by S. M. West
Aww, Riggs, I’ve missed you.
“Well, I’ll be.” Riggs lowers the large, muscled leg of the player on the table.
I can’t tell who he’s working on. The player is face down, looking in the other direction, and the huge, hard body with short brown hair doesn’t help to narrow it down. He could be any number of guys on the team.
“You came.” Riggs wipes his large hands on a towel, and I’m reminded of his good looks.
He could easily pass for an athlete with his well over six-two chiseled physique, but there’s a softness in his eyes and smile that gives away his profession as a caregiver. And although he’s inching closer to fifty, he looks more like his late thirties.
“You called.” I shrug and smile, blinking away the tears pooling in my eyes.
Riggs turns his back to the examining table with arms open. “I’ve called before, but you’ve never come. What’s changed?” His tone isn’t admonishing, nor his expression punishing, and I’m eternally grateful for his unconditional friendship.
Closing my eyes, I sink into his welcoming hug, both relieved he’s got my back and angry with myself for dragging him into my mess. He’s one of the very few people I trust.
When we first met, an immediate bond was forged as fellow Canadians, but over time he grew to mean so much more to me. I’ve missed my friend and mentor and can’t believe I’ve let months go by without seeing him.
My silly pride got in the way. No, it was more than pride. Embarrassment. I left the only career I’ve ever wanted and at the time, I didn’t fight for it.
“Well, I figured I made you wait long enough.” I breathe in his familiar Old Spice cologne and smile from the inside out.
Becoming a physical therapist for a professional team was always my goal. I wasn’t good enough to go pro but I loved sports. In high school, I was not only on the cheer squad, but also the volleyball and flag football teams. I understand athletes and love the game.
“Still a smartass.” He chuckles and lightly pinches the side of my hip, something he used to do often. I wince, sucking in a breath, but quickly school my features.
My father’s career-ending injury led me to sports medicine. I was barely five when it happened, and it took me years to understand a free-flying baseball bat to the knee can shatter more than just a body part. It’s too late for my father, but helping athletes successfully recover from injuries that could end their dreams is all I’ve ever wanted to do.
“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
I step back, now seeing it’s Sonny Marsen, defensive lineman, whom Riggs was treating. My stomach twists.
“Fuck, Pippa.” All three hundred pounds of muscle spring from the table to hoist me clear off the floor.
“Damn, Sonny.” I slap his solid shoulder, sputtering and laughing, hoping pain isn’t showing on my face. “Put me down.”
The John Cena lookalike laughs, squeezing the breath out of me one more time before letting me go.
“You’re lookin’ damn fine.” His admiring gaze roves my body and I roll my eyes. “Girl, where you been?”
Breathing becomes difficult, as if I’m in an imaginary chokehold. I don’t want to lie, nor do I intend to tell him the real reason for my disappearance.
“I’ve been around.”
“Lookin’ after my man?” Sonny winks, suggesting my time spent with Brock is all fun and games. If only.
“Sure.” I shrug, looking to Riggs to save me.
“All right. Go get that iced.” Riggs motions for Sonny to leave.
“You got it, Doc.”
Sonny makes his way to the door, pausing to look at me over his shoulder.
“Hey, Pippa, we’re having a barbecue next week once we’re back from the game. Brock’s coming but he wasn’t sure about you. We want you there. Janice wants to see you.”
“Sure, thanks.” I tuck my hands into my pockets before either of them notices my balled fists. “I’d love to.”
“Make sure you come this time, no bailing at the last minute. We’re onto you.” Sonny winks again and I frown.
This time?
Brock strikes again, determined to keep me to himself. His team—they were once my team too—think I’m MIA by choice thanks to him. There have been several team events that Brock has attended alone without saying a word to me, only for me to hear about them after the fact. He doesn’t like me being around the team. Around other men. And especially since I’m welcomed and treated like family.
“You all right?” Riggs asks once we’re alone.
“Fine. And you?”
“What was that about?”
“What?”
“I saw the way you reacted to Sonny’s invite and the rest of it. You didn’t know about any of the barbecues, did you?” With only words, my carefully-constructed hiding spot falls away.
“Riggs, did you call me over here to talk about my social life?” I jokingly deflect. “I thought you wanted a consult.”
“Fine.” He releases a long breath. “It’s Ty.”
Ty Collins is our quarterback and one of the main reasons the team’s been doing so well the past couple seasons. Up until eight months ago, when I quit my job, I was Ty’s physical therapist and we were making significant progress.
Riggs pulls X-rays from a folder, pinning them to the illuminator box.
“His shoulder?” I fix my gaze on the translucent images.
“Yes.” He hands me a folder. “Surgery might be our only option at this point, but I wanted your take before I say anything.”
We share a look. Surgery is the last thing the owners, manager or coaches want to hear, especially at the start of a season. I’m focused on every notation in Ty’s file when the door flies open.
The air grows heavier, suffocating, and there’s nothing to do about the churning in my stomach. I’ve accepted this sensation whenever he’s near. Now, my body’s reaction to Brock is no different than breathing.
