Fool Me Once (Bad Boy Romance)

by Lexy Parker

  I got up to stare out the window into the plain back yard. If I lived in the house, I would have a pool put in. It was something I had planned to do for my parents before I figured out they weren’t going to actually move in. I wanted to do something for them, but they were making it very difficult. My dad was a strong, independent man who hated the idea of charity. I had told him time and again it wasn’t charity if it was coming from family. No matter what I said, they weren’t going for it.

  I turned my face to the sun and squinted my eyes. It was a beautiful, mild spring day and would have been an excellent time to go for a hike or spend some time at the beach. The beach back in California. It was too cold for the beach here. I thought about what my life had been like when I lived here growing up. I wondered if I could go fishing, before quickly scrapping the idea. Casting a line was a lot like pitching and there was no way my arm was up for that.

  I heard a knock on the door and immediately assumed it was my mother. No one else knew I was at the house and it wasn’t like we were in town where there were a lot of door-to-door salesmen. I answered it, wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a T-shirt.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, staring at two men, one wearing a suit and the other dressed a bit more casually.

  I realized I shouldn’t have answered the door. They could be reporters. Someone might have realized I was in town and I had just opened the damn door. Coach would kill me for not being more careful. I knew anyone could find out anything with a simple internet search. I stared at the men and debated slamming the door in their faces.

  “We were sent from the team. I’m an orthopedic surgeon out of Nashville and this is my assistant,” the man in the casual wear explained. “I was asked to come down and check on your arm and provide them with my opinion on the situation. They’ve forwarded me the chart and I have had a chance to review the results of the MRI, but I need to do a quick exam if you don’t mind.”

  I opened the door wider, knowing I didn’t have the option of telling them no. The team essentially owned my body. I had to do what they wanted, and I was all for a doctor telling me what I needed to do to fix it. It was pretty impressive what the team was willing to do to get me back in the game. It made me feel valuable, while making me feel awful for letting them down.

  “Come in. We can go in the kitchen,” I told them, leading the way.

  “Great. Can you have a seat on that stool? I want to test your range of motion,” the doctor said.

  “Sure. I do have an appointment with the massage therapist in about twenty minutes,” I said.

  The doctor nodded. “This won’t take long at all.”

  He went through a series of tests, moving my arm up and down and testing the tension before placing his hands over my shoulder and feeling my bones, sliding his hand up to my neck and down my arm. His expression was grim as he did each exercise. The assistant was busy tapping on a tablet as he watched the doctor.

  “Well?” I asked when he took the tablet and tapped out his own notes before handing it back to his assistant.

  He took a deep breath and looked me in the eye. I could tell I wasn’t going to like this. This was not the facial expression of someone about to make my day. “I’ll be honest,” he said, “it isn’t good. As I understand, the injury was sustained nearly a week ago. If it were minor, it would already be healing on its own. I can feel some swelling in the shoulder and you have a limited range of motion. Those two things suggest the injury is more severe than initially thought.”

  I tried not to let the words upset me. “But there is still a chance it could get better?” I asked hopefully.

  The doctor sighed. “It is possible. I would suggest keeping up with the massage therapy and doing the stretching exercises. If it hurts or pulls, stop. This isn’t something where you can work through the pain. The pain is a sign of injury and pushing through could make it worse. Athletes tend to have a higher pain tolerance. Listen to your body. If it doesn’t feel right, stop.”

  I nodded. “I will. I’m not pushing it. I haven’t done anything to strain it. I’m doing everything the doctor told me to do,” I assured him.

  “Great. We’ll check in with you in a week to ten days. The therapist will send us a report on her findings as well. Good luck. We’d hate to see this take you out of the game,” the doctor said as he walked out the door.

  “It won’t!” I shot back, hating that everyone was already writing me off.

  I wasn’t done, not yet. I could work through the pain. I only needed a couple of good years and then the damn thing could fall off. I had to make it work. I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water when I heard the door open. I spun around and saw my mother walking in. I shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d been letting herself in all week. Technically, it was her house, I supposed, but I wasn’t used to the lack of privacy.

  “Who were those men?” she asked, carrying in a foil-covered dish.

  “A doctor from Nashville. The team sent him to check on the arm.”

  “Oh? What did he have to say?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing really. Mom, I have to get going. I’m already late for my therapy appointment,” I told her, leaning forward and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Okay. I’ll leave the casserole in the fridge for you,” she said, giving me a quick hug before walking out.

  My mom had been taking care of me since I’d been back. It was nice to have her around and truth be told, I wasn’t used to doing things like preparing my own meals or even doing laundry. She had been stepping in and helping out without acting like she was doing anything out of the ordinary. My dad was a different story. I climbed into the SUV and headed into town. I was a few minutes late, but it wasn’t like they were going to give away my appointment. The team would cover any fees they might charge for being late or going long on an appointment.

