by Elise Faber
The little wrinkle that had pulled his brows down and together smoothed out. “Yeah?” he asked, lips twitching. “So how tough does it make me look?”
She rolled her eyes. “So tough.”
He chuckled. “That’s what I thought.”
The gurney squeaked as she steered it around the final corner and tucked it into the private room they’d commandeered for him.
And so now what?
They were alone—the nurses with other patients, the doctors analyzing test results. The lights were dim, only half having been switched on in deference to Blane’s headache, and there was little foot traffic thanks to the Gold’s security having locked down this end of the hall.
No rogue photographers would find their way in and snap a pic of him like this—immobile and helpless and incapacitated. They’d learned from before. From—
Dammit. No.
This wasn’t like—
“How are the toes?” she asked and if it sounded mostly desperate, that’s because she was desperate.
To excise the memories, to forget it had happened at all.
Blane frowned, studying her for a moment. He tried to catch her gaze, to get her eyes to meet his, but she couldn’t let that happen. Mandy had a terrible poker face and her emotions always read like subtitles across her expression. There wasn’t a chance she’d let them tangle with his. Not when he read too much.
“Toes are fine,” he finally said after she’d spent far too long examining his stitches and the bruising on his cheek.
She nodded, all business, before smoothing several wrinkles out of the sheet covering the gurney. “And the fingers?”
Blane wiggled the digits in question. “Cooperating.”
“No weakness?” she asked, checking his pulse.
“No.” A pause. “Mandy.”
“And the headache—?”
“Mandy.”
His tone made her jump, made her eyes flash to his, despite her best efforts. Dammit.
Her questions came rapid-fire, attempting to distract. “No headache, then? How’s your pain level otherwise? Is it manageable?”
Somehow his fingers found hers. He was strapped to a stretcher, still in a collar, and his fingers managed to lace with hers.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said gently. “This isn’t like—”
He broke off, squeezed her hand.
Tears flooded her eyes, and her throat went tight. But she couldn’t cry. She couldn’t.
“I’m fine,” she said and though it sounded wobbly, at least she held back the waterworks. “You’re fi—”
The door opened with a screech and she straightened, tugging at her fingers.
Blane didn’t let them go.
Shit. Shit. Sh—She dropped her shoulders and left her hand in his, letting herself take this moment of comfort. She could give herself, give him this and still stay safe.
“Good news,” Dr. Carter said as he strode into the room, the collective of other doctors on his heels. “The CT is clear. We’ll take the collar off, run a few more tests, and I’ll need to reevaluate you in the morning.”
“Tomorrow’s game?” Blane asked. “I’ll be able to play, right?”
Mandy’s fingers tightened. “No.”
Dr. Carter walked around the gurney and gestured for her to help him with the collar. “Mandy is right. No activity for twenty-four hours minimum. You’ll miss at least one game, more if you’re still symptomatic.”
“But I don’t have a concussion—”
“At this moment, things are pointing to that,” she said, removing the brace from around his neck. “Brains are tricky, yes? And you only have one, so listen to Dr. Carter and don’t screw around with it.”
A few coughs from the peanut gallery reminded her that she wasn’t at the arena, safely ensconced in her half dozen treatment beds.
She winced. This wasn’t her domain, and she shouldn’t be taking over.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“No,” Gabe said and he moved around the foot of the bed to give her arm a squeeze. “You’re right.” Together they helped Blane sit up. “Tomorrow we’ll do another evaluation and go from there. That was a big collision. Minimally, you’ll miss a game or two.”
Mandy knew what Blane was thinking. On one hand, it was early in the season so this type of injury wouldn’t necessarily be a setback to playoff hopes.
But on the other, the Gold was a young team and any time one of their veterans missed games, the whole roster suffered.
He was a critical part of their offense and the current leading scorer.
It wouldn’t be easy to replace him.
“No negotiations,” she said, stuffing a pillow behind his back. “But know you’ll be of far better use to the team when you’re healthy.”
He sighed, frustration evident in the lines of his face. “Yeah.”
“Great.” Gabe snapped up the railing on the bed and stepped back. “Let me get a few things in order on the hospital side and we’ll get you out of here.”
Mandy followed him out of the room, eager to escape both her memories and her body’s reaction to Blane. He’d been cut out of his equipment—jersey sliced, shoulder pads in pieces, hockey pants and socks shredded. The only things that had escaped unscathed were his shin guards and his gloves. But because he had been stripped down, he had far too much skin showing for her comfort.
What was it about Blane that made it so she couldn’t distance herself? Why couldn’t he just be another player?
“I’ll Uber to my car at the arena,” she said once they were in the hall and the rest of the doctors had gone off to take care of other patients. “Make sure everything is good there and come back to pick you up. I’m guessing you’ll be done by then?”
He was glancing down at his phone, a frown on his face.
“What is it?” she asked. “Dr. Carter?”