“Hey, Brock.” Riggs smiles for my husband, but I see the strain in the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth. “Good to see you. Look who I asked to come in.”
Riggs is in the dark about our marital problems. When I left my job, I ignored every single text and call and never answered the door when he came to the house. I’d been a mess and didn’t know how to explain any of it to myself, much less anyone else.
And I respect Mason Riggs so much that it made me sick at the thought of telling him the ugly truth. My husband is a controlling, jealous asshole and forced me to give it all up. And why I went along with it is hard for me to explain, and I don’t expect people to understand.
“Hey, Doc.” Brock’s hand curls tightly around the nape of my neck. “Hi, honey.”
I stiffen, slowly raising my head to him. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
His eyes narrow, flicking to the open folder as I snap it shut. Patient confidentiality trumps his dickhead need to know everything. Teammate or not, Ty’s medical records are none of his concern.
“I asked Pippa to consult on an injury. I miss having her brain to bounce ideas off.” Riggs’s emphasis on brain suggests he’s aware of Brock’s jealous tendencies.
“Yeah, she’s great for bouncing things off.” His low voice carries a hint of amusement.
The incident with Matt was two days ago, but after he left, Brock took great pleasure in bouncing me all over the place. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I’ve had worse. But needless to say, the very thought makes me want to get out of here. To run and never look back.
Not yet, but soon. Just a little bit longer.
Brock can’t leave this facility right now, but I can.
“Riggs, I’m going to have to get back to you on this.” I thrust the closed folder at him, but he doesn’t take it. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Can you spare five minutes? There are a few options I’m considering and would really appreciate your thoughts.”
“Um…” I steal
a look at Brock, whose stare is locked on me.
I want to stay. It feels like I just got here, but not with Brock looking on, ready to critique the inflection of my words or infer swaying hips or batting eyelashes as my wanton ways. His wild accusations are already alive and screaming in my mind.
“Brock, aren’t you supposed to be in the offensive meeting?” The good doctor checks his watch and furrows his brow. “Or has practice started?”
“Uh, yeah.” Brock nods, sheepishly scratching behind his ear. “I was just grabbing a sec to see Pippa, since Sonny said she was here.”
“Well, you saw her. And you’ll see her tonight.” Riggs’s impish smile and teasing tone softens his point. “Get going. Big game on Sunday and we need your A-game.”
Riggs knows which buttons to push. Football is Brock’s first, and perhaps only, love. My husband doesn’t scowl or protest, but rather, lightly kisses my forehead and leaves.
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” I play dumb.
With a frustrated sigh, Riggs narrows his eyes and gives me a don’t-pull-that-shit-with-me look.
“Brock didn’t come in here to say hi. The second he walked in, things got real. I could barely breathe in here. What gives?”
“I could ask the same of you. You didn’t need me for a consult.” I wave Ty’s file between us. “It’s clear he needs surgery and you don’t need me to tell you that. So why ask me down here?”
A sly grin languidly creeps across his face. “Have I told you how much I miss you?”
Silence holds us for a beat, eyes locked, lips twitching, before we both break out with soft chuckles. But the levity quickly evaporates as Riggs straightens his stance and sobers his features.
“I’ve been hearing things, and while I don’t want to pry, I also worry about you.”
“What kinds of things?” My throat dries, suddenly feeling like I’ve been wandering in the desert for days without water.
“The kind that makes a friend worry. Is Brock stepping out on you?”
I choke on the barely-there spit I’ve been trying to muster together, totally surprised at his direct question, although I shouldn’t be. With his hand now on my shoulder, he steadies me while I cough down my embarrassment, wishing the ground would open and swallow me whole.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to butt my nose into your business, and I didn’t mean to say it so bluntly, but something tells me you’re already aware.”
“Matt?” I ask and he confirms with a nod.
“They got into it on Monday in the locker room, and then again yesterday.”
“Was this in front of the team?” The blood floods to my heart, my extremities chilling in anticipation.
“Yeah. Things were heated and believe it or not, the guys ended up debating the sanctity of marriage. But I got the impression that a few of them were already aware of Brock’s dalliances.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, attempting to fluff off what he’s saying like it’s no big deal, but I fail.
“You can trust me. I’m your friend, first and foremost.”
“And I appreciate that, and as my friend, I need you to drop it. Please.”
“There’s more, isn’t there?” he asks as if I never said a word.
“Riggs.” My fingernails dig into my palms, hoping the pain will quell my humiliation.
“This is more than infidelity. You quit your job with no explanation. I don’t see hide nor hair of you for months and now, the weird vibe between you and Brock.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, forcing the words to stay trapped in my throat. He hasn’t asked a question and I didn’t come here to bare all.
“I want to help.”
“I could use your help.”
“Tell me what you need. Anything.” His gaze is warm and imploring.
Swallowing my pride like shards of glass, I stand tall and raise my chin. “My marriage is over. He is controlling and I want out. This is where I need a favor. But you’ve got to understand that Brock doesn’t know any of this yet.”