  When I walked into the room at the clinic, Evie was already there, sitting on the stool at the small corner desk.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I muttered.

  She got up, looked at me and shrugged. “It’s your dime.”

  “I’m sorry about before,” I said, stripping off my shirt.

  “About what?” she asked coolly.

  “Hitting on you. I was only playing. I really need this, and I don’t want it to be weird. I don’t want to try and find another therapist to work with,” I explained.

  She looked at me and offered a small smile. “It’s fine. I don’t let that kind of stuff interfere with my job. I’m a professional.”

  “Good. I appreciate that.”

  “Can you lie down, please? I need to be able to reach across your back and you’re a tall guy,” she said.

  I got off the table, turned and lay down on my stomach. I had gotten plenty of massages in the past from the team therapist, but this felt different. There was a tension in the room that was making me feel out of sorts.

  She was quiet as she began kneading at the injured arm, applying more pressure than she had before. “I’m going to work both sides. You’re very tense.”

  I scoffed. “There’s a lot of pressure on me right now.”

  “I understand,” she replied.

  The room was too quiet. I knew she had asked me not to talk, but I needed to. I winced, doing my best not to let her know there was pain as she moved over my shoulder blade.

  “You can talk, please talk,” I mumbled.

  “About?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Are you from around here?” I asked, knowing it was a lame attempt at conversation, but it felt safe.

  “Yes. I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “Did you go to school here?” I asked, guessing her to be around my age.

  “I did,” she said, not offering me anything else.

  “I did too. What year did you graduate?” I asked, feeling that was a safer way to ask how old she was.

  She sighed, and I thought maybe she wouldn’t answer. “Class of two thousand
twelve.”

  I chuckled softly. “I was two thousand ten. I don’t remember you.”

  “Why would you?” she snapped.

  “Because it was kind of a small school. I knew a lot of people back in the day,” I told her.

  “I doubt we ran in the same circles,” she retorted, her hands digging deeper into my muscles.

  I cringed when she prodded especially deep. “Can I have a break?” I mumbled.

  “Sure,” she said, stepping away from the table. “The bathroom is just through the door on the right.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered, walking into the back hallway shirtless and making my way to the bathroom.

  I walked inside and locked the door behind me, taking several deep breaths. I stared at myself in the mirror before looking at my right shoulder. It looked normal. I kept expecting to see something broken or some kind of visible injury. There was nothing evident, but holy shit, it hurt like hell. I tried to lift my arm and felt the pinch. It wasn’t getting better. It was getting worse. My arm wasn’t healing.

  I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to come to grips with what was happening. It seemed so wrong. I just kept thinking if I tried a little harder, it would get better. I closed my eyes, going into that training mode I needed to stay focused. I had to keep my eyes on the prize.

  Chapter 10

  Evie

  I waited for Dayton to return, wondering what it was that had him practically running from the room. I had noticed the change in his demeanor almost immediately. Wednesday, he had been cocky and full of himself, acting like the arm thing was no big deal. Today he’d been subdued, almost depressed. I had been in the business long enough to know the injury to his arm was pretty serious. It wasn’t just his arm. I could tell by the tension and knotted muscles in his neck and other arm that he was straining those muscles to make up for the injured shoulder. But I wasn’t a doctor and had no business giving him my own, very unqualified opinion.

  When he came back to the room, he looked defeated. He sat down on the table without saying a word. I expected a smartass comment or something, but he said nothing.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked him.

  He looked at me, his crystal-green eyes full of worry. “No.”

  “What is it? Something I can help with?” I asked, wondering if it was my aloof attitude.

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. I feel like my arm is getting worse instead of better.”

  My eyes widened with surprise. “Because of the massage? Am I doing something that is making it worse?” I asked with horror.

  Not only did I hate the idea that I was inflicting pain on him, but there was still the threat of his team coming after me for injuring their star player. I wasn’t rich. I couldn’t afford a lawyer and I certainly couldn’t afford to pay a huge settlement. My mind raced as I thought about Tom’s warning and I wondered what kind of insurance I had to protect me from being sued.

  “Evie.”

  “Hmm?” I asked, my mouth dry.

  “I said, no, not the massage.”

  “You did?” I mumbled, staring at him once again.

  “The massage is the only thing that makes it feel better. It’s temporary, but it is some relief.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh. Good. I mean, not good that the arm feels worse, but I’m glad the massage is helping.”

  He didn’t seem any happier. “I can’t very well be on the pitcher’s mound and get a massage after every pitch.”

  I smiled. “Probably not, but don’t you guys usually have trainers or something that hang out in the dugout or whatever you call it?”

  He smiled. “Yes, and we can ice our arms in between innings, but I don’t know if it is going to be enough. My arm doesn’t feel right.”

  I could see how sad that made him. Seeing this stripped-down version of himself, I realized he was only a man. A man that was insecure about his future. He’d put on quite the show the other day, but that’s all it was—a show. A way to keep people at arm’s length.