He looked up, made a face. “Gabe,” he said. “There’s too much of this Dr. Carter nonsense going around already.”
One half of her mouth tipped up. “Well, you are a doctor.”
“Why did I hire you again?”
The familiar rapport brought her back into herself.
“Because I’m the best?”
He snorted. “True. But you should still call me Gabe.”
She bumped her shoulder with his. “I could, except I have this thing with authority, and calling my boss by his first name is just too weird.”
“You’re weird. And a liar.”
“Nailed it,” she joked, tapping her nose. “Now, what’s up with that, Gabe?” She nodded at his phone.
“Blue’s down in X-ray. Possible broken hand.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
When it rained in professional sports, it tended to pour. “I’ll get my car, check on the crew, and make sure Blane gets home.” She pulled out her own phone and glanced at the time. “An hour to discharge him? I’ll get security to send him a car.”
“Thanks.” He turned for the elevators then paused. “So you can’t use my first name, but cursing in front of your boss is okay?”
“I’m weird.” A shrug. “And it annoys you. Plus, this is hockey.”
He laughed as he left, calling over his shoulder, “Make sure you sleep at some point tonight, Mandy.”
“You, too, Dr. Carter.”
Smirking at the one-fingered salute he gave her, she headed back toward Blane’s room and pushed the door open—then promptly cursed and let it slam closed.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Dammit. Fuck.
Why hadn’t she knocked?
Because now she had the image of Blane—naked, yummy, naked Blane burned into her brain.
And it was a fucking amazing image.
She’d already seen a lot of him, but this was . . . all of it. She had seen everything. And fuck, what right did he have to look so good hours after a potential career-ending collision? Mandy dropped her head against the door, fingers
coming up to press against her mouth, trying to contain the mental stream of cursing to just her brain.
If one word, hell, one sound escaped, she was going to lose it.
She’d been pushed and pushed and pushed. By the memories, by her attraction. She wasn’t levelheaded, wasn’t remotely calm in that moment.
Nope. She was a woman on the edge and—
The door swung open.
Her arms flailed, her fingers lost their battle at containing the streak of curse words, and she toppled into Blane’s room, her face on a breakaway with the hard tile floor.
But she didn’t even come close to hitting.
Because Blane pulled her against his chest, steadying her against the wide expanse of smooth, hot skin and hard muscles.
And then it wasn’t just with curse words that she lost her battle.
Instead, she lost her head, her body, her . . . heart.
She kissed him.
Four
Blane
* * *
Clearly he’d hit his head harder than he realized.
That was the only rational reason for why he was hallucinating, for why Mandy was in his arms now after he’d been dreaming about her for months.
But fuck it all, dream or hallucination or real life, he wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip from his grip.
She was small, so much smaller than his bulky ass and so he lifted her, pinning her against the door so that her mouth could reach his more easily. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands came to his shoulders, pulling them even more tightly together.
Her lips were soft, her body lush, her moans—
Fuck. She was everything.
Until the hands on his shoulders began to push away instead of pull closer, until her legs dropped from his hips and scrambled for purchase on the floor, until her mouth was torn from his.
“Blane. Fuck. Shit. Dammit. I—”
He was hard and aching, and his headache had transformed into a dizziness he knew was less from the hit and more from the tornado that was Mandy, but when she got all flustered and started running through her repertoire of curse words, he couldn’t help but want to make her feel better.
“It’s okay,” he said, lowering her to the ground and holding her steady as she got her feet under her. “Let’s just blame the brain injury.”
“I—” Her head plunked onto his chest and he took the opportunity to run his fingers through her ponytail.
Silk. Just as he’d suspected. Chocolate brown and silky and soft.
“I could have hurt you.”
Blane scoffed. “You? Hurt me? Sweetheart, you’re what, a buck ten? It’s more likely my clumsy ass will crush you.”
“Mandy,” she muttered, talking to herself instead of answering him. “You are unbelievable.” She shoved out of his arms and turned to face the door.
He stared at her rigid spine, the tense set of her shoulders.
Yes, she was. So fucking unbelievable it took his breath away.
But he’d also been around her for three seasons now, and he knew that when she was like this—stiff, tense, stubbornness radiating from every pore—that there would be nothing he could do to get through her shell.
She’d lock her armor down tight and it was strong enough to resist a nuclear blast.
Nothing would get through.
Except maybe—
“Do you think you could find me some pants?”
And there it was. She whipped around to face him. “What?”
He pointed down. “Pants.”
He felt like cheering when her cheeks went pink, when her eyes drifted down to . . . well, his cup had gotten uncomfortable, so he’d taken it off. And it wasn’t like there had been a towel or a hospital gown or even a suit nearby. All his gear had been cut off him except the fucking cup.
Which had been a cruelty in and of itself with Mandy popping in and out of eyeshot and making his jock go uncomfortably tight.
His fault, he knew, for making sure she’d come.
But whatever. He’d finally been untrussed, and lying there like a lump after everyone had gone wasn’t going to make anything better.
