for his girlfriend, given that her typical expression around him was a scowl. She’d probably slam the door in a paparazzo’s face—and then issue a vehement denial and threaten litigation about linking her good name to Jordan Serenghetti. The last thought made him smile again.

  He figured the
y could have some fun together—what was the harm in a little flirtation? And he was curious about the basis of Sera’s prickliness. At least it should make her happy that he’d been doing the exercises that she’d assigned for him. He was also looking forward to seeing her next week—sparring with her and peeling back some more of the layers that made up the complex and intriguing Serafina Perini.

  Jordan heard the private elevator that led straight into the penthouse moments before the door opened and his mother appeared, casserole dish in hand.

  “Gotta go, Marv,” he said before ending the call on his agent’s admonition to keep in touch.

  Jordan straightened, lowering his bad leg from where it was resting on the sofa’s seat cushions. “Mom, this is a surprise.”

  Everyone but his mother knew better than to show up unexpectedly.

  Camilla Serenghetti smiled as she stopped before him. “I brought you something to eat.”

  Because his mother still bore traces of an Italian accent—as well as having a habit of mixing words from two languages in a single sentence—the eat came off sounding as if there was a short a vowel at the end of it.

  “Mom, it’s my knee that needs help, not my stomach.” Still, whatever she’d brought smelled delicious.

  “You need to keep up your strength.” She moved toward the kitchen where a Viking range was visible from the living area. “Lasagna.”

  “With béchamel sauce?”

  “Just like you like it.”

  “The staff on the show must adore you if you’re always sharing special dishes.” Like someone else he knew. Except his mother had her own local show, Flavors of Italy with Camilla Serenghetti—her name had been added to the title in recent years.

  His mother turned back from the kitchen and frowned. “It’s not because of the staff that I worry. It’s the new television station owners. I’m not sure they like my cooking.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “There’s talk, chiacchierata, about big changes. Maybe no cooking shows.”

  “They’re considering canceling you?”

  Camilla’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Per piacere, Jordan. Please, watch what you say.”