“Does he force you? Lock you up?”
“Please.” My voice cracks as one hot, fat tear spills onto my cheek.
His straightforward nature isn’t meant to be overbearing or demanding. His gentle tone and soft gaze show he means well. I think he feels frustrated and helpless, and as much as I want to lessen those feelings and give him answers, I can’t.
This is the first time I’ve talked about my marriage with anyone. The first time I’ve had to admit anything. I’ve deliberately kept my family and friends at arm’s length, or tried pushing them away altogether, to avoid this. Saying it out loud makes it too real. Which is strange because you’d think it doesn’t get more real than the bruises on my body.
Riggs doesn’t push for more and as if we continue the conversation without words, he must see something in my countenance because out of nowhere, he says, “Fucker!”
Urgently, his arms wrap around my cold, rigid body as if he knows I need something to help me hold myself together now that he’s figured it out. My fingers curl around the back of his white coat and I bury my face into the warmth of his chest.
His hand lightly caresses the back of my head as he whispers soothing words of strength and encouragement. He doesn’t ask for more details or for confirmation and I’m not even sure if we’re on the same page, but I need this.
We stay like that for a while, and eventually I push away, glancing up at him.
“Tell me what you need besides my kicking his ass.” He is dead serious but even still, I burst with laughter.
There’s no way Mason Riggs could kick Brock’s ass. And I’m not after blood, only a way out. Riggs is in great shape but Brock is a powerhouse.
My laugher dissolves into something more jittery and more hollow. None of this is funny. And before I know what’s happening, I’m sobbing uncontrollably. My dear friend’s smile morphs from amusement to compassion, as if giving me permission, or no, more like support, to lose my shit, to rid myself of whatever this is.
Once stronger, I proceed to ask for his assistance with things that I can’t do without fear of Brock finding out. Riggs readily agrees to any and all of it, even asking for more things to do, to help me, but I tell him that’s it for now.
“You can’t go back there. Get out now,” he says.”
“Not yet. But soon. His away game is this weekend.”
“You can stay with me.”
“Yeah, right. I might as well give Brock an invitation to beat the shit out of you,” I scoff.
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, if I leave now, he’ll know and try to stop me.”
“He can’t stop you if you’re not in the house.” Riggs clenches his jaw and his determined gaze drills into me.
“Please do it my way,” I say, desperate for him to hear me and follow my wishes.
“I don’t like it, but okay,” he finally says.
“Good. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be in touch.” I kiss his cheek and leave.
I hope he meant what he said and will follow my lead. He wants to help, and what I need right now, more than anything, is time. Just a few more days and then I leave Brock.
4
Drew
The door to my office opens and instinctively I hit the button for my assistant, who immediately answers.
“Mr. Hayes?” My assistant’s pleasant voice crackles through the speaker.
“Linda, I told you I wasn’t to be interrupt—” I stop talking as Paige pushes into my office, distraught with tears in her eyes and lips trembling.
My insides twist and I depress the connection with Linda, mumbling goodbye, while rising from my desk.
“What’s wrong?” My tone is heavy and low, and I walk toward her, dreading every step, every breath.
Paige’s bottom lip is red and swollen, possibly even bleeding, from the endless assault of her teeth nibbling on the plump, tender flesh.
“Pippa,” she whispers, and a tear slips from the corner of her eye.
My heart leaps into my throat. Something’s wrong with Pippa? My thoughts jump to the worst possible outcomes. Is she hurt? Dead?
“Tell me,” I demand.
“Mason Riggs called me. He works with her, I think.” Paige paces back and forth, wringing her hands. “She’s… my god, I don’t know how to say this.”
Her big, troubled brown eyes capture mine and my stomach sinks, clueless as to where she’s taking me.
“Get to the point, Paige.”
“I am,” she grits out. “This isn’t easy. Something is wrong with her. He couldn’t say for sure but it’s her husband. Her marriage. He thinks Brock hurts her.”
“Hurts her?” I grab Paige by her upper arms, forcing her to stay still, to look at me. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” She shakes free from my grasp. “He told me that she needs us. He’s helping her but he felt that she needed her family. He said she was too isolated and needed to know that she had people who love her and will help her.”
As if in a vacuum, all the air is sucked from my lungs, from the room. My brain isn’t working right. None of what Paige is saying matches what I know about Pippa’s life. She’s supposed to be happily married. She has her dream job. Her life is full and perfect.
Or at least that’s what I told myself, time and time again.
It was some twisted game I played with myself. To both ease my endless guilt for letting her go, and also torture myself for letting her. All I’ve ever wanted was her happiness, even if that meant without me. Even if it hurt.
“How’d he find you?” I ask, now grappling to punch holes in her story. Refusing to believe any of it. At the same time, I’m waging war with myself. So goddamn scared that any of it may be true. And if so, then what?
“He found me through her social media.”
“How do you even know this guy’s legit?”