So he’d gotten up in search of clothes or a gown and to get rid of the fucking cup already.
Unfortunately, he’d also given Mandy an unintentional eyeful.
After spending a lot of his life in locker rooms, nudity was just what it was. He wasn’t embarrassed or shy in the least.
But when Mandy looked at him like he was a gallon of Ben and Jerry’s and she was the spoon . . . yeah, he liked that a lot.
She coughed, eyes flicking back down and up again. He’d covered himself with his hands because he was a fucking gentleman. Ha. Fine. But at least he was trying, right?
“P-pants?” she asked.
He grinned.
“Yes, please. I’d like to walk out of here without creating the next Gold scandal.”
“I”—she licked her lips, and his grin faded because fuck did he want this woman—“can find you . . . um . . . something.”
He sent a mental prayer up that the something in question might be a bed with her naked and willing in it.
“Yeah. Uh—pants. You definitely need pants.” She bit the corner of her mouth and nodded sharply before turning back for the door and struggling with the handle.
“Hey, Mandy?”
Her chin dropped. “Yeah?”
“You kiss real good.”
Not even close to proper English or even a reasonably sensible statement, but when his mind was spinning with all the dirty things he wanted to do to her at that moment, public space be damned, it was enough.
She kissed like a fucking goddess and the taste he’d had wasn’t nearly enough.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” she said softly.
He ran a few strands of her ponytail between his fingers. “I’m really glad you did.”
“It was a mistake.” She pulled open the door.
“I understand.”
Her eyes flew to his.
He nodded. “I won’t bring it up again.”
Emotions flew across her face, too fast for him to process. Gratitude maybe? And relief. But also something else. Disappointment?
Fuck. He didn’t know and frankly, he was too tired and dizzy to figure it out now that the adrenaline from having Mandy in his arms was fading.
The pain was back.
He wanted to be home, relaxing on his couch with a beer.
“Bring what up?” Her lips curved just slightly and she turned back to face him, brushing her fingers across his cheek. “Sit down before you fall down. I’ll be back as soon as I can and then we’ll get you home.”
Blane wanted to tug her close for another hit of that pure Mandy energy, but she pushed through the door and was gone before his ass hit the mattress.
Five
Mandy
* * *
“Oh God,” she murmured, stopping to thunk her head against the wall the moment she was around the corner from Blane’s room. “Oh my fucking God.”
She had not just done that.
She had not just opened up the can of worms that was her sexual attraction to Blane.
He had not just kissed her back.
Why had he kissed her back?
Adrenaline. Worry. A man’s reaction to a highly charged situation.
That had to be it.
So why didn’t it feel like that?
Why did she feel like she’d just stood on the edge of a cliff, thought Why the fuck not? and jumped?
She was a woman in a man’s profession. She didn’t fraternize with players or the team’s staff, couldn’t afford to fraternize, not when her contract had a clause that forbade it. And frankly, she also didn’t date within the organization because it was so cliché. Oh, girl falls for hot guy on the sports team, gives everything up for him, and lives happily ever after.
Except it didn’t work out that way.
She’d lived in the product
of such a happily ever after and believe her, life had not been a fucking fairy tale.
A simpering mother.
An abusive father.
Being told to be sweeter, prettier, better so that her dad wouldn’t find fault in her, and therefore find fault in her mother. Being called ugly, stupid, useless by both parents when he inevitably did find fault in her.
Because he always found something that needed to be improved upon.
Except it wasn’t encouraging a kid who’d missed one word on the spelling test to practice it a few times so they got it. No. Instead, it was making that kid sit down and write the word out a hundred times.
He hadn’t scheduled some extra time on the tennis court when she lost the championship match.
He’d taken every evening, every weekend and filled them with private lessons and camps and thousands of serves and volleys and backhands.
Thank God she hadn’t played hockey.
She had that thought every single day of her life. Thank God her dad had played in the NHL, thank God he’d been away half the year, and thank God she was a girl and had no business playing a man’s sport.
And yet, she’d loved him, had wanted him to love her.
Unfortunately, sometimes people were only able to love themselves.
She’d figured that it was fate’s cruel joke, her getting the job with the Gold, and she probably would have turned it down flat if it hadn’t been for Gabe.
They’d met in med school, staying in touch after they’d both graduated. He’d gone on for his residency program and she’d left the field for physical therapy, completing a certification program while he’d slogged through ninety-hour weeks.
She’d quit medicine, disappointing her father one final time before he’d died.
It had been the single bravest thing she’d done, and also the stupidest . . . according to him.
But she’d never wanted to be a doctor, not in the way Gabe had. She was more interested in the body as a whole, in treating it to remove pain, to help it accomplish more.
Mandy could have gone into orthopedics, but she hadn’t wanted to be in a hospital setting broken bones. She’d wanted to stop them from getting to that point in the first place, to get someone who had been injured back to normal, to help with chronic pain.