  “Let me try to work on it a little more and see if we can’t get those muscles to loosen up for you,” I told him.

  “Should I lie down?”

  I nodded. “You’re holding your shoulders and neck in an awkward position, which is putting strain on your upper and lower back as well as your good shoulder. I want to try and work out that tension. I need to get the muscles in your injured shoulder to relax a bit.”

  “Thank you. That sounds like a very good plan.”

  I got to work on his arm and back, letting my hands slide over his tanned skin. “How long have you been in California?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

  “Couple of years,” he mumbled, his cheek pressed against the table.

  “You live there year-round?”

  “Mostly. We travel a lot, but I do have an extended-stay apartment I keep in the city. I like it out there. I love all the recreation available and I don’t have to wait until spring or summer,” he explained.

  I laughed. “You sound like my friend. She likes the idea of being able to spend her days at the beach all day, every day, regardless of the time of year.”

  He chuckled. “It does have its perks.”

  “How did you hurt your arm?”

  He groaned as I rubbed especially deep. “Pitching.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said, continuing to rub.

  “It was one pitch. One damn pitch. I was supposed to be starting the next game. I had been practicing hard all week, doing extra work in preparation for the new role, and I threw out my damn arm. Some guys can pitch for years and never have any problems. I throw one damn pitch and I’m sidelined. Hell, I may have just cost myself my career.”

  I grimaced. “I’m sorry. That would be hard. I can’t imagine my entire career dependent on my body’s ability to be in perfect shape. That’s a lot of pressure.”

  “It is, but we are going into the job knowing a single injury, one fall, one wrong move on the field is all it takes to turn our world upside down,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything. In my opinion, which I doubted he wanted to hear, it seemed silly to put so much on oneself. Professional athletes pushed their bodies beyond their own endurance and caused themselves a great deal of pain and suffering. I preferred to avoid pain when I could. I couldn’t imagine putting myself into a job that required me to beat myself up on a daily basis. Fame and fortune were not worth it.

  “We’re all finished,” I told him, stepping away from the table.

  He sat up and reached for his shirt, once again covering up his beautiful body. “I know you know this, and I hate to keep saying it, but you really can’t tell anyone I am here, and you definitely can’t tell them just how bad this arm is.”

  I nodded. “I know. I’ve been told. Like I said before, your presence is not really all that big in my world. I don’t mean to offend you, but I’m just not into baseball or celebrity gossip.”

  He grinned. “I could see that. You seem very down to earth.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “It is. Evie, no one knows I’m here, not even the guys on my team. The only people that know I’m here are my parents and the people here. I’m kind of lonely,” he confessed.

  “I’m sorry, that does sound isolating,” I empathized.

  “It is. Will you take pity on me and hang out with me tonight?”

  I grimaced. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see a ring and assumed you were single. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

  I shook my head. “It isn’t that. I’m not married or engaged or otherwise.”

  “I was thinking we could have dinner at my house, and I don’t know, just hang out. I’m kind of starved for company,” he said, actually sounding a little embarrassed.

  “Dayton, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re my client. I don’t want to blur those lines,” I told him, trying to be gentle.

&nbs
p; “I don’t mean like a date, I mean just as friends, acquaintances,” he clarified.

  “Thank you, but I’m going to have to decline. I didn’t read every line of that agreement your people made me sign, but I can’t risk fraternizing and getting myself into trouble,” I told him.

  He grinned. “I can guarantee there was nothing about fraternizing.”

  “All the same, I shouldn’t. I’m sorry you’re bored. Maybe you could spend some time with your parents,” I suggested.

  He scoffed. “Would you hang out with your parents on a Friday night?”

  “Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “I would and often do hang out with my mom on Friday nights. Trust me, you will want to take advantage of any time you can get with your parents. They won’t be around forever.”

  He looked at me with a strange expression on his face. “I suppose.”

  “You seem like a nice guy and I’m sure you have a lot of friends who miss you, but I can’t,” I told him.

  He nodded. “Fine. Sorry I asked. I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to fire me as your patient. I don’t mean to be forward. I’m not shy and sometimes that gets me into trouble.”

  I shook my head. “It’s really okay. Trust me, you are not the first of my patients to proposition me.”

  “Oh really?” he said with a grin.

  “Not like that, but you know what I mean. Your position as my patient is safe,” I assured him.

  “Then I guess I will see you on Monday,” he murmured, pulling his hat over his head.

  “Do you have to wear that hat and glasses every time you go outside?” I asked him.

  He nodded. “Yep. The only time I get out of the house is when I come here.”

  “You’re staying with your parents?”

  “Yes and no. I’m staying in a house on the property. Actually, it’s not really the same property. It is, but it isn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s a long story, but they’re actually next door. So when I go home, it’s just me. They’re in their house and I’m in mine.”